Champagne, Vacuum-Chilled

December 3, 2008 Danae Klimt
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A Tale of Nouveau Montmartre

He always brings me champagne. Real champagne, that is, sparkling white wine made in a particular place on Earth, the fields of northeast France. Of course we make perfectly good champagne here, good enough to be exported to Earth, in fact, but there’s a certain charm to drinking the original, the eponymous itself, and a very great charm to how much it costs Beal to purchase a bottle of the best and transport it here to Nouvelle Terre. I’ve trysted with half a dozen virgins this week and charged none of them more than ten credits for my time; I surely don’t regret it, but I *am* a whore, after all, and it pleases my vanity to have people spend extravagantly on me.

Beal does, and I am extravagant with him in return.

He brings the champagne, vacuum-chilled; I provide the traditional bucket of crushed ice, the finest goblets, the pure beeswax candles already burning, the slow jazz playing. He comes from his hotel room twenty floors up in his best high-collared suit buttoned up to the chin, his hair sleeked back in the fashion of rich men from Titan, his shoes so highly polished I could shave by my reflection in them. I await him in nothing but a robe, fine cashmere wool over freshly depilated skin because cashmere on skin is a feeling he loves. I am just this side of itching, but it makes my arousal keener, and when I want to scratch, I just think of how much he’s paying for this visit.

The door chimes and I hurry to answer it, then pause before raising my hand to the plate. It opens, and the light outside turns from green to rose. “Hello, Beal.”

“Hello, Dermot.”

His arms are full of roses and the champagne. I rise on tiptoe to stretch past the bundle and kiss him. As always, he’s trembling a little. I don’t know if Beal has a lover, a permanent partner–a Courtesy doesn’t ask–but I’m certain he never sees another courtesan, here or anywhere else. He always seems both shy and eager when he comes into my studio, his arms full of gifts, and I press my lips to his. He trembles as if he’s never been kissed.

The roses go into a deep blue vase; the champagne is carefully removed from the vacuum box and placed in the ice bucket, where it will warm up a bit before we drink. I putter around, lighting a few more candles, bringing up the volume on the music, and turning up the thermostat, before I pour us each a glass. I raise my glass and wait for Beal to propose the toast.

“To recreation,” he says, and gulps the fizzing golden liquid.

“To recreation,” I answer, and take a judicious mouthful. Delicious, dangerous stuff.

We sit down on the couch, Beal still tightly suited up, me in my robe. I stretch out my legs and put my bare feet (toenails trimmed, peppermint lotion) on his thigh. Offer him a practiced seductive look under lowered lashes over the beautiful rim of the champagne glass.

Beal unbuttons two or three buttons on his collar. “It’s good to see you again, Dermot. How have you been?”

“Busy,” I say, quite honestly. “I recorded a disc of improvisations at the end of last season, gave three poetry readings in three decans, read two manuscripts of student poetry, and have been up to my eyebrows in virgins wanting me to initiate them.” I sipped my champagne and laughed. “Virgins are so delightful.” As I expected, he blushes; I suspect Beal was a virgin to men the first time we trysted, although he never said. “And you? how’s the business?”

Beal opens a few more buttons and gulps more champagne. Be careful, my dear; it’s stronger than it looks. (Rather like me, if I do say so myself.) “Up and down. It’s always up and down. More up lately, I suppose.” He gives me that shy grin I find so appealing. “Or I wouldn’t be coming to see you.”

I smile back. “Your success is my good fortune.” I dig my toes into his thigh and hold out my glass. “And my good fortune is your pleasure. Refill?”

I withdraw my feet to let him get up and loosen the robe while he’s pouring. I’d be hard already from the flirting and the heat in his cheeks, if it weren’t for the damned itchy wool.

His hand is trembling as he pours more champagne. Always so nervous. I’m flattered by the gifts, of course, but I suspect the real reason he brings champagne is to sedate himself, to float past the trembling in his hands, the flush in his cheeks, to the point where he can kiss another man, put those hands on another man’s body. Lovely hands, long-fingered and slim, the nails as carefully manicured as my own. He sits down beside me again, gulps his champagne, and opens another button.

I’d like to reach over and undo them all, down to his trousers, pull aside jacket and waistcoat and shirt until I get to the rank, sweaty flesh underneath, but I can’t. I mustn’t. I know that I must not hurry this patron. I must laugh and sip champagne and give him lingering glances over the rim of my beverage until he has had enough champagne himself to lean over and kiss me. He will, sooner or later. That’s how it works. And then I’ll be the one in charge.

He’s still talking in very oblique terms about his latest trump of a deal when he realizes the champagne is gone. Yes, dear, we’ve absorbed the whole bottle, and a very fine year it was, too. He breaks off in mid-sentence, licks his lips, and darts in for the kiss.

It’s quick and stinging, as if I might run away. As if I weren’t lying here with my feet in his lap, my robe hanging open, my cock waiting alertly against my thigh. In spite of all the champagne, I’m cool and awake–I took a neutralizer earlier, of course–and I taste Beal, not the sparkling beverage: heat, fear, desire. His thin taut lips, his astringent tongue.

His hands move quickly under my robe, over my back, down my spine. I put my glass down without looking and then arc forward into his arms, the itchy cashmere sliding away, my cock and my nipples rubbing the lovely satiny slick of his expensive suit. If he wants me to wear this robe next time, he’ll have to buy me a better one–a cashmere as soft as his suit. He chews ravenously at my mouth, gropes my arse, and lets me pull away his cravat, undo the rest of his buttons, and pet his bare chest with one hand, the ridge of his cock in his trousers with the other.

When Beal gets to his feet, wobbling, that’s my cue to drop the robe. He always seems kind of shocked when he looks at me, like an archaeologist opening up an ancient tomb and finding it full of gleaming gold and precious gems, all its colors vivid after ten thousand years of darkness. I deliberately pose for him, a bent knee and raised hip the ancient Greek sculptors would have approved, and shamelessly stroke myself. Yes, I have a big one and I’m proud of it. It brings the patrons back.

Beal drops to his knees in front of me and starts sucking my cock. He has no skill but a lot of enthusiasm, and I have to get control by backing away, teasingly. He crawls after me, forgetting how wealthy he is, how much that suit cost, and how easy it is for him to have me, any time he wants, forgetting everything except how much he wants me, and I sprawl laughing on the bed and let him trap me, climb up over me and kiss me again.

While he’s kissing me and working his way down to my nipples, I work on getting his trousers open and getting my hands on his prick. It’s quite lovely and I enjoy petting it; Beal likes to be stroked with two hands, to be coaxed forward like a shy kitten. He laps at my nipples; I rub my thumb just under the head and wonder what his prick wants tonight, to be sucked, to fuck me, or to surge helplessly in my hand while I fuck Beal until he weeps.

He often does weep, afterward. I don’t know why.

He surprises me by pulling back. He’s drunk enough tonight that words spill from his lips, angry, filthy words, whore, catamite, hole, pussy, slut. They wash right over me; I have his payment already, and in return, I have something he needs. I am willing to give it.

He rolls me onto my belly–his hands are rough, but still shaking. I don’t look back at him, I hide my face, but I hear the slithering sounds of his clothes falling away or dropping, and then the rattle of his fumbling at the bedside. Will he lubricate me, or just himself? It doesn’t matter; I used a probe to stretch myself and applied lubricant earlier, as a matter of routine. Sometimes patrons want or need to be rough, to fuck in haste. It won’t hurt me, no matter what he does–and if he did lose control, I could get security here in less than two minutes. But he won’t.

There’s a thud that must be the tube of lubricant hitting the rug, and then he’s right between my legs, spreading my cheeks with cold hands. He’s still muttering empty insults, faggot, sissy, cunt. He shoves in fast and deep, glides across my prostate, and I moan with unfeigned pleasure.

“You want to get fucked? You want me to fuck you?”

His accent slips at times like this, just as Fionn’s does–from the high towers of sophistication into some nameless gutter he got out of, some colony he’ll never name. I twist and moan and give him a good show, “Yes, oh, yes, please fuck me, fuck, fuck, fuck,” and actually, I do want it–it feels good. If I didn’t like anal intercourse, I doubt I’d still be in this business. I like fucking, I like being fucked, I like women, I like men–it’s why I’m the toast of Nouveau Montmartre, the most famous Courtesy of my age, I love sex and I do it for pay and it’s why men like Beal come from lightyears away to call me dirty names.

I can’t describe the noise he makes when he comes. It has no words, and it breaks off suddenly as though– He withdraws, and staggers off to the washroom. I clean myself up and arrange myself elegantly on the bed, waiting for him to come back.

He doesn’t come back right away.

When he does, he’s wearing the complimentary patron’s robe. I can smell soap on him. He picks up his suit jacket, shakes it out, and smiles.

“Feel like going out for dinner?”

I smile back. “I’d love to.”

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Entry Filed under: Nouveau Montmartre

One Comment Add your own

  • 1. jsabrina  |  December 4, 2008 at 9:12 am

    I’m always intrigued by the patrons you create and want to know more about them — but never *need* to know more to appreciate the story. That’s a very delicate balance to achieve.


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