When and Where You Are Not


Ianto walked through a side door to the building, knowing perfectly well this establishment had no 'front' entrance. One back door for employees and three side doors for clients. It was intended to make clients feel as though no one would see them enter or exit -- Ianto had studied enough CCTV footage to know he could have identified most of the clients perfectly, if he'd cared to. He hadn't bothered, as the study had shown him what he'd needed: the route and entrance to the building which would not be traceable.

He walked in and stopped at the desk just inside. The "receptionist" greeted him with a bland smile. The older woman had no name badge nor did the desk have an identifying name plate; if you were there, you knew where you were going and what you were about. Ianto gave her his short client number and she simply told him "Room 4, down the hall on the left."

He paid with cash, up front. Much as he'd been tempted to put it on a Torchwood expensive credit card, he'd ultimately decided on the safer, and more anonymous, cash.

Not that Jack fucking Harkness didn't owe him, to pay for this.

Ianto tried not to think about Jack as he walked down the hallway. There was no decor, just a pale green colour painted on the walls and just enough lighting to see. He encountered no one; he suspected that client appointments were timed so that no one would be walking to or from their room at the same time. Clients at this establishment were here for two things: privacy, and the sordid things they wished to do with that privacy.

Room number four was clearly marked, and Ianto pushed the door open and walked inside. There was no lock on the door, and he didn't bother to glance around for the internal security cameras. He simply removed his jacket and hung it on a hook for the purpose, and looked at the center of the room.

A young man lay, face down, on the bench. Ianto had provided clear and succinct instructions on what he'd wanted ahead of time. He was pleased to see it carried out; the young man made no attempt to greet him or even acknowledge his arrival. He'd have been instructed not to speak, though Ianto had clarified that noise was acceptable. But no fake conversation, no dirty talk, no begging.

He went over to the rack and selected the item he wanted, and returned to stand beside the bench. He looked down at the young man, noting the smooth skin of his back, the fine, unmarked skin of his buttocks. There was a scar on the back of his thigh, long and thin -- could have been from anything. Ianto didn't care, really, noting it and forgetting it. He could see the tension in the young man's shoulders; awareness, anticipation. Ianto had no reason to draw this part of it out.

He raised the leather paddle and brought it down, hard and fast. The young man jumped and the sound of the strike echoed dimly in the small room. Ianto raised his arm again, bringing the paddle down once more. Then a third, again on the same spot.

He heard the young man inhale sharply, and Ianto waited a count, not wanting to fall into a regular and predictable rhythm. He brought the paddle down once more, shifting his aim a bit lower, catching the bottom curve of the left arsecheek. Again, then again, and he shifted his grip and aimed his blows now on the right cheek.

He didn't bother to count -- he brought the paddle down, one after another, giving his arm and the young man barely any rest between the blows. He kept a close eye on the colour of the skin -- it was darkening quickly to red, but it wasn't Ianto's intention to injure him. He could hear the young man stifling his cries -- whether by intent or by habit, he didn't know. Didn't care because the sound or absence of it meant nothing to him.

It wasn't noise he was after.

He brought the paddle down one more time, right in the center of the young man's arse. The smack echoed more fiercely and the young man moaned, softly. Ianto considered the state of the young man's arse -- red and burning, but not, he judged, too much.

Not yet.

Ianto waited a few breaths, feeling the ache in his shoulder. He'd thought about switching hands, doubling the number of blows, but finally decided not to. He raised the paddle and landed three short, quick blows, then dropped the paddle on the floor and unzipped his trousers. There was a small bowl on the floor beside the bench, packets of condoms and a bottle of lube. He made quick use of them, slicking himself up and then he pressed himself, hard and fast, into the man's arse.

Ianto fucked him, gripping the young man's hips for leverage as he slammed his cock in, hard and fast as he could. He closed his eyes briefly, but images swarmed in and he forced himself to look at the blank wall of the room. The whorehouse had other rooms, decorated for all sorts of needs. Ianto had requested this, walls empty of everything but the tools required.

He continued to fuck the young man, gripping harder, not bothering to wonder if he was going to leave bruises. Then he shouted, slamming in one last time, and held on tightly as his orgasm slammed into him.

Ianto held still, catching his breath, before pushing himself backwards and letting his softening cock come free. He peeled the condom off, tying it and taking it to the small trash receptacle in the corner. There was a hand towel as well, which he used, wiping his cock then his hands clean, before dropping the towel on the floor and zipping up his trousers.

Then he let himself out of the room, and headed back down the hallway.

At the reception desk he stopped, and the woman gave him a tired smile. "Two weeks, same room, same instructions?" she asked.

Ianto nodded, and gave her a cash deposit. Then he let himself out of the building, and walked away, following the path he'd traced through the blind spots of the CCTV.

the end