Come Undone

You stop when your hand finally touches the doorknob, and you close your eyes and take a few deep breaths to calm the hammering beat in your chest again. You hear whoever’s on the other side knocking persistently, almost impatiently, once more, and you swallow hard to push down the burgeoning lump in your throat.

This is it.

The sacred moment you’ve been waiting for, arriving ten minutes earlier than you’re prepared to receive.

It is only then, when your shaking hand moves to turn the brass knob, that you realize the possible fulfillment of one of your long-time fantasies is finally here, standing just beyond your front door… and that you, yourself, are standing at zero minutes to sinful pleasure – zero minutes to what can be a most delectably decadent bliss.

---

It’s Friday night.

7:50 pm.

You know you’re ten minutes early, but you don’t care. You can’t bring yourself to wait until the ‘appointed’ time. It’s not in your nature to do that, you rationalize. It makes you restless. More anxious. And you know it’s not good form to appear like a damn first-timer. It makes the client less impressed; makes you appear as if you’re an inexperienced rookie.

So, you stop at the door: Apartment 437-B, to be exact. You breathe a preparatory breath, push the silver bell once, and then wait, even as your nerves tingle with anticipation.

You’re a fucking professional, you tell yourself staunchly. And professionals always show up on time. Or in your obsessive-compulsive world… ten minutes early. Of course, the irony of that first statement, no pun intended, causes you to snicker and shake your head.

A fucking professional.

Right.

You ring the bell once again, follow it with four steady knocks, and take a small step back, just in case the client didn’t hear you the first time.

Come to think of it, that’s really what you are, regardless of what common people might think. The only difference between you and the ordinary professional, you reason, is that you get paid to do what is pleasurable, what is unconventional. Frowned upon. Your body is your tool, your weapon – your primary investment.

You get to fuck and get fucked for a living. And it gives ‘coming’ to work a whole different meaning.

You’re an expert in your field, and you make it your business to give discerning clients what they crave, what they need… safely, of course. And your whole source of income lies in your professional ability to discover their hidden fantasies; untangle them from their boringly traditional sexual proclivities; fulfill their raw, untamed desires; let them experience pure, erotic pleasure – whatever they want (within reason, naturally)… for two hundred-fifty fucking bucks an hour.

You hear some hurried movements inside, and you cease your self-discourse about your chosen profession for a second to listen. You think that the client is about to let you in, but when the door doesn’t open, you give the door another exploratory rapping and decide to leave soon if no answer comes in the next ten seconds.

Time is money, you remind yourself. There is no sense in wasting time with a possible client who may be having second thoughts about hiring you for the night.

Luckily for you, that is not the case…

At last, you hear the deadbolt click, and the door swings open to reveal what can possibly be the most gorgeous client you’ll ever have the pleasure of ‘doing’ business with: tall, handsomely silver hair, temptingly full lips, a well-toned physique, and smooth alabaster skin.

Your legs grow weak, even as you stand frozen in place, awestruck and staring up into those rich, sun-kissed eyes.

It takes you another ten seconds to stop staring, compose yourself enough to finally speak, like the professional that you’re supposed to be. You tear your eyes away for a moment, clear your throat, and swallow hard without being too obvious. You brave his gaze when you’re ready.

“Sesshoumaru Taisho?” you finally ask by way of introduction.

“You’re early,” he says in all seriousness, not once acknowledging his identity.

He makes no move to let you in but continues to stare instead. Belatedly, you realize that he is watching you, flagrantly assessing your physique from head to toe. You feel your cheeks start to burn a little, and you duck your head quickly, shove your hands into the pockets of your tight jeans, and clear your throat once more.

When you look up, he’s still looking at you, but with a cocky, predatory smirk this time. And you know that he knows he’s affected you already; knows that you won’t be able to resist his charms.

You’re impressed.

You’re usually more poised than that. Unaffected. But something tells you that this man is different from all of your other clients. Something tells you that tonight is going to be one hell of a mind-blowing night – a night you’ll not soon forget.

You return his smirk with a disarming smile of your own. No sense in letting him have the upper hand all night. Two can play this game, you think, and it’s high time you showed this man just how charmingly professional you can be.

“I don’t like to be late,” you tell him finally. “Did I come at a bad time?” you ask in a flirting, baiting kind of way, daring him to turn you down and send you away with your wide, cerulean eyes.

He bites.

“Uhm… no, no… I just, um…” he stammers, backtracking a little. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I was still dressing.”

“Oh…” you say softly, nodding your head in a calculatingly slow manner, your red, glossed lips curling up into a thin smile of understanding.

Inside, however, you are grinning like the Cheshire cat because you know that that irresistible, innocent puppy-dog look you just employed works… Every. Single. Damn. Time. And as much as you might have trouble resisting him tonight, you just confirmed to yourself that he’d have trouble resisting you too.

“Well… I can come back in a few minutes if you want,” you offer indulgently, luring him to take your bait once more, knowing that he can’t possibly send you away, only to tell you to come back later when he’s ready… not when you’re already here.

“No, it's alright,” he bites unsuspectingly again. “You’re already here, so,come in,” he says, opening the door more fully and stepping aside to give you space.

You feel his eyes upon you, trailing you as you step inside. You take two and a half calculated steps into the foyer and stop, turning to wait for the youkai to lead you into whichever room he wants you to be in. You hear him close the door, locking it firmly in place, and you watch fixatedly as he walks past you, heading straight for the living room. You follow him soon enough.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he signals towards the couches on the left without giving you a second glance.

He rakes his hands through his long, still-damp hair, and it is only then that you realize that he must’ve just gotten out of the shower and was still in the process of getting dressed when you made your presence known… ten minutes too early.

“I’d rather stand, thank you,” you say in your most cordial but nonchalant voice, stopping to stand in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen, watching his retreating back with something akin to fascination.

Belatedly, you realize that you’re staring, nay… ogling too intently his handsome form, but you really couldn’t bring yourself to give a rat’s ass about being caught. You can’t help but stare at the way the remnants of that shower are still glistening on his back, trailing a temptingly wet line down his toned and alluring torso, disappearing just beyond the hem of his jeans – jeans that are hanging so irresistibly low.

Unconsciously, you lick your lips. It’s a ridiculous thought, you think, but you can’t help but feel jealous of those droplets, wish that it is you that’s touching and clinging to his muscled frame.

“Suit yourself,” you hear him say dismissively, watching as he heads towards the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink, then?” he asks now, turning curious auburn eyes upon you from beyond the kitchen counter.

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” you answer without missing a beat, your professional training kicking into high gear.

He snorts at your answer, and you watch him turn towards the refrigerator, open it, and pull out two identical bottles of cold alcoholic liquid. You hear him pop the caps off with his claws, and you take the bottle from his hand when he extends it out to you, still watching him as he returns to lean a hip and an elbow lazily against the kitchen counter.

Your eyes never leave him, even as his never leave yours, and when he finally takes a good, hearty swig of his beer, you follow his lead and do the same. He sets his beer down on the countertop.

“The agency...” he starts to say before giving you another blatant once-over. “They didn’t tell me your name.”

“It’s, uh… Kagome,” you reply casually, a charming smile readily in place. “Higurashi Kagome.”

“Higurashi,” he repeats, raising an amused eyebrow, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Interesting name for an escort,” he muses, giving you a smug smirk. “Are you as wild, as… untamed as your name suggests?” he teases with a smirk, challenges, knowing that he’s hooking you right in.

But you’re so much smarter than that. Experience tells you that you’ve dealt with this kind of talk, this kind of flirtatious behavior before. So, you take another long swig of your beer, down the liquid to the very last drop. And when you’re done with the drink, you hold his gaze and lick your lips in a sultry yet invitingly innocent manner, reeling him in, instead.

You see his eyes drop briefly to your mouth, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he attempts to swallow down the nervous tension that’s twisting up inside him – tension that you know he’s trying desperately to mask. You watch his eyes begin to burn, burn, burn with unrivaled lust, and it’s at that point that you know he wants you just as much as you want him.

And so, you take a few measured steps towards him, your hips swaggering with a mere hint of lazy confidence, your lips half-twisting up into a self-assured smirk as you close the distance between you just enough to tell him that you’re not one to back down. And when you’re no more than two simple steps away from invading his personal space, you stop advancing altogether and idly shove the now-empty bottle you’ve been holding into his direction, waiting for him to take it.

His eyes never leave yours, and you don’t let go of the bottle either. It is only when you feel his large, warm hand wrap itself around your bottle, his fingers lightly touching yours and sending bolts of charged heat up your arms and down your spine that you begin to speak again.

“Why don’t we go ahead and discuss rates?” you coax teasingly in a low, husky tone. “Then, you can see for yourself what kind of a woman I am,” you finish off with a wink.

Pushing himself off the counter, you feel his grip tighten around your bottle, fingers closing almost possessively over your own. He slowly closes the remaining distance between your bodies until his taller frame’s almost hovering above you. The sweet scent of alcohol swiftly invades your senses, lacing his temptingly hot breath. But you keep your eyes focused on his, regardless, unwavering in your resolve to hold down his gaze, even as you resist the urge to move, to back away.

You know what he’s doing – he’s trying to intimidate you, seduce you; trying to gain back the upper hand. But you’re not going to let that happen. You’re not going to let him take advantage of you… at least not that easily.

“Spoken like a true professional,” he comments, a humorless laugh in his tone. “I like that.”

You feel him take the bottle from your hand, set it down on the counter behind him without averting his gaze from yours, and you can’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment at the loss of contact. As ridiculous as it may sound, even though he hasn’t moved from where he’s currently standing in front of you, you still find that you miss his touch already.

And you realize vaguely that if you’re already this desperate to feel his body against yours, then you’re well on your way up shit creek without a damn paddle.

The demon is fucking gorgeous, you have to admit. He oozes of sensuality and raw sexual appeal – of carnal pleasures that you and your reasonably ‘cautious’ self won’t even hesitate to sample, given the chance. He strikes you as the type who almost always gets what he wants, and you wonder how anyone, how you, even, can possibly deny him anything, resist him any longer than you have to, especially when he’s looking at you like he wants to undress you; eat you alive with those hungry, predatory eyes.

You feel a faint blush creeping up your cheeks, and you know that your composure is starting to slip. The rational part of your head tells you that you should say something that you should iron out the details of tonight’s transaction first.

Business is business, after all.

But the other part of you, the one that’s slowly gaining ground, wants you to just jump him already, fuse your lips over his, wrap your needy arms and hands around his muscular shoulders, and say to hell with the pay!

You feel electric tension charging up in the room, in the sparse space between your two bodies. And before you can act on your non-rational urges, luckily for you, he decides to finally speak.

“Name your price,” he tells you now, before stepping back and turning around to dispose of the beer bottles on the counter.

You breathe in a silent sigh of relief while his back is turned, and you answer in as steady of a voice as you can muster.

“Two-fifty…” you say, hesitating just a bit to add the last part, “…per hour.”

He snorts once again, and for a moment, you’re tempted to bargain with him, to lower your price, just so you can have a small taste of him tonight.

“Two hundred and fifty bucks,” he confirms, moving to lean on the counter once more. “That’s a little unreasonable, don’t you think?” he states more than asks, crossing his arms, and you wonder whether he’s being rhetorical about it. You don’t budge, however, and he continues, “How much if I want more than a few hours?”

“You mean overnight?” you ask, frowning slightly. And when he nods, you answer, “Two thousand.”

You watch as he seems to consider his options, and after what seems like an eternal pause, he responds, “Your agent said that he’d send someone who can do a ‘flexible service package.’ He didn’t tell me what that package included,” he asks more than states.

“That depends on what you’re looking for,” you reply easily. “I can pretty much do anything you want… as long as it’s within reason: kissing, hand-jobs, baths, massages, anal, both oral and…” you trail off, unsure for the first time whether he’d even be interested in doing that or going there.

Belatedly, your realize that you don’t even know whether he’s just a newbie looking to experiment for the first time or if he’s already had experience and wants the full-on deal. Judging solely from his demeanor, however, you reckon it might be the latter.

Nonetheless, you clear your throat and add, “I can even role-play, if you want,” you offer enticingly.

“Really, now?” he asks, nodding slowly, and you swear you can almost see the wheels turning in his gorgeous silver haired head.

You nod without difficulty and give him an indulgent smile, “Yeah… You name it, I can do it. Only…” you stop once again, hesitating to bring up the only non-flexible stipulation in your perfectly put-together ‘package.’

He catches onto that and asks, “Only… what?” he presses, raising a dark, suspicious eyebrow in your direction.

You look down at your feet and shove your hands into your pockets again, sighing before meeting his sun-like gaze once more.

“Only… the intercourse has to be jacketed,” you tell him flatly, point-blank. “No exceptions.”

“Name your price,” you hear him say again without missing a beat, and it catches you off-guard.

“Wh- What?” you ask, confusion etched all over your brows.

“Name. Your. Price,” he repeats once more, syllable by syllable, this time pushing himself off against the counter and moving to stand in front of you again. “Come now, Kagome…” he coaxes, challenges, his mouth hovering dangerously over yours. “There’s a price for everything, right? An exception to every rule? So, how much extra would I have to pay to forego the jacket?”

“You mean bareback?” you ask, your voice shaking with more uncertainty than you’re prepared to admit.

He nods once and brings his head down to the side of your face his hair falling around you like a curtain. You freeze in place.

“If I’m going to find out what kind of a woman you really are, then I want full access… nothing that would get in the way of my fully experiencing you,” he whispers, smirks; you can feel it in the way he speaks. “No condoms. No barriers. No limitations. No nothing. Just bare skin to bare skin,” he elaborates lewdly, stepping closer still, his lips grazing the outer shell of your ear.

It takes all of your will power not to crumble so easily and give in.

“I… I-I don’t know, Sesshoumaru,” you manage to finally stutter out, and you roll your eyes internally at how foolishly uncertain you just sounded.

Yeah, some professional you’re turning out to be!

“You don’t know?” he asks you now, and despite sounding incredulous, you swear you could hear a mocking undertone.

You breathe out evenly and try to reason with him, try to redeem yourself, “Well, you’re asking me to do something that can potentially be… dangerous, Sesshoumaru. Not just for me, but for everyone else.”

“And?” he asks now, looking down at you without the least bit of care for your concerns.

“And…” you breathe out again before shaking your head. “I can’t risk that. I’m sorry, Sesshoumaru. I can do everything else, but I can’t give you that.”

“Then I’ll double it,” he counters boldly, unfazed. “And you’ll do without the jacket,” he tells you decisively, not giving you any more room to protest. “I’ll pay you four, Kagome,” he says, holding up the digits in his right hand, sans the thumb, the maroon stripes standing out against the light. “Four thousand dollars to do with you as I please. That buys me whatever I want tonight… and what I want is skin on skin. No questions. No arguments.”

Your mouth drops open as you stare at him with wide-eyed incredulity. You can see the need building in his eyes, on his face, colliding with your own, so raw, so full of desires unanswered. And for a brief moment, you find yourself almost willing to entertain the tempting thought of indulging him, throw caution to the wind, and go bareback once and for all.

Almost.

As difficult as it is for you to deny this gorgeous man whatever the fuck he wants, you forcefully tear your eyes away to stare at the wall behind him… and you consider your options in silence.

You have principles, you tell yourself. It’s not in your nature to just ignore the facts, the risks, especially when it’s your own damn body you’re doing business with. Pleasure or no pleasure, pay or no pay, you’ve got yourself to think about first. And if he’s asking you to risk so much, then, you reason, you can afford to risk asking him for more.

You take a baby step towards him and look him firmly in the eyes. You want this to be worth your while, worth the risk you’re going to be taking, and you’re not going to let him manipulate you into settling for second best, especially when you know you’re worth so much more.

It’s time to test your theory…

“Make it five,” you counter daringly, your eyes flickering briefly, seductively, down to his lips, a tactic you know will not go unnoticed. “Five thousand… and I’ll make it worth your while.”

It’s a steep shot, you realize, but it’s the only compromise you’re willing to entertain.

He doesn’t move nor respond, and for a split second, you wonder whether he can even afford it, whether you yourself have gone off the deep end. His apartment seems simple enough, relatively ordered and clean. You have no idea what he does for a living, but you figure he knows what he’s getting himself into, knows how much an experience like this is going to cost him, especially when he freely dialed that number.

Nonetheless, you tell yourself that your business comes with a price. And the pleasure you’re offering certainly doesn’t come cheap. It’s the price one pays if he wants to see just how much you can live up to your body features.

A few more seconds of silence pass, and now you’re beginning to get antsy. You’re beginning to doubt your theory. And as if on autopilot, your mind begins to reel with a myriad of other options, trying to come up with a way to reach some sort of a compromise – anything that might make it possible for you to sample this gorgeous man tonight.

You’re just about cave like a cornered negotiator when, fortunately for you, Sesshoumaru begins to nod, slowly at first, and then more assuredly. He takes you up on your bold offer much to your surprise… and utter relief.

“Fine,” he huffs, his jaw squaring visibly, tension building back up in his features. “Seems a bit unreasonable, but whatever,” he shrugs dismissively. “Five thousand it is,” he confirms, nodding his head a final time.

And just like that, the financial part of your transaction closes.

No shaking of hands. No signing your name in blood. No other stipulations.

Just a verbal agreement.

Period.

“You won’t be disappointed,” you smirk, giving him a confident wink.

“I bet I won’t,” he replies, an arrogant leer toying on the edge of his lips. “I have a feeling you’re worth every dime.”

“Oh?” you ask, your eyebrow quirking up in a seductive manner. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because pleasure is your business, isn’t it?” he states more than asks, his hands now coming up to run feather-light touches up and down your red jacketed arms, and you shiver inside despite the doubled barrier you’re wearing. “You’re here to make sure that I get what I want. And I bet there’s a lot more to you than your nature implies,” he finishes predatorily, dropping his voice to a low, gravelly tone.

Your mouth goes dry all of a sudden, and you forcefully gulp and take a deep, long breath, willing your pulse to decelerate its raging tempo. You know he’s enjoying your discomfort. You’re certain that he can feel the very hammerings in your chest, can smell the rush of heat that’s swimming through your veins.

And you have no doubt that he’s already mapped out how he’s going to make you twist with lust; squirm desperately in his oh, so talented hands. You can taste the desire in his eyes, and you know that it’s only a matter of time before you’re senselessly screaming out his name.

You steady yourself with another mouthful of air, forcefully swallowing down a tortured whimper. And when you feel like you can speak again, you meet his lust-addled stare and part your lips.

“Tell me your pleasure,” you breathe finally, voice low and husky. “I’ll do whatever you want.”


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A/N:So the mystery is revealed. Rate and Review!!