Demands and Deliverance

For once, the wood panelling didn't echo with the tapping of incongruously heeled boots and the click and swish of wardrobe choices being made. No, for the once a week time it happened, the Dalton building was silent and dark, each man and woman ensconced in their room and slumbering between Egyptian cotton sheets - never let it be said that Madame didn't treat her children right.

However, as the clock ticked around to hit twelve noon dead on, a pair of honey-coloured eyes snapped open and Blaine raised his head from the opulence of his soft pillows, yawning widely and stretching out muscles noodle-limp from a night of sleep in the comfortable bed. Sneaking a glance at the other bed in the room, he saw only a mass of dark hair splayed out against the white cotton and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click before turning on the shower.

An hour later, he was fastidiously groomed, dark curls dripping water onto the towel bunched around his neck and smooth-shaved, ready to greet the crisp October afternoon with confidence in his appearance. Slipping into the white bathrobe Madame gave each of her children, revelling in the luxurious softness of the fabric, he crept back into the main room, opening the door to his wardrobe with a clatter that made him wince reflexively, trying not to wake the man slumbering in the bed. But he only murmured something unintelligible and rolled over, allowing Blaine to let out the breath he'd been holding lest he be caught and flick through the clothes, assessing each outfit for ease of movement.

Having selected and dressed his excitedly trembling, still shower-hot body in black jeans that clung to every inch of skin like the hands of an eager lover and a near-transparent white shirt half-unbuttoned, ready to pull in the irritable Sunday morning punters and smooth away the angry lines on their faces, see them off with a jaunty wave and watch them stumble down the street, dopey and glowing, Blaine pulled on the boots still shining from the polishing the previous day, the same boots he'd retrieved from a cold tiled floor on his way out of a cramped flat to drive back to Dalton in the early hours of the morning. As always, he had been the last to return to bed and was now the first one to leave the gathered warmth of the thick duvet.

"How can you be going out this early?" came a thick, sleepy demand from the corner of the living room as he slipped through. Blaine spun on the heels of his boots, seeing a rumpled Naomi curled up on the sofa, her tiny bare feet tucked beneath her, wrapped in a crimson knitted blanket, a mug of tea clasped between her hands.

"Madame doesn't let us work on Sundays, I have to make my own fun," he explained quickly, bending backwards to adjust the leather of his shoe where it was biting into his heel - hours of parading himself up and down the streets followed, and chewed-up, blistered feet were not a turn-on.

"Doesn't it get exhausting?" Naomi asked, looking half shocked and half admiring that anyone would dare to go against Madame's will and seek out clients outside of her faithful list of people who could be trusted to be discreet. "I mean, you have so many things to do all week and you always get back latest after your Saturday night and then you sneak out to get your own appointments on Sundays?"

"Stamina is part of my commercial appeal, princess," Blaine said, affectionately ruffling her tangled strawberry-blonde curls. "Don't mention seeing me, as far as anyone's concerned no one sees me slip out of here. I have Madame wound around my little finger anyway, everyone knows it."

Naomi smiled into her tea and waggled her fingers in an approximation of a wave as Blaine slipped the enormous oaken doors open a fraction and slipped out into dappling autumnal sunshine. He kicked at a carpeting of gold and orange leaves as he traversed a familiar route to the nearest crowded Sunday shopping paradise, where he would make bedroom eyes at miserable, sleep-deprived, grumpy people and take them to a private place where he could make them sigh and groan and see they left satisfied.

Perhaps now is a good time to inform you: Blaine Anderson, runaway son of Richard and Margaret Anderson, was a prostitute. Nothing so cheap and nasty as a whore. He didn't sleep with grubby men and scarlet-lipped women to pay for his next meal and a room for the night. He was one of nearly five hundred young and beautiful creatures of the night who resided in the hallowed halls of what had been Dalton Academy for Boys until a particularly nasty scandal had shut the educational institute down and Madame, arriving from places unknown with her fluffy blonde hair and fluffier pastel jumpers, had bought the place up and transformed it into a house of so-called sin.

Unlike Naomi, Seth, Janet, Quincy, the newest of Madame's children, Blaine was affectionately known as an old-timer of the prostitution industry. He had been one of the first to show up, clothed in a sodden suit and broken by the strength of his father's homophobic wrath, on the doorstep and beg for sanctuary. This Madame had provided for him, with all its luxuries, in exchange for all the money he could make selling his body. Which, as it turned out, was rather a lot - Blaine had a knack for pleasuring strangers that many would've found disturbing and wrong. But not Madame, as long as it lined her pockets and allowed her to run her prostitute ring in the manner to which her workers became quickly accustomed.

The business had grown more sophisticated as time flew on, a new beautiful young man or woman taking up residence in leather sofas every day, the phone always ringing with a request for one or another of the prostitutes. Blaine was one of the most demanded, taking on two or three appointments every day, maybe even four if he felt up to it. Days were spent bringing heat and goosebumps and shudders to sun-dappled skin, nights melted away in caressing velvet, clinging blackness into shivering bodies. It was not the profession Blaine would've dreamt of when he was young and restless and needing to unwind, but it was a lucrative and largely satisfying one. Nothing could stop his climb to fame in the night-lit underworld of prostitutes, strippers and burlesque dancers.

"Why, you're manna from heaven, Blaine," the client he had driven to pleasure last night had declared, her eyes heavy-lidded and still clouded with lust, sated and entirely naked on her sheets. "I've half a mind to ask for you again same time next week, but I gather you're rather in demand. And it's no wonder, I have to tell you."

"I'm sure I could fashion an hour or two in my hectic schedule for you, Lucy," Blaine had purred, hardly even conscious that he was naked in the same bed as a stranger, an occupational hazard of his career path. "I'll have a discreet word with Madame, shall I?"

"You really are the sweetest guy," Lucy had sworn, running her hungry eyes over his body once more. "You've got the softest heart of any guy I've ever met, and the hardest cock." She crawled across the bed towards him, licking her lips expectantly. "How about a round two?"

Still smirking triumphantly to himself at the knowing that he could so easily persuade someone to let him take over their body with a practiced ease, over and over again until extra tips were pressed into his hands at the door, half of which was handed over to Madame and half of which Blaine spent on his bag of tricks to make clients gasp and writhe with pleasure, Blaine paraded confidently out onto the main road. He was disgruntled that several cheap whores had beaten him to the punch, but didn't show it. Besides, it was only Smythe and Kings from the dirty back alleys and his manner of living showed in the glowing opulence of his body.

His bitterness grew with the falling temperatures as night drew closer. Smythe and Kings both shot him triumphant looks as irritated people hustled them into taxis, eyes darting wildly as if worried someone would catch them in the act of hiring a dirty skank. Which the smirking man and loose woman were. Blaine was a well-paid, much-demanded, high-class prostitute, yet tired eyes passed over him as if he were another boarded-up shop front. Maybe he looked too much like an ordinary civilian for people to notice his wares. Shuddering in revulsion at the thought of ever being like Smythe or Kings, he pulled a single cigarette and small lighter from his back pocket and lit up, inhaling deeply and reassured by the taint of the smoke drifting into his lungs.

"Excuse me?" The voice, high and melodic, startled him out of his belligerent reverie. Blaine turned, breathing out a spiral of frosty smoke, expecting to find one of those women who pretended to be nervous but turned dominant behind closed doors, only to be surprised to see a pale, lithe man, little more than a boy, standing behind him, wrapped like a present in grey skinny jeans and a leather jacket that seemed too big for him, maybe borrowed. "Are you like that boy and girl that I saw being taken away?"

"I'm not a cheap, dirty whore who sleeps in back alleys and fucks for food, no," Blaine answered, his lip curling in disgust as he thought of the notorious pair, taking away his business. "But if you mean am I a prostitute, yes, I am. And a high-class, well-paid one at that."

"Can I hire you?" the man asked in a rush of words, flushing as the final sound left his lips. And very pretty lips they were too, bitten to plumpness and pink with the cold. A teasing little thing to Blaine, already prompting him to taste them, suck on them, nibble them gently before teasing them apart and delving in the warm, wet cavern of what would soon be his newest independent client's mouth. "I-I mean, if you want to. Be hired, that is. And used. I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"First time?" Blaine asked sympathetically, tossing away his cigarette and smiling at the man, his hook-them-in smile, lighting up every inch of his face, welcoming and joyful and happy to see them, make them feel like the only person in the world, even if all they were to him was cash.

"In all senses of the phrase," the man murmured shyly, apparently pathetically grateful for Blaine's reaching out and gentle reassurances. Blaine cocked an eyebrow, already thinking - a virgin? He'd never had one before in his four and a half years in the business. Then again, virgins didn't tend to come looking for a prostitute to pop their cherry.

"You'd have to pay up in cash now," he informed the man solemnly, all bracing and business-like. "I have a living to earn, you see. It's an odd way of making a buck, I'll admit, but it pays the cost of living in the manner to which I've become accustomed."

The man drew himself up to his full height, frustratingly fractionally taller than Blaine even on the heels of his boots. "I'll pay when it's over, if I'm satisfied," he said firmly, with a confidence that made Blaine shiver. Maybe the wilting flower of a virgin wasn't so limp and scared after all.

He chuckled lightly to himself as he raised a hand and flagged down a taxi, holding out a gentlemanly hand to help the man of multi-faceted eyes and flawless skin into the backseat. "Blaine," he murmured, ensuring his lips brushed across the shell of the man's ear and feeling a hot thrill deep in his stomach at the shiver and soft gasp this elicited. "So you know the name to scream."

"Kurt," he replied softly, sliding his fingers between Blaine's in a curiously intimate gesture, for someone who would willingly seek out a prostitute in an attempt to cash in their V-card. No doubt Blaine was a last resort, but that was yet another occupational hazard of his line of work. "So you know the name to scream." Blaine smirked at that too - it seemed this new client could be feistier than he had thought possible from his first impression.

Kurt watched him with round, nervous eyes as he leaned over to the driver, slipping a crisp twenty dollar bill into his greedy fingers and murmuring, "That's all yours as well as the fee if you put the partition up and don't look back here."

"It's a done deal," the balding man said, practically salivating at the thought of, for his line of work, a colossal tip. Grimacing in distaste, Blaine sat back in his seat and watched the solid black partition glide up, hiding the sweat gleaming on the back of the driver's neck from sight and focusing all his attention on the beautiful youth who seemed to be glowing in the dimly-lit compartment, trembling from head to toe and eyes darting from floor to ceiling to door and round again in an endless circle.

"Relax, sweetheart," Blaine whispered, hoping the cutesy nickname would reassure this shrinking violet a little. "He can't hear or see anything. It's just you and me, and I won't do anything you don't want. How else am I supposed to get paid?" You conniving little sneak he added in his head, but remembering that he should never abuse a client. Unless they wanted it, of course. It was all about pleasing the client, the one with the money, not himself.

"C-can you just kiss me first?" Kurt asked, his voice tremulous and slipping up and down the octaves, higher and lower by turns in a manner that was curiously seductive. "Please. If you want to." He was so unnaturally polite and tentative and concerned for Blaine's needs, it was a refreshing change from the clients he usually had to pander to.

"Kissing isn't what you're going to pay me for," Blaine breathed against Kurt's neck, making him shiver helplessly, one hand trailing over his stomach, trying to feel skin through the layers of fabric. He pulled Kurt carefully into his lap and laid one on him, all business as per usual, kissing with all of his usual serpentine expertise.

Something about Kurt's response, though, his shuddering gasp, and the way his hand was so gentle as it slipped around to press lightly on the back of Blaine's neck, made Blaine kiss softer than he usually would, keeping it light and sweet and what would probably be called tender if they weren't shameless prostitute and paying client. He grew quickly bored with this pace, however - a side effect of having spent four and a half years being spurred on to finish everything as fast as possible - and pressed his mouth more insistently to Kurt's, nipping once at Kurt's bottom lip. A shiver of satisfaction ran across his skin at the low moan ripped from Kurt's throat at his action, a hand fisting in his hair and pulling him closer.

As it turned out, it was Kurt who first made the foray in tongues, dipping his gently between Blaine's lips, probing and exploring with a youthful curiousness, the same way sticky toddlers jammed their fingers into video players, until Blaine groaned quietly and chased Kurt's tongue back into the velvet-smoothness of Kurt's mouth, teasing him open and into an ancient alternate duel that Kurt moaned desperately through, wriggling in a futile attempt to get closer. Blaine smirked internally, his mouth otherwise occupied with keeping Kurt making those delicioussounds, when he felt a distinct hardness against his hip as Kurt rutted in his lap. Jackpot.

"Alright, we're here!" came the gruff voice of the cabbie. "Pay me and get out." Used to the gruff manner of drivers, particularly when he started his job in the backseat of their vehicles, Blaine slotted the fee through the window and tugged Kurt towards the hotel he always used for these sorts of appointments, his client drifting dreamily along the pavement with flushed cheeks and starry eyes.

Harold stood behind the reception partition, his eyes dull and glazed with the boredom of a slow, sleepy, crawling Sunday. Those slate-grey eyes lit up immediately as they alighted upon Blaine and Kurt. "Blaine Anderson, it is so nice to see you!" Harold exclaimed, joyful and exultant, manoeuvring his paunch around the desk to pump Blaine's hand enthusiastically. "Room for two, is it? Overnight stay?"

"You have little faith in my line of work, Harold," Blaine retorted, slipping an arm around Kurt's waist and maybe trailing his fingers a little too low to scrape over the top of Kurt's thigh, his client shuddering beneath his ministrations. "We'll check out when we check out and you will cater to my every whim."

The hotel manager sighed, his red cheeks puffing out with the breath. "Indeed I will," he said wearily. "It is a shame, dear boy, that you are so accustomed to winding all and sundry around your little finger. A darn shame that you refuse to be bullied. A darn shame."

"It's a necessity in this profession," Blaine said casually, pulling another wad of dollars from his pocket and slipping a few into Harold's top pocket, seeing him grin at the extravagant tip. "See we aren't disturbed."

"Anything for you, my best tipper!" Harold exclaimed, stroking his fingers happily over the crisp new money. "If only the others of your kind were half as considerate as you are. Consider yourselves left alone for as long as you're under the roof of my hotel."

"Thank you, and I bid you good day," Blaine said simply, steering Kurt towards the rustic-looking lifts and summoning one instantly, stepping inside and smirking at Harold's heavy, conspiratorial wink from behind the desk as the doors slid shut and blocked off their view of the empty reception, the thunder of horses' hooves echoing from Harold's television to wile away the hours of boredom.

Kurt was twirling a strand of hair around his finger abstractly, leaning on the mirrored wall, as Blaine pushed the button to take them up to the fourth floor and stood beside his client, keeping his hands to himself and waiting for Kurt to come to him. Kurt to come to him. Kurt to-

"Blaine, I want…I mean, you can kiss me again, if it's alright with you," Kurt said anxiously, dropping his hands from his hair and darting his gaze quickly and awkwardly to Blaine.

"Sweetheart, everything is alright with me," Blaine said, deliberately dipping his voice into a low rumble that never failed to make clients shiver, and definitely did its job now as Kurt's eyelids fluttered and he licked his lips involuntarily.

The lift got slower and ground to a stop midway between the third and fourth floors, just as promised by Harold's wink. It was a tradition, something Blaine asked for each time he bought a client to the hotel in order to loosen up the nervous ones and tease the confident ones. Not that he'd ever do anything as callous as have sex in a hotel lift.

He did everything in his considerable power to keep Kurt from noticing and running out on him, diving in off the deep end straight into an undeniably dirty kiss, thrusting his tongue past Kurt's teeth to taste him, groaning quietly - a sound easily denied later, should anyone think to ask, thank God. Kurt's fingers dug spasmodically into his back, him moaning breathily as Blaine's hands roved over his back, exploring and teasing. A flare of triumph lit up in Blaine's belly as Kurt whined when he detached their lips, instead burying his face in the crook of Kurt's neck, where he smelt refreshingly sweet and floral and almost childish, innocent, and licking a wide strip up the muscle there. Kurt jumped in surprise, moaning, shuddering in Blaine's arms and clutching at his collar.

Taking hold of Kurt's wrist, Blaine guided his hand down from his collar to the strip of skin exposed by the open buttons of his shirt, ignoring the shivers of heat flying across his skin as Kurt's gentle hand, inexplicably soft and cool, brushed his own overheated flesh. Kurt's eyes, darkened to a mesmerizing cobalt-blue unfortunately half-hidden by dark blown pupils, went wide as Blaine kissed at his neck, finding a use for the inch Kurt had on him in not having to lower his head, occasionally scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin, or darting out his tongue to lick a wet stripe, or latching on and sucking, alternating pressure and always aiming to leave a mark. It was always an idea to make sure the client had some way of remembering him, a talisman, if you will, to carry with them.

"Fourth floor," the cool, pleasant female announced above them. Apparently the lift had spend back up and reached their destination without Blaine even noticing. This was a turn-up for the books.

"W-we have a r-room?" Kurt asked, stumbling along behind Blaine, his eyes still darkened with lust, his entire body trembling violently and his neck showing off red patches of skin from Blaine's lips and tongue and teeth. Blaine smirked at how easily he could have just such an effect on people and unearthed the card he kept slotted into his back pocket, swiping it through the black reader, counting slowly to three and shoving the door open with perhaps a little too much violence as the familiar beep sounded and the red light turned green.

"We do indeed," he said proudly, shedding his boots with a grateful sigh and gesturing around to the grandiose furnishings and soaring ceiling. "Four-poster bed and en-suite bathroom, only things you can really be concerned with in this profession of mine. Harold and I have an understanding."

"He's the man on reception, right?" Kurt asked, his voice drifting nervously a little higher as he looked around the room, trailing his fingers over the edge of the virginally white bedspread.

"You're correct, sir," Blaine answered, tiring of talking and skirting around the subject of what he had attempted to start in the back of the car and then in the deliberately slow lift. "Shall we begin, or do you want to freshen up first?"

"I'd prefer to be…um…clean for this," Kurt mumbled awkwardly, avoiding Blaine's eyes. "I won't take long, I promise. I just have to wash and everything. To be clean. For this…ah, for you."

"Can I join you?" Blaine asked coyly, turning a smouldering, blisteringly hot gaze on his client. Kurt, walking towards the en-suite door, gave Blaine a maddening look over his shoulder, smirking slightly.

"You can," he said archly, one hand turning the gleaming doorknob. "Whether you may is another matter." Blaine had to chuckle lightly at that, following Kurt into the bathroom without a second thought and shutting the door with a snap that sounded strangely loud in the tense silence.

Precisely five seconds later, which could possible be a new record for Blaine to boast about over dinner back at Dalton, he had Kurt pushed up against that same door, thanking whatever deities watched over immoral gay prostitutes for its strength in holding up both their weight. Kurt was whining tremulously as Blaine attacked his mouth, pressing past his teeth with his tongue, showing absolutely no mercy. Eager to go further than just this kissing, bored with the pace that only people in committed relationships should ever have to adhere to, he slid his hand down Kurt's chest, feeling the fevered heat of his skin and how violently he was still trembling, and cupped him through his jeans.

"Oh…oh my God," Kurt gasped out raggedly. "Blaine." Blaine smirked internally, squeezing the hardening line of Kurt's cock through the thick denim and drawing an earlobe between his teeth.

"I knew I'd get you screaming my name," he purred triumphantly, tracing his other hand down Kurt's spine to grab a handful of Kurt's ass and drag his hips forward, slamming him forward into his hand.

Kurt moaned loudly, breathlessly, his eyes rolling back in his head to show off whites unlined by crying, drinking or smoking. "I'm not going to be the o-only one screaming," he hissed, stuttering as Blaine rubbed over his crotch once.

Kurt surged forward, a cry leaving his lips as this movement thrust Blaine's hand more firmly against him, and grabbed Blaine's collar, dragging him into a deep kiss. Kurt tongue was tentative and exploring as it darted into Blaine's mouth, Kurt's hand skating over the strip of his chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt and dipping below the final button, settling almost possessively over his stomach. Blaine groaned loudly, hoping he could still deny it or pass it off as part of his act later, never wanting to admit that he could genuinely be turned on by his clients' ministrations to his servicing body. Kurt's hand drifted lower, nervous yet curious as he traced the jumping muscles of Blaine's stomach through the thin material of his shirt and trailed his fingers in an unintentionally teasing manner along the waistband of Blaine's jeans, toying coyly with the button.

"K-Kurt," Blaine whispered, hating the break in his voice and the way he stammered because dammit, that would let Kurt know he was very much aroused by just Kurt's gentle hand drawn across his stomach and hipbones. "Kurt. I thought you wanted to shower." He dropped back into his aptly-named sex voice to grind out, "Because if you don't get in there now, I'm going to ravish you right here on the tiles."

Kurt's eyes almost bulged out of his head as he nearly tripped over himself unlacing his elaborated boots, simultaneously struggling out of his jumper and shirt and momentarily tangling himself in the material, growling in frustration in a way that sent shudders down Blaine's spine. "I wonder how you'd like it," he murmured hotly, running a hand up and down and over the shifting muscles of Kurt's now bare back. "Would you want me to push you down onto the floor and fuck you without mercy? Or hold you against me and go for a slow burn? Or maybe you'd want me to pin you against the wall and hold your hands above your head and pound into you?"

"Blaine!" Kurt wheezed desperately, his hands scrabbling at Blaine's back. A tearing sound rent the air and the flimsy white cotton fell away from Blaine's torso, fluttering to the floor in a display of strange elegance. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Kurt exclaimed, appearing almost close to tears, his eyes wide and glistening. "I'll pay for it, I'll buy you a new one, I'll-"

Sick of his worried quick-paced chatter, Blaine shut him up with a long kiss. No tongue, but open mouths sliding and pressing together, their breath mingling in the silky warmth. He slid his hands down Kurt's naked chest, revelling in being able to touch him for the first time, unable to deny the feeling of power that came with it. When his hands encountered denim instead of quivering, flushed skin, he slipped the tips of his fingers past the waistband and left them there, able to draw Kurt closer as he swayed on the spot, clearly dizzy with lust. "Blaine," came the expected gasp. Finally taking pity on his whining client, Blaine opened the button on Kurt's jeans and rubbed his thumb over the exposed V of his underwear, smugly triumphant as he felt the pre-come already soaking through the material.

It took a bare two minutes before Blaine was tugging Kurt into the shower, holding his client tightly against him as the water began to pound down over them, slick skin sliding and slipping. Blaine silently thanked any deities who would listen to his words for the reinforced partition allowing him to tilt Kurt back against it, hooking an unfairly long leg around his waist to press them together in a very particular way that made Kurt moan, long and low and loud. Apparently Kurt wasn't the shrinking violet he had appeared to be while fully clothed, because he was the one who slid his hand down Blaine's back, carving pink lines as a souvenir of this encounter into wanting flesh, and grabbed Blaine's ass to pull him forward and grind them together.

"You're so hot," Kurt breathed out desperately against Blaine's mouth, locking both legs around Blaine's waist and leaving Blaine to hold both of them up, leaning gently back against the wall to keep them both stable with the slippery surfaces surrounding him. Because even a professional, high-class prostitute couldn't perform acrobatic tricks if he slipped.

Apparently this was a bad idea, however, as it put Kurt in a position over Blaine, and therefore a domineering one. Their tongues slid sinuously together as Kurt pressed himself closer, pushing their erections together and groaning wildly into Blaine's mouth, clutching at him. Blaine just held onto him, wondering why something about this man made him want to experience something he had never had - real, honest-to-god, out of control, desperate, hot sex. No more factory farm fucking, no more pleasing someone else before himself and most times never even pleasing himself, just sex with someone he loved that left the world fuzzy around the edges as he lay back, heavy with the afterglow, sweaty, sleepy and perfectly sated.

Far more gentle and careful than he would usually be with any other client, Blaine slowly unwound Kurt's legs from their tight grip around him and lowered him to the floor of the shower, the water streaming over them as he pushed Kurt back into the partition, hands spread out over his hips to hold him up as Blaine began to work his way down Kurt's body.

He began with long kisses to the white column of Kurt's neck, scraping his teeth over spots that made the man gasp and writhe, moving down over his collarbones, nipping at the flawless skin. Even before Blaine pressed a kiss to Kurt's nipple, he was moaning and his hips were rutting forward against nothing, a hand rising to grab at Blaine's sodden hair, desperate and pleading. "Please…oh God, please."

"I could never deny a client," Blaine murmured into the soft skin of Kurt's stomach, bracing an arm across Kurt's hips and licking a wide stripe up his cock. Kurt's hips jerked forward against Blaine's restraint, a strangled moan escaping his lips.

With the knowledge that Kurt had never been touched like this by anybody, something that strangely burnt bright inside his chest, Blaine made sure that he was absolutely ruining Kurt for anyone with rough hands and chapped lips who would want to lay their mark on him in future. It was absurdly sweet, how Kurt tried to choke off his moans until Blaine whispered, "No, stop, I wanna hear," into his quivering thigh. Only then Blaine wanted to kick himself, because every noise escaping Kurt's lips made his cock throb with need, every soft plea for more and breathless moan and pant that made his pale chest heave.

Only when Blaine sensed that Kurt was close from the repeated whines leaving his wet, swollen lips did he take his arm away from Kurt's hips. He tried not to moan around Kurt's cock as the man thrust once, twice and came with a sob, his entire body shaking. Blaine pulled off and caught Kurt's hips as he collapsed, sliding down the fogged-up partition to sprawl on the floor with Blaine.

"I'm not a virgin anymore," Kurt muttered dazedly, then blushed an impressively deep crimson. "That sounded so stupid, I'm sorry. Thank you. I really liked that." He avoided Blaine's eyes, looking shyly down at the water, running cold now, pattering across the glossy white floor.

"You don't have to tell me you liked it, I can tell," Blaine said dryly, reaching up behind him to turn off the water before it froze them both to the bones and affected the hot, heady mood. "And you're not entirely a non-virgin yet." Kurt met his eyes and smirked suggestively, in a way Blaine would never have expected to see from him.

A minute later Blaine pushed Kurt down into the bed, both of them still dripping wet but smiling against each other's mouths, Kurt's hands skating down Blaine's back and Blaine's arms around Kurt's waist, attempting to reposition both of them for the exact act for which he was being paid - no longer in any doubt that Kurt would be satisfied, thank God.

The sheets were decidedly sullied and the room echoed with cries for moremoremore, moans for harderfasterdeeper and particularly desperate whines of pleasepleaseplease. Blaine could no longer hold back the waves of pleasure singing through his veins as he moved within Kurt, groaning with him and holding him close as he shouted his release into the room, biting into Kurt's shoulder and falling over the edge into ecstasy. Only when everything swam back into focus did he register the sheer humiliation of being someone who had sex for money, regularly advertised his stamina and yet came before his client. He snapped his hips against Kurt with renewed force and zeal, gritting his teeth and pounding into him until a high, breathless cry split the scorching air and Kurt came across both Blaine's chest and his own, a slash of brighter white against flawless porcelain.

"Mmm, baby," Kurt murmured, curling into the sheets of the bed. Watching his beautiful client sink into the depths of a peaceful, sated slumber, Blaine sighed and wriggled beneath the feather-soft duvet, drawing Kurt into his body and falling asleep almost instantly, not even thinking of how emotions would weaken him when it came to this man, because he never slept with clients after the sex was done and the scent of it still lingered in the air.

They had sex again in the early hours of Monday morning as retreating moonlight lingered on their overheated, intertwined bodies, the room cool but the bed far too hot as murmurs passed between them, hearts beating so fast it seemed likely they'd escape the confines of the body they were caged in and flutter away. Kurt whispered words of love and devotion in a sleepy murmur, combing his fingers in a strangely tender way through Blaine's hair as Blaine rolled off him and they basked in the afterglow, a ringing sound filling Blaine's ears. He felt clean and bubbly and light, like he could float away - something he never felt after any appointment.

"I have to go," he groaned disappointedly as he kissed Kurt against the door, now clothed in a spare shirt he'd packed in his bag of tricks - he did usually wear very thin and easily torn fabrics, after all - and his jeans, Kurt wearing his boxers and his shirt, hanging open to show the darkly vivid lovebites strewn across his skin. "I have work to do."

"Don't do it," Kurt murmured, ducking his head to kiss at Blaine's neck, still sensual and sexy with the afterglow of two - three if you counted the blowjob in the shower - rounds of fantastic sex. "Stay here with me, all day. Stay forever."

"Kurt, you don't seem to understand that this is my job," Blaine said firmly, pushing him away and shoving his feet haphazardly into his boots. "I don't do love or forever or extra rounds of mind-blowing, fantastic sex. I have a living to earn and fucking strangers is how I do it. Speaking of my living, I believe you promised to pay when it was over if satisfied." He rolled his shoulders, all business. "I charge two hundred per appointment, plus any tips you might want to give."

Kurt looked him up and down, his blissful expression shifting to condescending, bitter, angry and maybe even a little betrayed. "I'm not going to pay you," he said furiously. "Because I'm not satisfied."

"I spent half the day and all night with you, blew you in the shower and extended my hospitality and my boundaries to fuck you twice and you're not satisfied?" Blaine asked harshly, opening the door to their room. "Fuck you, Kurt. Just fuck you."

He stormed out, ignoring Kurt's shout rebounding down the corridor after him, angrily wiping away the tears that welled unwanted in his eyes. Instead of taking the elevator, where he had kissed Kurt so passionately and brought him in, he marched down the stairs, flinging an imperious, "Harold, kick him out as soon as you can," to the reception as he walked out into a blustery, grey skies sort of downstairs and flagged down a taxi.

Only as he sped along the roads back to Dalton did he allow himself to shed a few tears. No client had ever been so callous about his ministrations, but it was the look in Kurt's eyes as he turned away and left him that was needling at his conscience. He'd looked positivelyheartbroken, like Blaine was an unfaithful boyfriend leaving him.

He repeated his mantra of Sex good, feelings bad to himself all the way back to the looming, luxurious building he called home, ignoring the calls of breakfasting co-workers and running up to his room, curling into his blanket and crying for the man who made his ice heart melt a little, just around the edges.