Justin Baruch had been looking forward to this day for some time.
When he'd met Montgomery Quill that night at The Body Shop, Justin's very first reaction had been a mild curiosity upon seeing a slight, delicate beauty dressed in the house uniform, short dark hair and bright blue eyes. But the boundary between (potential) Companions and waitstaff was very clear-cut, especially in a club as exclusive and high-class as The Body Shop, and Justin automatically dismisses the waiter from his thoughts, focusing on the performances and his companions for the night. But throughout the night, he keeps seeing that waiter again out of the corner of his eye, staring at the personal contracted Companions draped around their Patrons scattered throughout the room, at the beautifully dressed House Companions who strolled through to offer their services for the night and perhaps entice a new contract, at the performers on the stage in their carefully selected attire, plying their craft - at almost everyone, it seemed, other than the clientele he was meant to be serving as part of his job.
Justin had no intention of interfering with the running of business, but there was something about the way he'd kept staring at the performers, particularly the beautiful boys in shining corsets and long lashes, flirting their skirts at the Patrons in the audience, with a look of pain and envy mingled with a deep, desperately repressed want, that had coaxed Justin into recklessness on a whim. After all, he hadn't had a long-term contracted Companion for almost a full year now - it had been an amicable parting, mostly mutual - and at the end of the day, he enjoyed making people happy more than anything else.
It had been a hassle (and a significant expense) to arrange everything from a proper distance, to inquire after the young waiter through the proper channels, and allow the appropriate intermediaries to make his offer. He'd only been a little surprised to hear that he'd accepted, but after that point, other than the money slipping out of his account (a barely noticeable sum for him, though for most others it would be a drain) in regular increments, he had no news or updates. This approach was intended to decrease abuse of the system (and its charges), to leave enough space and room for candidates to make clear-eyed, informed decisions, without direct pressure from potential Patrons to muddy the waters. The money always went through two neutral channels before being deposited, every cent and condition and term carefully accounted for, and all-in-all represented a very hefty sum even after the administrative fees were taken out (the Crabtrees really knew what they were doing), certainly more than some favored mistresses had been graced with, in times long ago.
Mostly, Justin tried to put that out of his head, counting the money as lost already, regardless of the outcome. After all, when you already owned almost every material possession and comfort possible, there was something especially thrilling about making someone else's dreams come true.
But then, after months of radio silence, word comes back. Montgomery Quill ('Monty', the summation had said) had agreed to an initial meeting, to take place in one of the monitored rooms (privacy was guaranteed, but the archives would be kept for 72 hours after the meeting ended, in case of any serious allegations of violation). Once again, the foremost emotion for Justin was curiosity, a subtle, unlooked-for hope that, perhaps, there would be some break in the usual monotony - a very comfortable monotony, to be sure - of his day-to-day life.
He closes the door behind him, and tilts his head, nodding apologetically.
"Sorry if I startled you, Monty - may I call you Monty?" he asks, his tone gentle, polite. "I'm Justin Baruch." Montgomery Quill would already know who he is - from reputation, if nothing else - but other than his name, age, and appearance, Justin knew very little about the young man in front of him.
no subject
When he'd met Montgomery Quill that night at The Body Shop, Justin's very first reaction had been a mild curiosity upon seeing a slight, delicate beauty dressed in the house uniform, short dark hair and bright blue eyes. But the boundary between (potential) Companions and waitstaff was very clear-cut, especially in a club as exclusive and high-class as The Body Shop, and Justin automatically dismisses the waiter from his thoughts, focusing on the performances and his companions for the night. But throughout the night, he keeps seeing that waiter again out of the corner of his eye, staring at the personal contracted Companions draped around their Patrons scattered throughout the room, at the beautifully dressed House Companions who strolled through to offer their services for the night and perhaps entice a new contract, at the performers on the stage in their carefully selected attire, plying their craft - at almost everyone, it seemed, other than the clientele he was meant to be serving as part of his job.
Justin had no intention of interfering with the running of business, but there was something about the way he'd kept staring at the performers, particularly the beautiful boys in shining corsets and long lashes, flirting their skirts at the Patrons in the audience, with a look of pain and envy mingled with a deep, desperately repressed want, that had coaxed Justin into recklessness on a whim. After all, he hadn't had a long-term contracted Companion for almost a full year now - it had been an amicable parting, mostly mutual - and at the end of the day, he enjoyed making people happy more than anything else.
It had been a hassle (and a significant expense) to arrange everything from a proper distance, to inquire after the young waiter through the proper channels, and allow the appropriate intermediaries to make his offer. He'd only been a little surprised to hear that he'd accepted, but after that point, other than the money slipping out of his account (a barely noticeable sum for him, though for most others it would be a drain) in regular increments, he had no news or updates. This approach was intended to decrease abuse of the system (and its charges), to leave enough space and room for candidates to make clear-eyed, informed decisions, without direct pressure from potential Patrons to muddy the waters. The money always went through two neutral channels before being deposited, every cent and condition and term carefully accounted for, and all-in-all represented a very hefty sum even after the administrative fees were taken out (the Crabtrees really knew what they were doing), certainly more than some favored mistresses had been graced with, in times long ago.
Mostly, Justin tried to put that out of his head, counting the money as lost already, regardless of the outcome. After all, when you already owned almost every material possession and comfort possible, there was something especially thrilling about making someone else's dreams come true.
But then, after months of radio silence, word comes back. Montgomery Quill ('Monty', the summation had said) had agreed to an initial meeting, to take place in one of the monitored rooms (privacy was guaranteed, but the archives would be kept for 72 hours after the meeting ended, in case of any serious allegations of violation). Once again, the foremost emotion for Justin was curiosity, a subtle, unlooked-for hope that, perhaps, there would be some break in the usual monotony - a very comfortable monotony, to be sure - of his day-to-day life.
He closes the door behind him, and tilts his head, nodding apologetically.
"Sorry if I startled you, Monty - may I call you Monty?" he asks, his tone gentle, polite. "I'm Justin Baruch." Montgomery Quill would already know who he is - from reputation, if nothing else - but other than his name, age, and appearance, Justin knew very little about the young man in front of him.