Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,
Sythyry
sythyry

In The Brothel

Mirrored from Sythyry.

“Oh! The wizard Sythyry and a guest! A most unusual visitation! What sort of service would you like, O Zi Ri? We should be delighted to provide anything!” asked the receptionist.

“I’d like someone who can tell stories well. Someone who can complain well, actually,” I said.

“Species? Fur color? Gender? Amatory specialties?” she asked.

“Just complaints,” I said. “We’ll be paying full rates for just conversation.”

The receptionist picked a dozen cards from a file, with sketches of nude and delicious people of several species exhibiting some non-conversational attributes, and arranged them on the purple wood counter for us to see.

“Pirly’s free?” I said.

“Pirly is not free. He is pricey! But he is available now, perhaps because he is pricey.”

Pirly was duly acquired, for a pricey price.

Pirly’s office is about what you’d expect from a prostitute’s place of work. It has two chairs. We gave one to Thefefy and the other to Pirly, and I curled up on the mantle. Thefefy sat down wrong — I believe she has never seen a wooden chair before — and got up and tried again, more forcefully than before. The chair shattered. We put her on the bed instead.

“So! What would you like to talk about?” asked Pirly. “Or do?”

“Tell this Herethroy, who is called Thefefy, about your job. Especially the parts that you don’t like,” I said.

Pirly giggled. “Oh! It’s all vile and disgusting! I have to submit bodily to strangers every day! Strangers of every species! Including Herethroy, like this! Sometimes I have to go down on my knees, like this, and lift their skirts, like this, and …” Poor Thefefy looked rather perplexed, and somewhat exposed.

I shook my head. “Don’t demonstrate.”

“Oh, this is just talking? No problem!”

“It’s an interview, not a pleasure-job,” I said.

“Awww, I never get to do a Zi Ri!” whined Pirly in his cutest voice. To which I am supposed to respond with, “Are you available tonight?”, which he never is.

I didn’t say that. “Please, tell Thefefy about the worst part of being a transaffectionate prostitute on the World Tree.”

“I can do that!” he said. It took most of an hour, and is approximately the story of his that I retold.

Thefefy was duly horrified. “So you know who you are copulating with?”

“Not very well. They’re nearly strangers to me. Well, I have some repeat customers — lots of repeat customers — and they’re almost friends,” said Pirly, who had forgotten to complain about a job that he actually is quite fond of.

“But you know which is which?” said Thefefy, waving her antennae in agitation.

“Not really. They rarely use their real names. I know Sythyry of course!” said Pirly.

“Even the Elfimel know who they are copulating with,” I said. “By name and history.”

“Indecent! Horrid!” wailed Thefefy.

“Just part of life and lust on the World Tree,” I said. (One of the better parts, actually, but let’s not mention that to Thefefy.)

“I find this displeasing,” said Thefefy.

“I’m sorry! Would you like to talk about something else? Or perhaps a whiffy-tangle?” said Pirly.

“A what?” asked Thefefy, who was not familiar with the intimate uses of a Herethroy body, much less current Kismirth slang for them.

“Thank you but no, Pirly. Thefefy, it’s time to go to our third rendezvous,” I said.

Pirly pouted at me, and whispered, “But she’s not even a little satisfied!”

I whispered back, “I want her as upset as possible!”, and teleported my guest away from the perplexed prostitute.

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