Silk & Sable: Bordello

Disclaimer: Yu Yu Hakusho is © Yoshihiro Togashi, Funimation, Shounen Jump, ADV Films, etc. I don’t own it, I just play around with the characters (and I'm not earning money by doing so).
 

Author's Note: As a warning, THIS FIC WILL NOT BE HISTORICALLY ACCURATE. To say I take liberties doesn't cover it: I'm incorporating some true historical places and devices with a lot of fake things. Hell, I haven't even picked an era yet, not really—I said Georgian, but this story contains elements of the Regency era and even the Elizabethan period at times. I'd gotten my timelines wrong when I first said Jacobean—they still had neck-frills during the Jacobean era, and I wouldn't want to see Karasu wearing one of those, would you?
If you're thinking I went by clothing styles I liked rather than any actual historical precedence, you'd be right.
And the final note: KURAMA IS, AT LEAST AT FIRST, OUT OF CHARACTER. He'll become more himself as the fic goes on, but with this first chapter he's very guileless and innocent. Karasu makes Kurama into Kurama in this fic, I guess you could say, and you'll see that later as things go on.


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The Viscount Kurogawa, known to friends and enemies alike as Lord Karasu, readjusted his tricorne with the tip of his cane as he held his excitement in a tight fist, stepping down the rungs of the carriage with his fingers light on its doorway. His face turned from an affected look of ennui and back to one of satisfied interest, shutting the carriage's door with a swing of his stick. He adjusted his hat again, putting it to a rakish angle, clearly relieved to be out of the cramped, acrid confines of the hack, and examined the iced-over grime and animal feces that were churned to a soup beneath his feet by wheels and hooves, the soft whickers of the horses hardly stirring him. Grimacing in distaste, glad for the galoshes attached to his fashionable suede shoes, he began to pick his way through the muddy thoroughfare.
The houses that populated this rue were perched precariously above the walkway and road, looking for all the world like a row of bumpkin matrons, come together in their dotage to chatter about home and hearth in the faded background of a market square. Karasu tossed a coin to the man standing hunched on the driver's shelf behind the hack, barely glancing at him as he did so. He felt as secure of his place in this little corner of the Makai as he did everywhere else in the Great Reaches, and made no attempt to help as the driver's mittens parted and the coin was fumbled, grasped, bit, and pocketed. His manner was every inch that of an uninterested and cavalier nobleman, drawn to this street out of a perverse desire for the amusements offered by its inhabitants.
Karasu glanced sharply towards a shout from behind him, and smiled in idle greeting, both he and his hailing peer too at ease to be surreptitious about their lusts. He took in the spindly towers of the building in front of him with greedy eyes, ignoring the low rasp of the driver begging him to, “Please get out of my way, m'lord, I gotta be at me next stop.” It was important, Karasu knew, to savor the moment when returning to this, his favorite of the bordellos that populated this part of the city. The White Fox prided itself on its exquisite service to the wealthy upper crust, though on the outside it was no different from any of the other limestone hovels that lined this infamous back street. Its only defining feature was its barred and shuttered windows, keeping those without from looking in and those within from looking out.
Strutting to the front door, a roughly polished slab of oak, Karasu barely noticed the distant acquaintance that laughed and hooted across the street, entertaining his rent-girl with an engaging (if entirely false) story of a duel he'd had with his elder brother. The prostitute giggled coquettishly, obviously pleased to be on the arm of a wealthy and handsome young man—doubtlessly even more pleased to be out of the stifling air of her brothel.
The hack began to drive off behind Karasu, jerking into motion as the driver shouted a final 'heeyah!' to his two misshapen horses, flicking his whip expertly at their hindquarters and rolling up the edges of his plain coat's graying cuffs. The animals trotted off wearily, their plodding gaits echoing along the lines of dirty stone as Karasu rapped the brass ring knocker fastened to the door, a look much older than his twenty-seven years in his eyes as they narrowed in delight. Once the knocker was stilled, the Viscount adjusted his fine silk gloves, their sable cloth setting off his lordship's satin-tied ponytail perfectly. He scraped the muck that defiled his shoes off of them and onto the wrought-iron boot scraper fastened to the building's landing.
Hushed voices poured and blended together in a rush behind the door, before a peeping hole was dragged aside and a lovely, if jaded set of pure hazel eyes glowered out at him. The peephole was replaced, and more muffled voices debated and murmured, before the door was suddenly swung open, revealing dim warmth and a wave of laughter to the gloomy outsides of the street.
The owner of those hazel eyes, a composed young woman of indeterminate class, smiled an entirely false and slightly satirical smile as she took in the richly dressed Viscount. Behind her, a pretty young man with long blue hair tied into a high horsetail sneered at the entering noble and retreated into a side room, the origins of his disdainful attitude unclear. Every inch the aristocrat, Karasu's eyes narrowed dangerously. He made a note to request that boy at a later date and teach him the value of manners.
“Why should I let you in, m'lord? That bastard friend of yours, Lord Kyosuke, still hasn't paid his dues to me.”
Lord Karasu chuckled softly, pride and grace and cold winter evident in his voice as he replied, “You will let me in, girl, and you know you will; I have the money to pay you. And I believe you meant to say 'my lord the Earl Sakyo,' or something similar?”
“Kyosuke can posture himself as a member of the blasted peerage as frequently as he likes, he's just Lord Kyosuke to me.”
“Perhaps he'd pay you your due if you showed him the proper respect, then, Miss Shizuru.”
The twenty-two year old girl snorted and looked him coolly in the eyes, aware that the obeisance he'd shown by addressing her with 'Miss' was more out of mockery than deference, and quickly finished up their conversation. “We've got a new boy today, just your type. It's his first time, too, so you'll have to be a little nicer than usual.” She paused, something coming to mind. “Or not, knowing you. Youko will tell you all about him in a moment. In the meantime, I'll take off your cloppers and you can come with me.”
Karasu smiled a soft, sinuous smile as he was wryly directed to sit on one of the lolling chairs that were squeezed into the entrance way for this specific purpose. He watched, amused, as the girl removed the galoshes ('cloppers,' the plebes called them) from the bottom of his shoes and left them carelessly in a basket for the purpose. Shizuru took a wool rag and polished the last of the mire away, examined the soles for a moment to see if they looked presentable, and finally rose and beckoned languidly to Karasu. While he swiftly righted himself, she slipped behind him to slide the lock into place, and then slipped ahead again to lead the way. He followed her down the long aisle, smiling again, faintly, at its familiar carpet, casually worn and faded by years of the light tread of whores and the shuffling, stomping boots of patrons.
Laughter and groans, good-time noises, the thumps and creaks of beds, all echoed softly from behind closed doors as they passed by framed pictures of their Queen, Mukuro, and pleasant paintings of hanging gardens being tended by buxom young women, illuminated by a series of beeswax candles flickering in their iron sconces. If one didn't hear the sounds of men whispering sweet nothings into bought girls-and-boys' ears, one would think this was a private residence, or some sort of letting house that gave rooms to those with money to pay for them. The truth was much more sordid than that.
Shizuru didn't bother looking back at her trailing ward, well aware that Lord Karasu knew these halls better than she at times. He eyed the few things that had changed since he last came here, the night before he was called out to the palace to join in the war, and felt completely unperturbed by the narrowness of the halls or the low, richly patterned ceilings, which had been known to make lesser men cringe. He swung his cane jauntily, polishing the knob at the top with a handkerchief he kept up his ruffed sleeve as his excitement mounted.
“Tell me more about this boy,” he commanded, fishing for information to feed his growing lust.
“Pretty. Very pretty. Like I said, you'll see when we get there. And, in fact, here we are!” she cried sarcastically, earning a peeved snort from the Viscount as he looked down his nose at her.
Shizuru opened a door into a common living area that was almost certainly built to serve as a sitting room or dining area or something of the sort, and not the focal point of a bordello. It was spacious, with a desk situated to the left a few feet from the wall, bolted to the floor and kept there with large, obvious locks on each foot (with more on the cabinets). Behind the business-like desk leaned a tall, handsome man, quite obviously carrying the demeanor of a former prostitute, who stood and smiled, clasping his palms together with delight upon seeing one of his favorite customers.
“My Lord Kurogawa! A pleasure, a real pleasure to see you again.” One of the reasons Karasu enjoyed this whorehouse, more than all the rest of them combined, was Youko, the famous (though some might say infamous) monsieur of the White Fox. It was true that his workers were always pretty, clever, and clean, and that he kept a good supply of new ones (those were the type that Karasu loved to ply his art on), but it was also rare that one found a person of such wit and taste in the lower classes. On top of that, Youko never truly deferred to Karasu, and Karasu enjoyed that.
Karasu was also exceptionally fond of the stories Youko told of a life spent in brothels—and many a night, alone in his room, Karasu had examined a mental image of what Youko would have looked like when he was young and fresh, at the top of his game, and found himself reaching the joyous pinnacles of lust as he teased himself into erection. If Youko would take the money, he'd love to couple with him, but the legendary white fox no longer did such transactions on a monetary basis.
The Viscount Kurogawa allowed himself a stifled sigh of longing as his eyes traveled the tight, well-muscled body, wanting to feel it above him, knowing it would excite even more pleasure than that of Lord Bui. Bui, a young baron Karasu had taken up with, couldn't hope to compare with the Whore of the Makai's doubtlessly unbelievable skills. Youko smiled, knowing why he was looking, and flattered to have someone so young and handsome gaze at him in such a way. Not for much longer, he thought. Such was the life of a paid man: unless you own a shop yourself, they forget all about you after a couple of years, writing you out of history as though you'd never been at all.
“I was told that you had a new boy to be showcased today, one I'd love to meet," Karasu hummed. He smirked under heavy, sardonic lids as he looked at the soft white hair perked above Youko's appealing face. A proud nose and golden slits of eyes gave Youko a clever, striking look, one that Karasu often admired.
“Ah, yes. He's been giving us some trouble, that one. I'm afraid he hasn't resigned himself to the life he must lead. Still, he's very beautiful: fifteen or sixteen, flawless skin, crimson hair like downy feathers, glass-green eyes, and…” he paused, and smiled softly, almost wolfishly to himself, as he leaned in close to whisper in Karasu's ear (a tradesman to the last), “completely untouched.” Those last two words were said with the same amount of care and confidentiality used to impart a deadly secret, vital to the continued workings of the nation.
“Untouched?”
“Yes. New to the trade, and I will swear to you, no one with a mite of experience would have reacted to the virginity test like that.”
“Untouched, you say. A great beauty, and untouched.” Karasu thought for a moment. “What kind of trouble is he giving you?”
Youko sighed lugubriously, skillfully angling for business as he took a sip of the flask of liquor he always kept by his hip and put on a slightly theatrical tone. “He refuses to take lessons in pleasing men. To add insult to injury, he won't eat, he won't drink, he cries rather than sleep, and claims he'd rather die than be used. I'm afraid his first client will have to tie him up or hold him down, and I would need extra payment for that. If you force them, they generally won't stay willingly, and often carry on in such a way…”
Karasu smirked, recognizing that this was all being thrown in to tempt him and force him to pay a higher bill. “If he's such a prize, and requires such rough handling,” he chuckled, “then give him to me. I will pay gladly for the boy's first time, if he is as precious as you say. What's the child's name?”
Youko smirked as well, glad that the pleasantries were almost over with. “We've decided to give him the name 'Kurama,' assuming he warms up to business.” Youko saw the look of impatience on Lord Karasu's face, and smiled again, quite toothily. “He will insist on being called Shuuichi, though.”
“Shuuichi, hm?” Karasu said. Excitement laced his velvet voice as he slowly picked up and examined the idea of plucking such a tender young flower, looking at it from every angle.
Shuuichi was a good name for a newly turned rent-boy, Karasu thought, showcasing his innocence; and the sparks he exhibited by refusing to accept his lot in life were causing a similar fire, though for very different reasons, inside the handsome Viscount. In no time at all, all he could imagine was the joy of showing this firebrand the ins-and-outs of concupiscence and sexual thrill. That he would be resistant to the lessons allowed a soft, insidious grin to creep onto Karasu's face.
He was decided. It might lighten his purse considerably, but what of that? Youko never lied nor exaggerated true beauty more than a little, and this was the first time Lord Karasu had heard him speak of one of his workers in such flattering terms. It was exciting indeed, to be faced with such a proposition when he'd come expecting something much more mundane. “Take me to him, then. This transaction rests purely on whether he's pretty enough for my money.”
“Believe my word, he certainly is. Shizuru, watch the desk, and make sure Shishi is out guarding the front door. I'll be back soon.” Those words, directed towards Shizuru, lacked the honey he used when addressing Lord Karasu, and were backed up by an authoritative gesture towards the desk.
Shizuru snorted, her real disapproval finally showing its face. She leaned against the doorway, giving each of the men a hard look. “Why can't you leave the poor boy alone?”
Youko stopped and matched her look with another, equally hard. “What,” Youko returned imperiously, “And let him starve? Allow him to be forced into a much less kind, much less spacious, much less clean low-level brothel anyway, despite his naïve bravado? What a cruel proposition you suggest.”
Considering the matter closed, Youko turned to the Lord and began leading him charmingly towards the back stairs, which led to the larger rooms where the most profitable of Youko's prostitutes lived and worked, both of the men blithely ignorant of the pointed glare in Shizuru's eyes as she scowled after them. She snorted again, to herself this time, and stalked over to Youko's desk. Shizuru sat primly in the boss's chair, putting her feet up and crossing them in a way that was sure to earn a beating if Youko saw it, her slimly cut muslin dress riding immodestly up.
She pulled one of Youko's beloved tobacco knots from the unlocked drawer he kept them in, twisting it into the neatly engraved scrimshaw pipe he'd left balanced on the iron ashtray atop his desk. She pulled a straw from the broom hidden by her feet and stuck it into the coal heater that Youko used to warm himself in this cold weather, setting it aflame, and then using the flames to set the pipe smoking. Commandeering her master's pipe was the only thing she could do to show her disapproval of a virgin boy being deflowered by a man of Karasu's ilk, handed over like a lamb to slaughter, the knife held to his throat. A boy like Shuuichi, she thought, so young and impressionable, deserved better than that vulgar Lord Karasu.
In the end, though, who was she to say? Youko could be doing the best thing for Shuuichi, crushing the last of his hopes and dreams so he could be reborn from the ashes. She took another drag on the pipe, and let the smoke pour out of her mouth in a lacy cloud. Whether for good or ill, the whole thing just didn't sit right.
As she mused away, taking drag after drag of her master's best tobacco and gnawing the ivory mouthpiece out of shape, Youko kept up a mild conversation with the unresponsive Viscount, trying to turn his head from the games and debaucheries Youko was fully aware were playing behind his eyes. He attempted to distract the vicious, focused look on the lord's face by relating amusing anecdotes of other prostitutes (usually as they passed the room containing them) or stories of this new boy's many eccentricities.
“And he always demands that there be flowers in his room. Do you believe that? An introductory rent boy demanding that there be a new bouquet in his room every day! They have to be roses, too, and freshly cut. Sometimes he dashes them to the floor if they're not just-picked and dewy! It doesn't seem to matter how many times I beat the boy, I can never beat such things out of him.”
“He sounds a true terror. I shall have to do some beating myself, I suppose.”
Youko, hearing the malicious tone of Lord Karasu's voice, paused outside the door to the most spacious room in the bordello, usually given to a more recent kit (as Youko called his newest workers) to reduce jealousy and unhealthy competition amongst the others. The empathy Youko thought he'd successfully ground down into nothingness over the many years raised its head to feebly sniff at the winds. “You won't be too hard on him, will you?” he asked. “He really is very young. You would never believe that he were above fifteen if you hadn't seen incontrovertible proof. He looks it, but he doesn't act his age at all. It would be a shame…” he murmured, obviously overcome by the mild guilt, “if you were to break him completely on his first time. He’s very scared of carnality, you see, for better or for worse—though that's to be expected. He is a virgin, after all.”
Karasu paused, his hand tightening on the cane, and then smiled a smile that was far from settling and extremely cold, seeing that he needed to put Youko at his ease. He was unaware that his haughtiness was turning that attempt into a failure. “Even I have enough morals not to unleash myself in such a way upon someone as young and pure as you describe, M. Youko. You needn't worry.”
Youko saw clearly that there was great cause to worry, but it was already too late. He couldn't back down now that things had been put in motion, and hopefully he'd get a nice thick portion of coin out of it. The boy was Lord Karasu's now. “Just… I beg of you, my lord, show him gentility if at all possible,” he said, in a final attempt to assuage his nagging conscience. Then the knob was turned and the door opened, and Karasu's cold heart soared higher than it had ever soared before.
“Is he to your liking?” Youko whispered, and the boy standing silhouetted against the barred, nailed-shut window, the merest cracks of light dancing in his scarlet hair, tensed angrily. Karasu wordlessly pulled out his coin pouch and poured three-fourths of it, an extremely generous amount indeed, into Youko's hands. Hearing the clink of money, the slim, graceful form turned, and Karasu was fixed with eyes of such a pure, tender green, cracking with hate, that he nearly sank to his knees. He wanted nothing but to look into those eyes again and again, to see every expression that they held, trace every individual vein of clear emerald from its start to its finish a hundred times over.
“So he… he did. He's sold me. You're my customer,” rose petal lips whispered in accusation, forming those words from inside an ethereal fairy face, round and moon-shaped and beautiful. Tears began to fill those eyes, and Karasu longed to kiss them, lick them away as he gently violated him into eternity. Graceful hands fisted, and then suddenly the fairy face was screaming. “I won't, do you hear me? I don't care who you are! I'm not some whore, I'm me, and you can't have me!”
Youko excused himself and closed the door, leaving Shuuichi alone with the Viscount. Karasu's eyes burned as he reached back to lock it behind him, a wide, cruel smile adorning his face, the widest and cruelest he'd ever smiled in his life. This young angel, Shuuichi, continued guilelessly on, obviously disturbed by the look on his face and the sound of the lock sliding into its ratchet, but determined to say his piece. “I will not! I will not! You can't make me!”
“Silence,” Karasu hissed, his voice suddenly dark and thick. The boy was his, at least for the next few hours. Even those hours seemed too short; and yet the fear on this boy's face, Shuuichi (who, if Karasu had any say in it, would be called Kurama forever more after tonight), awakened fires in Lord Karasu that were better left dampened.


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Shuuichi was fully aware of the danger he was in and the powerlessness of his situation. A madman, he thought. They’ve sold me to a madman. He nearly cracked at that realization, his mind almost succumbing to the emotions that warred it out beneath his heaving breast, but froze instead, scared and angry as this strange man’s footsteps came close, boots clicking against wood flooring in a businesslike way. And that’s what this is, thought Shuuichi, a business transaction. I am the service to be provided, and it will be, against my will or not. He thought of his father, and wanted to cry.
The voice, which had snapped the first word that fastened Shuuichi’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, now lightened and smoothed to the texture of butter. Shuuichi pressed himself into the window, gripping its ledge between shaking fingers and closing his eyes as the imposing man said, “There’s no need to be afraid, little Shuuichi. If you’re a good boy, I won’t hurt you.”
“Don’t touch me!” Shuuichi snarled, cringing further away as the footsteps came to rest, a few hands from Shuuichi’s slender figure. All in tandem, he looked up at the interloper’s body, and saw hopelessly that it extended a few hands above his head, too.
“Don’t touch you? Really, then what else should I do to you? There will be no more of that, my lovely rose,” Karasu chided, and reached out a hand to stroke the porcelain cheek. Shuuichi tried to slap the hand away, but his wrist was grabbed and crushed until he let out a proud, soft cry of pain. The other hand continued to traverse and caress the apple of the boy’s cheek, the slim nose, the downy lips, before drawing back to slap him sharply as he tried to bite the offending fingers. Shuuichi let out a shocked yelp, but snapped his jaw shut. He refused to submit to being handled like this. He would not give in; no, by God he would not!
“Who do you think you are, to treat me this way?” Shuuichi asked quickly, twisting to get away from hands that wouldn’t let him go.
“I think,” the man stated in a voice heavy with ice and coldness, “that I am the heir of the wealthy, titled Kurogawa family, and a Viscount in my own right. My name is of no importance to you, though, little one. You will call me ‘my lord,’ if you don’t wish to be flogged within an inch of your miserable life.”
“Flog me, then! You could be the Archbishop of Ginedine for all I care, my body is my own!”
The bottomless, lightless wells of the lord’s violet eyes shined in the inadequate light of the room. The Viscount chuckled, his inflection so dark that Shuuichi began to tremble in fear. He was well aware of the hopelessness of his situation, and his own pure vulnerability induced spasms of terror and panic that jerked along his shuddering nerves. “Darling, your body is not your own, not anymore; it’s a vessel for the sexuality and pleasure of other men. You’ll have to become much older, much wiser, and much richer for it to be your own again. Here, why don’t I show you what I mean?”
Shuuichi twisted in his arms and clawed, trying valiantly to escape, though it did no good. He was dragged over to the spacious bed, unaware that Karasu took a moment to glance at its white cotton sheets (white, the color of innocence, Karasu thought: Youko really was so clever), before he was thrown down onto it, bouncing up on the soft goose-feather mattress and nearly beside himself with fright. When he tried to escape over the other side, the sheets impeding his movement as he crawled, a hand fisted in the flimsy linen nightshirt that clung to his narrow shoulders and served as his only clothing, roughly handling him until he was turned over onto his back, and then dragging him up to look straight into those awful violet eyes.
“You will not fight,” Karasu commanded, secure in himself, in his strength, and in his knowledge that it was his right to do this heinous act. “You will acquiesce, and while I’m fucking you,” there was a horrified gasp from the boy at the word ‘fucking,’ “You will enjoy it. If not, I’ll show you how a rent-boy who displeases his patron should be treated.”
Shuuichi whimpered, but kicked out and rolled over again to attempt escape over the side of the clinging, grasping bed anyway, battling his soulful anguish with all his might in a frightened attempt to retain his sanity and control. He found himself dragged back, mussing the sheets that had, he had just realized, been folded this morning so he could be raped on them, and turned over the Viscount’s knee.
Karasu positioned himself so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and then bent the powerless boy so his backside was thrust into the air, their laps interlocking. A protesting cry fell on deaf ears as the fine linen was dragged up, exposing Shuuichi entirely. The undergarments Youko had provided, soft leather in a simple style that tied in bows on each hip, was untied and opened carefully by the man that Shuuichi knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“Don’t, don’t! Get your hands off me!” Shuuichi yowled, thrashing and bucking as a hand raised and rushed speculatively down onto his bare behind with a resounding crack.
“You will learn to obey customers, pretty, or things will go very hard for you.”
Shuuichi felt a finger caress a part of him that had rarely known touch, and jerked, confusion peppering his thinking as he felt bile rise in his throat. “Please, please stop!”
“Never,” Karasu purred. “Now listen, dearest Shuuichi, this little aside can go one of two ways. You could fight me, in which case I’m afraid I’ll have to be rather more forceful with you than is healthful or enjoyable, or you can say, right now, before it’s too late: ‘as you wish.’ Those magic words will allow you a gentle first time, and save you from much of the pain and bloodshed you would otherwise experience. I don’t want to treat you this way,” Karasu lied, “But you must understand. You have no other hope of livelihood, no other way of earning a meal every night. It won’t be so terrible, Shuuichi, living your life as Kurama.” Lord Karasu had a sickly smile on his face that he hid from young Shuuichi, and his sneering lips promised torment that Shuuichi was too inexperienced to understand.
Shuuichi shuddered, defiant snarls echoing behind his head. The truth, however, threatened to overwhelm him with its jagged, unforgiving edges. He had no choice. Against his mother’s protests, his father had sold him to this horrible place in a vain attempt to salvage his business; and if he continued to fight like this they might sell him somewhere else, somewhere worse. It was a heartless and cruel epiphany. He knew he wouldn’t last long under the pitiless ministrations this man seemed perfectly capable of.
Perhaps it won’t be so bad, he thought, if I don’t fight.
His decision made, Shuuichi lowered his head and began to plead softly. “Please—please don’t hurt me. Please spare me, sir,” he whispered.
The lord smiled down at the shivering boy draped across his lap, charmed by his beauty and his sweet surrender, and enthralled by the way he was reacting to his first, if forced, sexual experience.
“You beg so prettily, pet. Here, get off my lap. I’ve been treating you horribly, haven’t I? Lay on the bed and spread your legs, and I’ll make amends for it. Do you play with yourself, Shuuichi?”
Shuuichi tensed and scowled into the bedding, but then, realizing that it was probably better than being held over his knee, he crawled over and sat on the bed warily, pulling down his nightshirt as he went, regretting the loss of his undergarments. A hand on his wrist and a silky, dangerous voice stopped him.
“I asked you, do you play with yourself?”
“No sir,” the dulcet tones of the smooth young voice quavered back. “It’s an affront to the Lord.”
Youko was right, Lord Karasu decided: he was much too young. If the Viscount hadn’t been so enamored with him, he would have found the lad’s ignorance an irritation. When coupled with his lovely face, however, the ignorance and inexperience became beautiful innocence, which Karasu longed to sully and exploit.
“Then this will hurt more than I mean it to. Take off your shirt.”
Shuuichi froze. He blushed bright red, humiliated and scared, knowing he had no power but what this disgusting animal of a man gave to him. “May I… keep it on, please? I don’t—I don’t want…”
“Me to see you? Oh, child, you have nothing to be ashamed of; your body is beautiful.”
Shuuichi closed his eyes and shuddered, praying in his mind for a respite from this agony. He understood what had remained unsaid: there would be no compromise. His pleas were pointless, his fights were pointless, and all that was left was to give himself over, and hope that his soul was broken so cleanly that he would be able to put it back together again when this afternoon ended. He slid the simple linen nightshirt, his last, feeble defense, over his head, removing his hope with it, and surrendered himself quietly to his fate. As deceivingly gentle hands reached out and began to touch him, his eyes found the wooden planks nailed across the narrow window, usually covered by the floor-length curtains he had drawn aside, and he wished with all his heart that he could see the sun.


To be continued.



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End Note: reviews are really nice, and help me know whether I'm going in a good direction with this story. If you'd like to, please, hit that button and tell me what you think. I promise you that each one, both big and small, makes my day.



(1) Tricorne: A tricorner hat.
(2) Hackney, or hack: A horse-drawn carriage in use at the time that was the precursor to the hansom cab.
(3) Scrimshaw: Carvings of whale bones, often done by whalers as a way to pass time. Something like a usable pipe would be a rare commodity, and is a sign of the success of Youko's business. Ivory doesn't have to be from elephant tusks, too, in case you were wondering—whale bones are also considered ivory.
The reason the windows are boarded up, by the way, is because of the window tax (which is going to exist in this world). All of the less-affluent or stingy residences, you'll soon notice, will have boarded-or-bricked windows because their owners couldn't/didn't want to pay the tax.