Broderick stepped out of the back of the dark sedan, shined black shoes crunching on dusty white gravel. He ran the back of his hand over his nose as he looked up at the building he’d arrived at. It was nothing much to look at; a low two stories, probably an old hotel. Bars on the windows. There was a single yellow light casting a dim glow over the heavy front door. The only sound was the clicking of the car’s engine cooling down and the chirping of a thousand crickets in the isolated clearing.
It looked like a total dump, but Bro had been assured that this was the place to find what he was looking for. He leaned down to look at the driver, a troll with a broken horn and a really ugly smile. “Keep it here, might be awhile,” he said, and then slammed the door shut.
He could feel his jaw clenching up as he listened to his footsteps approaching the entrance. He made an effort to relax, thinking maybe he shouldn’t have done that last bit of coke. There was a fine line between that feeling of invincible supremacy and that feeling of being a total paranoid wreck. On the other hand, walking that line might serve him well in a place like this.
He stopped in front of the door and knocked, the metallic thunk resounding in the quiet night. A slat in the door slid aside, grinding against its frame, and a pair of yellow eyes glared out at him.
“Who sent you?” the troll asked.
“The host sent me,” Bro replied, giving the password he’d been supplied. The eyes narrowed and the little window shut, but Bro could hear locks being disengaged on the other side. He counted them as he straightened his orange tie, his fingers moving restlessly over the silk. Five, six locks. No doubt a few meant to keep people in rather than keep them out.
The door creaked open and a heavy-set troll stood aside to let him in, looking him up and down with a suspicious gaze. Bro stepped in and stood in a small anteroom. There was a fluorescent light humming and flickering on the ceiling above. The floor was hard concrete. Another troll was waiting for him, wearing latex gloves and ready to give him a pat-down.
“Watch the suit,” Bro growled, wary of those sharp claws running up his inseam. The troll gave him a look that told him his claws could ruin a hell of a lot more than an expensive pair of slacks.
They found the handgun in his under-arm holster, but didn’t seem phased. They either didn’t find the small bag of cocaine in his inner jacket pocket or didn’t care. They were probably used to types like his coming in here; suits and money, drugs and guns.
His gun and phone were confiscated, and Bro watched them stowed away in what looked like a heavily-secured cloak room. He was told he could have them back upon his departure. It was annoying, but he supposed he couldn’t expect any less.
A muscular human male with a shaved head opened the other door of the anteroom and led him through to a low-lit room carpeted in ugly red shag. It consisted of a sitting area with a few beat-up looking couches and a low platform made of plywood in the center of the floor.
“It’s fifty dollars up front to see the merchandise,” the man said, rattling off rules like he’d said them a hundred times, “And if you want one it’s three hundred dollars an hour. No multiples.” Bro had a feeling that was a loosely enforced policy that could be plied with the application of a lot more money. These sorts of places always had loopholes. “You can touch them, but don’t whip your dick out or anything till you’ve paid and you’re in your room. You can do whatever you want, but don’t draw any blood. There are condoms and lube in the rooms. Use ‘em. If you don’t and you show your face around here again you’ll find yourself in a bad situation. Got it?”
Bro nodded, scanning the room from behind his shades. There was a meagerly-stocked bar next to a door in the corner, and a staircase that probably led to the bedrooms. He turned back to the man, who was standing next to him with his hand out, expectant.
Bro pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and thumbed out a fifty-dollar bill. He gave it to the guy, who immediately closed his fist around it and went to the door in the corner and opened it. “Line up!” he shouted and then stood back.
Bro really didn’t want to sit on one of these suspect couches, so he stood somewhat awkwardly in front of the platform. His finger fidgeted around the money in his pocket. The platform took the function of a small, sad stage as a dozen or so young humans and trolls filed up onto it.
He’d been to legal brothels before, and while the same basic principle of the lineup held true, this one was markedly different. None of them looked like they were a day over 21, and a few looked like they were only a few years into their teens. There were no sexy smiles, no come-hither eye-fluttering, no risque outfits.
Each boy or girl wore plain underwear and a thick black leather collar around their neck. Some of them gazed at the floor, others looked at him with weak, nervous smiles, and still others looked absolutely terrified. There was a definite flinching from a few as he took a step forward towards the stage.
Bro glanced at the man, who seemed to be some sort of handler. The handler gave him a nod. Bro stepped up onto the stage and began to inspect each boy and girl. He’d been told he could touch so he did, running his hands over chests, backs, crotches and asses. He kept his eyes on their faces though, tilting their chins up if they were looking down.
He spent a good while fondling an olive skinned boy with a fine ass, imagining sliding his cock between his cheeks. But he was distracted, looking at the next in his peripheral; a short troll who had caught his eye the moment he’d stepped through the door.
He was probably 17 years old, however many sweeps that was, with red eyes and dark circles underneath. His horns were some of the smallest Bro had ever seen, blunt tips. He had a supremely uncomfortable expression and a wary, guarded demeanor when Bro approached. As Bro put a hand on his shoulder he could feel the muscles twitch beneath his grey skin. He gave an intense glare of loathing as Bro skirted his fingers across his chest, down around to squeeze his rump. The troll growled, and it turned into a sort of whimper when Bro moved around to cup his bulge.
He could see the young troll’s fingers itching to protect himself, to claw Bro’s face off, but he restrained himself. Probably thanks to strict conditioning. Bro moved a hand up to the back of his head, pushing his fingers through the messy black locks and letting his fingers brush the base of his horns. The troll shuddered. Bro fisted his hand to force him to look up.
“What’s your name?” he asked. The troll looked at him with unparalleled hatred.
“Karkat,” he said in a hoarse voice. Bro looked at him for a few more moments and then glanced at the last few in line he hadn’t looked at yet. He turned back to Karkat, keeping his face impassive and trying to still his fingers from twitching like they wanted to.
He pulled his hands away and looked to the handler. “This one,” he said, pointing to Karkat.
The handler stepped on stage, and all the other kids subtly shuffled back a few steps away from him. “That one likes to bite,” he said, taking a short leather lead out of his pocket, “Just give him a good smack if he gives you trouble.” He clipped the lead to Karkat, who was baring his teeth, clearly in the middle of a fight-or-flight internal struggle that was likely to go nowhere.
The handler held onto the lead and gave Bro another expectant look, his eyebrows raised. Bro pulled out his billfold and counted out eighteen-hundred dollars, enough for six hours of Karkat’s time. He’d need it all.
Six hours? Karkat had counted along silently with the man who had bought him as he’d laid out all that cash. What the hell were they going to do for six fucking hours? In all his time in this hellhole, the johns rarely bought more than two hours. If they did, it was usually because they wanted to do something fucked up. Or else they wanted to talk. And this guy didn’t look like the talking type.
He was extremely tall, and Karkat could feel the strength that lurked beneath the fancy tailored suit he wore. He was probably a hitman, or a mob boss, or a druglord, or just a really rich asshole who liked fucking kids. At least he wasn’t bad looking, with that impeccably styled blonde hair and sharp features. Karkat had to reprimand himself for even thinking that. They were all shitty assholes, no matter how good they looked.
Everything about the other man seemed tightly coiled, ready to spring into some kind of violent episode. But also heavily controlled. He was probably a real psychopath. The way he moved Karkat was fairly sure he was on something. He seemed to carry it well, though. He wasn’t babbling like a lunatic or fidgeting uncontrollably. He could feel a slight tremor when he’d been gripping his hair, but otherwise he looked totally in command..
Karkat had been at this against his will for almost a year now, but it never got any better. There was always the terrible uncertainty of a new client, the fear of what they might do to him or make him do. At least he no longer had the false hope that he might get out of here sometime soon. From what he could tell it was either wait till some obscenely rich pervert bought him to be a personal fucktoy, or wait till he got too old and was taken off the lineup, probably left for a dead in a ditch somewhere. Karkat was starting to think he’d prefer the latter.
The bald asshole trainer exchanged Karkat’s lead for the money, counting the cash again again. Yeah, six whole hours. He nodded and gave the client a room key. “Enjoy,” the trainer said as the client tugged Karkat by the strip of leather, leading him off the stage.
They all used the lead. Couldn’t trust him to just fucking walk next to them. As if Karkat wouldn’t be immediately beaten to a pulp if he tried to make a run for it. Maybe they just liked the novelty of leading around another intelligent being like a goddamn animal.
He didn’t give Karkat much slack as he led him upstairs, and Karkat struggled to keep from tripping over himself as he climbed behind him. What he wouldn’t give to rip this motherfucker’s throat out, see that blank, calm face contorted in pain as he struggled wetly for his last breath.
And then what? The guards would find him, break his arms, clip his claws, put a muzzle on him, sell him as some kind of dangerous fetish item to someone even more fucked up. They weren’t going to lose the money they could make on him just because he killed a client. Still, Karkat entertained these gory possibilities with every one.
“They got cameras or microphones in the rooms?” the client asked, pulling Karkat out of his doomed, bloody fantasy. “I wanna know if I’m gonna be doing exhibitionism.” His buttoned-up, business-like nature seemed to have dropped a little as he matched the key with the correct door and fumbled to slide it into the lock.
When Karkat didn’t answer fast enough, the man gave his lead a sharp tug. “I asked you a question.”
Karkat grabbed the lead with a hand and pulled back on it irritably. He could be beaten weekly for a year, but he still couldn’t control these little outbursts of defiance. “Yes, fuck. You think they’re not gonna check up on you to make sure you’re not killing the merchandise?”
The client leveled his gaze at him, not at all impressed by his answer or the accompanying behavior. Karkat got that familiar sick feeling in his stomach that told him he’d fucked up and he was going to be punished for it. But the client just nodded and turned the key in the lock, pushing the door open and pulling Karkat through.
Karkat knew this room. It was just like all the others; a large bed with dark, stained sheets, a rickety night-stand with a few drawers and a flickery lamp, and a small attached bathroom with a shower and toilet. This room had one interesting difference, though. There was a large yellow-brown stain on the ceiling. Karkat had spent cumulative hours staring up at it while sweaty men did whatever they wanted to his body above him. “Interesting” may have been a stretch, but Karkat would take what he could get to keep from having to think about what was going on. The stain looked a little bigger since last time he’d been here, not a surprise since it had rained recently.
The sound of sharp inhalation brought Karkat once again out of his mental vacation. He looked over to see the client sitting on the bed, leaning over the nightstand and snorting up one of three white lines laid out on the surface through a rolled up bill. So he’d been right about the drugs. That meant volatile, unpredictable. He was already unpredictable enough what with the shades, couldn’t tell where he was looking. Karkat would have to watch himself.
The man grunted softly as he rubbed his nose, seeming to be somewhere else for a moment, then turned to Karkat. “Want some?” he asked with a small, tight grin.
“No...thanks,” Karkat replied, staying where he was beside the door. If he had offered something else, a tranquilizer or some other downer, Karkat would have gladly accepted. But in his experience cocaine made everything a lot sharper and more crystallized. That was the last thing he wanted.
The client shrugged, and laid the rolled up money down next to the remaining lines, careful not to disturb them, the looked at Karkat, his fingers fidgeting on the bedspread. “Come here,” he said, and began undoing his tie.
Karkat made his way over, the lump in his throat growing with every step, while the client kept talking. “You can call me Broderick, or Bro.” He gave another grin that looked unnatural, suggesting a numbness in his face from the coke, “Or Daddy if you like.”
“Thanks for the option,” Karkat grumbled as he came to a stop in front of the man, Broderick. What a dumb fucking name. Rich asshole with a stupid, pretentious name. Probably had a bunch of middle names and numbers after it too. Broderick Nookdrag Bulgesuckington the Eighth or something.
“You misbehave a lot, huh?” Bro asked as he took his jacket off and hung it on the bedpost. He had a black gun holster underneath the jacket, over the white dress shirt. That pretty much confirmed Karkat's suspicions. He was some kind of criminal, mafia probably. Bro tilted his head, clearly looking over the various scars Karkat had collected on his body from behind those stupid fucking shades.
“Depends what you call misbehaving,” Karkat said, glaring at Bro. Sometimes, yes he was disobeying orders. But other times he just got stuck with a client who liked to beat the shit out of him for no goddamn reason other than they were a messed up son of a bitch. He knew he was toeing the line with this one, risking yet another beating. It just felt too good to talk back, to feel like he still had some agency in his life.
“You’ve been a dirty little slut,” Bro said, running his hands over Karkat’s scars, feeling them with his fingers as he made his way towards his backside again. Karkat’s skin crawled at the contact, a response he wished he could get over because it happened every time and it was getting old. “Clearly haven’t learned your lesson.”
He was one of those then, the fuckers who just liked to hit him because they thought it was fun, and liked to use an asinine pretense to justify it to themselves. It was best to just play along in these situations, minimize the damage. The restraint it took to keep from rolling his eyes made him feel sick as he said, “Yes, Daddy,” and followed Bro’s hand’s coaxing him to bend over across his lap.
“I bet you like it, don’t you? Like being fucked by everyone and anyone. Filthy whore,” Bro said, his tongue running over his teeth as he felt Karkat’s ass. He didn’t usually talk like this, but when he was high it was hard to resist just letting his mouth run, saying every awful thing that came across his brain.
He could tell the troll wasn’t on board. He was tense under him, muscles tight, braced for anything. Bro licked his lips as he looked down at that scarred back. Weren’t they not supposed to have blood drawn? Must have been one of those money-lubricated loopholes.
He smoothed his hand over the thin cotton covering Karkat’s backside, glancing at his expensive-looking watch. Six hours. Plenty of time.
He suddenly stopped, feeling a frisson of paranoia run down his back. He glanced around the room, looking for those cameras and microphones Karkat had confirmed. He spotted a small one in the corner near the ceiling, painted the same greyish white as the walls except for the black eye of the lens. Enjoy the show, you fuckers, he thought as he brought his hand down on Karkat’s ass.
A small whimpering noise came from Karkat, more surprise than pain. Bro took his watch off, placing it on the nightstand, far away from the other two lines of coke, then returned his focus to the troll. “You like that, huh?” he said, caressing the place he’d just struck. “You like it when Daddy shows you how bad you are?” If he heard himself talking like this under normal circumstances he’d be embarrassed. But it was only a matter of time until he was far away from here and he would never see Karkat again. Until then, he was free to do whatever he wanted. As long as it didn’t draw blood and got the job done.
“Y-yes,” Karkat replied, his voice strained. Bro knew he was lying, but he was good at compartmentalizing, at deluding himself in situations like this. Karkat did this day in and out. What was one more?
He smacked Karkat again, harder this time. The sting of the impact traveled through the muscles of his palm. It felt good to affect something like this, to directly and physically have an impact. This was exactly what he needed. He spent too much time talking, watching his words, sitting in cars and waiting. It was like he could feel the stress of working flowing out of his hand and into the perky little troll ass underneath him.
Every noise, every muscle spasm from the kid made him feel like he was blocking out the reality of the real world.
He was getting hard underneath the young troll as he gave him a few more spankings, and he pushed Karkat’s hips down to grind against his bulge. Karkat gasped and he smacked him again. “I told you you liked it,” he said low, “You’re such a slut. I bet you want Daddy to fuck you, huh?” Karkat’s whole body shook, revulsion that Bro convinced himself just for the moment was arousal.
“Please…” Karkat said, not an ounce of feeling in his voice.
Bro pulled the troll’s underwear off and slipped his fingers between the cheeks to feel his nook. It was already moist, likely a conditioned response. Bro was willing to take it as a green light, and pushed his fingers inside, scissoring and opening him up.
Karkat squirmed and whimpered, clawing at the bedspread. Bro moved his other hand to caress Karkat’s neck, his jaw. He ran a finger over his chapped bottom lip, slipping in to feel those sharp teeth. He’d always had a certain fascination with trolls. Stereotypes painted them as dangerous and feral, and while Bro knew that wasn’t necessarily a blanket rule, he found it exciting, all those sharp points. It certainly made blowjobs more thrilling.
Karkat’s teeth dug into his skin, a clear strong desire driving him to bite down, a year of conditioning telling him not to if he valued his health. Bro appreciated that, let Karkat gnaw gently on him without recourse as he fingered him.
Bro checked his watch on the nightstand. Five and three-quarter hours left. He was doing just fine, despite the weak alarm going off in his brain. It was just the coke making him worry. He was fine. But maybe he should get this show on the road. He pulled his fingers out of Karkat with a quick squelch, smirking at the gasp Karkat emitted.
“Get me a condom and some lube,” he said, nudging Karkat off his lap. He undid his belt and fly, sitting back against the headboard. He pulled his cock out of his underwear, stroking himself as he watched Karkat on all fours on the bed, digging in the nightstand drawer to get the necessary items. Bro’s gaze drifted to the remaining lines of coke, wanting another one. But it would take him forever to come if he had too much. He could resist for now.
Karkat returned with the condom and a tube of lubrication, his eyes going immediately to Bro’s exposed erection. Bro couldn’t help but hope the troll was marvelling at its size. He could be the most sophisticated guy in the world, but there was little more that was so self-affirming than knowing he had a bigger dick than most guys.
“Put the condom on,” he ordered, taking his hand away to give Karkat room. He watched those claws handle the latex carefully, knowing that Karkat would likely rip his dick off if he could, those sharp little fingers begging to punish Bro for putting him through this. But he showed incredible control in gently placing the condom on the tip and rolling it down over Bro’s cock, even mostly masking his disgust.
“Face that way, hands and knees,” Bro said, directing Karkat to turn his back to him and bend over. The troll complied, resigned to his fate. Bro chewed on his tongue as he admired the grey skin moving over bones and muscles, the reddened flush of his abused rump, getting into place for him. He sat up on his knees, taking Karkat’s backside in both hands and pressing his thumbs in to spread him open.
Karkat tensed as he nudged the head of his cock against his nook, which was leaking an almost disturbingly red-tinted fluid. Bro gripped Karkat tightly as he began to push in, unable to hold in his groan at the wet tightness that quickly enveloped him. God damn, for a whore he was still tight, probably due to his tense nature. It made for a good hole, and Bro sank himself in as far as he could.
“Gh-” Karkat was clawing at the bedsheets, fisting his hands over and over again. He pulled away but Bro held him back, keeping him in place.
“Shh, I got you,” Bro said, leaning over Karkat’s back, though he had no real desire for Karkat to be quiet. He licked his shoulder, then bit at the skin, wanting to leave a mark like those others on the troll’s body.
“Hnnngh,” Karkat’s strained voice turned Bro on even more. Fuck yes, he could feel all the stress of work leaving him. He could forget all the bullshit, all the wasted time. Nothing existed but him fucking Karkat right now.
He started to move his hips, slow at first and then quickly gaining speed, With each thrust Karkat got louder, moaning in pain and then in pleasure as Bro fondled his now-unsheathed bulge. It quickly wrapped around his hand, entwining with his fingers as it found the stimulation it was looking for.
“Say ‘fuck me, Daddy,’” Bro instructed, his own voice clipped and strained as he worked his cock in and out of Karkat.
“F-...Fuck me...Daddy!” Karkat cried out, moving back against him now, seeking the fullness he’d been retreating from just a few minutes ago.
“That’s it,” Bro said, pressing his chest to Karkat’s back, hand on his chin and fingers in his mouth again. Karkat bit down harder this time, but Bro didn’t mind. His cock throbbed inside Karkat, and he knew he was going to come soon.
Instinct took over him, driving him wild, thrusting with abandon. He bit down on Karkat’s shoulder harder, holding Karkat’s hip tight against him every time he buried himself in that incredible nook. Fuck, it was good.
“Mmf!” he grunted as his orgasm hit him, spilling out into the condom. His muscles relaxed, unspooling from their too-tight tension. Coke was good, but nothing quite compared to this feeling.
He sighed, shutting his eyes and lazily slathering his tongue over the bitemarks. He kept himself inside Karkat as he squeezed and stroked his bulge, pulling his cock out only when he sensed the troll was close.
Karkat gave a pathetic little whimper as Bro felt him soaking his hand in genetic fluid. Karkat’s body shook under him and collapsed on the bed.
Bro disentangled himself from the heap and leaned against the backboard again, enjoying the afterglow for as long as he could. He wiped his dirty hand on the bedspread and used the other one to dig a lighter and pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He pulled one out with his teeth and lit it, inhaling deeply.
“Want one?” he asked Karkat. The troll shook his head. Bro put the pack back into his jacket and let out a stream of smoke upwards. He spent a moment staring at the large stain that was on the ceiling, his brain slowly gathering itself into functionality again.
It never lasted long enough. The comedown wasn’t as bad as cocaine’s, but in some ways it was worse. There was a hell of a lot more guilt, the feeling that he’d made a huge mistake. Bro zipped his pants up and slid off the bed. He walked over to the window, taking another drag of his cigarette. He slid a finger between the blinds and lifted them to peer through. Bars beyond the glass. If he squinted he could see the outline of the car waiting in the dark parking lot.
He tapped his cigarette, ashing it onto the windowsill. The real world was starting to pour back in. Deal, payment, delivery. He looked to the bed, where Karkat was curled up in his own genetic mess. Yeah, he’d definitely made a mistake.
Oh well, nothing he could do now except fix it. Bro strode back over to the bed and sat on the edge near Karkat. He checked his watch again. Five hours, thirteen minutes. Bro took another long drag and exhaled up towards that ominous stain. He could feel the camera behind him, felt like its lens was boring into the back of his skull.
With that in mind he leaned down over Karkat, holding the cigarette out of the way and putting his nose against his temple, his lips against his ear. It would look like an affectionate nuzzle to anyone watching.
He spoke just above a whisper. “You’re Karkat Vantas, right?” he asked, then shifted to watch the younger man’s reaction.
The fucker hadn’t even let him look up at the ceiling. He’d put him on his hands and knees, made him stare at the door, at the edge of the bed while he got fucked, forced to come, made him want it, feel dirtier than he already did. He was lapsing into another homicidal fantasy when Bro came back, sat next to him, put his gross smokey mouth up against his head.
“You’re Karkat Vantas, right?” Karkat froze, his muscles locking up at the mention of his name. His real name that he hadn’t heard in a year. His stomach did a flip; fear, uncertainty, the gall to hope. Someone knew him, someone knew he had a family, that he had a name outside this shithole.
He turned to look up at Bro cautiously, his eyes still moist from getting fucked so roughly by the man who knew his whole name. He swallowed and gave a single, subtle nod. Bro sucked on his cigarette again, blew the smoke out and then leaned back in.
“I’m a private investigator. Your dad, Slick, hired me to find you and bring you home,” Bro whispered, his lips tickling Karkat’s ear.
Karkat didn’t want to believe it. He’d given up on the hope that anyone might get him out of here half a year ago. It seemed more likely that he’d gone completely insane in this horrible place, plunged deep into a fucked up delusion. But it all felt real, and not even Karkat was messed up enough to dream about a supposed savior like Bro.
“Wh-” he started, but Bro squeezed his shoulder.
“Don’t talk. You said there are microphones. I’m going to get you out of here but I need your help, alright?” He leaned away again and continued smoking, looking like just another client, having a cigarette and looking too fucking content for what he’d just done.
Karkat chewed on his tongue, glaring at him. What the hell kind of private investigator got high on the job? What the hell kind of private investigator had sex with their target? What kind of private investigator was as massively fucked up as Bro obviously was, making him call him “Daddy” when he knew the whole time he’d be delivering him to his father?
Karkat knew Spades was in league with some messed up assholes, but this…
Karkat swallowed. He could hate Bro all he wanted, but if he was going to get out of here, the guy was his only hope. He could tell him just how much of a massive fucking creep he was later, maybe even make one of his violent fantasies come true. Right now, he just had to get out. That sliver of hope, the mere possibility of escape, made him realize he couldn’t spend another day here, not knowing who was going to do what to him next.
Karkat looked up into Bro’s impassive douchebag of a face and gave another tiny nod.