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whocaresstillthelouvre · 2 months ago

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Do You Wanna Touch Me?

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) Pairing: Marcus Pike x Sex Worker Female Reader Words Count: 4,200 Summary: After getting his heart broken, Marcus Pike takes an assignment in Amsterdam. What started as an exploration of the red light district turns into choosing you, the most beautiful art he's ever seen. Warnings: sex work, erotic dancing, hand job, masturbation, fingering, oral (m receiving), reader wears makeup and a dress, marcus tries to escape his heartbreak, van gogh mentions, reader is college aged, dieter bravo exists in this universe

A/N: This was written for @baronessvonglitter's Fuck-tober birthday celebration. I was assigned Marcus Pike and "Do You Wanna Touch Me" by Joan Jett. Happy birthday Adriana!!! 💕

Here are the songs I refer to in the fic: “Do You Wanna Touch Me” by Joan Jett “Bed Chem” by Sabrina Carpenter “Streets” by Doja Cat “God Is A Woman” by Ariana Grande “Cinema” by Harry Styles “The Night Me and Your Mama Met” by Childish Gambino Masterlist

---

Marcus doesn’t do things like this. He’s a good man, a good son, a good brother, a good friend, and most of all, a good agent. And yet, he still walks down the cobblestone street that’s bathed in red lights.

LIVE SEX SHOW SEX TOYS SEX PALACE HIGH TIMES

What in the world is he doing here? Curiosity, loneliness, being so fucking horny he can’t focus on the case ahead. You’re a good man he tells himself as he ventures deeper into the crimson alleys, the shadow of shame following closely behind him.

“Hey handsome. Today’s your lucky day.” A blonde man winks, handing him a gilded envelope. “You’re invited to Galerij.”

Marcus blinks down at the golden envelope, looking up to find the blonde stranger already gone from his sight. He opens the envelope, revealing a simple invitation with gold embossed text.

Galerij, Amsterdam’s hottest art pieces. €400

He’s a damn FBI agent, and yet he’s too intrigued and desperate for a distraction to say no. He should know better, his badge weighs heavily in his pocket. He plugs the address into his phone with a sigh and makes the quick walk to the address listed, silently atoning for his sins as he passes the Oude Kerk church. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with any of the police officers situated, they might sense his shame.

“You’ve arrived at your destination,” the robotic voice intones. He looks up at the plain brick row home that stands out amongst the surrounding buildings covered in neon lights with windows full of girls in different levels of undress.

A small gold sign hangs above the unassuming black door. GALERIJ

He inhales deeply and pushes the door open. A bell jingles. Inside, an older looking woman with slicked-back blonde hair and a sharp black suit sits behind a desk.

“Nederlands or English?” she asks, her tone clipped.

“English,” he answers, his throat tight. “Please.”

“Invitation?”

“Oh, uh, here,” he hands her the invitation.

Without any more acknowledgment, she gestures to a black leather chair near an intricately carved golden door. “Please take a seat.”

A bit of trepidation blooms within him as he sits down, but when he looks around, he realizes that this isn’t some seedy back-alley brothel. It can’t be that bad if the walls are covered in mahogany and the floor is marble.

The woman makes a quick phone call, speaking in a hushed voice. His palms grow sweaty. What the hell is he doing? This was supposed to be a quick exploration of something that’s always fascinated him… legal vices. Yet now, he's gripping the armrests as the same stern woman brings over a clipboard and card machine.

“Cash or charge?”

“Oh, cash?” he replies quickly, fumbling for his wallet. There’s no way he’s going to use a credit card around here, too many chances of his secret adventure getting revealed on a statement.

“400 euros.”

He opens his wallet and unfolds his money. 100, what are you doing? 200, what are you doing? 300, Marcus, seriously, what are you doing? 350, no seriously what are you doing? 400, damn, you’re really doing it.

Stern woman takes the money and hands him a gold pin with a simple G etched onto it. She hits a small gold bell on her desk, a singular ring sharply echoes across the small room.

He pins the pin to his chest, reminding him of all the times he used to pin the old Met Museum badge to his lapel when he was a young college student in New York. This is so much more different than that, he reminds himself.

The golden door opens after a moment.

A beautiful older woman in a dark burgundy skirt and matching jacket walks out with a smile lifting her dark red lips.

“Welcome to Galerij. I am Maud, the curator.” she greets, offering her hand. “What would you like us to call you here?”

He rises and shakes her hand.

Can’t do Marcus, can’t do Pike, can’t do Agent. He thinks of that one actor everyone tells him he looks like. “Uh–Bravo.”

“Very well, Bravo,” she opens the door, moving aside allowing him to walk through. “Welcome to Galerij.”

He steps into a stark white room. The floor is shiny concrete, a singular white table with two white wishbone chairs sit in the middle of the room, a stark contrast to the entrance room on the other side of the wall. Not exactly what he was expecting. The agent in him can’t help but think this would be a perfect place to kill somebody.

Maud motions for him to sit across from her. “Here you will make your decision on what piece you’d like. Gay or straight?”

He sits down, her question is a reminder as to why he’s really here. “Straight,” he answers, his nerves beginning to creep around him.

She nods. “All of our pieces are tested, clean, and practice safe sex. Your piece will tell you what they will and won’t do once you make your choice. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will have twenty minutes, your time will start once you enter your gallery. A bell will ring every five minutes, your final bell will ring twice symbolizing your last five minutes. Do not be late. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Of course no photos or recordings. We ask you to not even have your phone out. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready?” she asks with a smile on her face.

“I am,” he answers. His heart is pounding.

She nods and presses a button, a shrill buzz echoes through the room. A hidden door opens and a large muscle and tattoo clad man with buzzed black hair and a nose ring walks out carrying a red velvet-covered book. He hands it to Maud, before standing behind her like a silent guardian.

His heart races faster than he ever thought it could when she opens the book and pushes it towards him.

GALERIJ with the day's date is stamped on the thick page.

His fingers tremble as he flips to the first page revealing a photo of an olive skinned and brown haired woman clad in dark blue lingerie with delicate yellow stars embroidered all over it lying on top of swirled silky blue sheets. She’s absolutely stunning.

“This is The Starry Night.”

He nods, turning the page.

A pale skinned, petite woman with shockingly white blonde hair wears a light blue bra and lace panties while laying atop white flower petals. She’s just as beautiful as the first woman.

“This is Almond Blossom.”

He turns the page.

A dark skinned, dark haired woman sits against a yellow wall wearing two sunflower blooms over her ample chest. Her smile is wide, just like her eyes lined with bright gold glitter. She’s gorgeous

“This is Sunflowers.”

They all look like they just walked off the runway, all beautiful and alluring. He wonders what–or who–the next piece will be. He smiles to himself when he realizes they’re all named after Van Gogh. Of course he’d find himself in an art themed brothel… he just can’t escape work.

“Before you see my fourth piece, please know she’s a little different. You cannot touch her, only watch. Don’t let that sway your decision, she is our most popular piece.”

He braces himself as he turns the page.

He loses his breath when he sees you. There you are, sitting cross-legged against the same color wall as Sunflowers. He can just see a glimpse of your nipples under your sheer indigo bra. Your green lined eyes leer at the camera. He thanks all the stars in Starry Night for his chance to even get a look at you. He’s lost in time at how your skin glows against the golden wall.

“Wow,” he breathes out.

“I believe you made your decision,” Maud says with a knowing smile. “This is Irises.”

“Yes,” Marcus swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Irises please.”

She nods and closes the book. “Pieter, let Irises know.”

“Okay Bravo,” Maud says with a smile and stands. “Pieter will come and get you when Irises is ready. Please do enjoy my gallery.”

“Thank you Maud,” he says, wiping his sweaty hands against the fabric of his jeans.

The fading sound of Maud and Pieter’s steps and a door closing leaves him all alone in the sparse room.

He hopes he looks good enough for you. His dark blue jeans are presentable enough, his plain gray v neck is clean, he thanks himself for spritzing himself with a dash of cologne before leaving his hotel. He knows he paid the equivalent of close to $450 for you to like him, but he still wants to impress you.

He checks his watch, five minutes have passed. He’s too afraid to bring his phone out, so he just stares forward, nervously tapping his foot.

This wasn’t his plan at all, he was just going to explore and sightsee, nothing more. No drugs, no sex, just curiosity.

The door opens. Pieter appears.

“Irises is ready,” he announces, his accent thick. “Follow me.”

He tentatively trails Pieter through the door walking down a hallway lined with doors. Ornate golden frames hang with Van Gogh pieces in each one. They reach the door with Irises hung next to it.

“Twenty minutes,” Pieter says flatly, opening the door. “Sit in the chair. Do not touch. You watch.”

Marcus nods, his heart slamming against his chest. His knees almost buckle as he steps inside the room.

It’s dark, save for a single spotlight shining down on a small stage, a lone purple velvet high back chair sits waiting for him in the middle of it. His shaky legs take him up the three steps before he lowers into it, hands clenching the wide armrests, trying to control his breathing.

He shouldn't be here–-he knows that. It’s too late for regrets now.

The click-clack of your heels echoes through the room when you step onto the stage. He’s too nervous to turn his head to see you. His body tenses, anticipation coiling all of his muscles tight. When you finally step in front of him, he has to remind himself to breathe.

You’re beautiful, the light catches on the sheer fabric of your dress. He can just make out the curves of your body, naked under light lavender chiffon. Your eyes are lined with deep purple eyeliner, ending into a cat eye at the corners. Your ruby red lips curl up into a knowing smile, almost as if you can see his desire for you.

Four thousand miles away from home and he’s just found the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. His cock begins to thicken, the shame of his paid for voyeurism adventure dissolving from his mind. You’re finer than any masterpiece he’s ever had to investigate.

“Hi Bravo,” you purr, your voice smooth and teasing, “Do you wanna touch me?”

He nods and coughs nervously. “Y-yes. But, I can’t.”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across your lips. “Good boy.”

His back tightens, a wave of heat flows down his spine and settles in his lap. For too long he’s disallowed himself from feeling this type of pleasure. Too busy, too sad, too heartbroken. What led him here feels like a blur. An exchange of glances, a subtle wink, an invitation. The black door, €400 out of his wallet, a white room, an open red velvet book, the long hallway, Irises. He allows himself to enjoy the experience just as you send him a wink.

You’re like his own little gallery show standing in front of him. A piece of art he doesn’t just want to see–but memorize.

—

You’ve only been doing this for a few months now. It really is the perfect side hustle to support yourself while finishing your art degree. You’ve been enamored with Van Gogh’s art since you were a child, a lifelong dream realized when you were accepted into the student exchange program at the University of Amsterdam. You made it possible, and now, working two nights a week in between coursework, you're making more than most of your friends earn in an entire week. Of course, only a select few know what you really mean when you say you work at a very exclusive gallery.

It’s a good job. Maud takes good care of you, vetting those who enter her establishment with her keen client recruiters on the streets. Pieter is always a buzz away, though you’ve never felt danger. Everyone needs an escape, some just agree to pay a premium for it. They call it the oldest profession for a reason.

Bravo. He’s your last customer tonight, and they sure did save the best for last. You watched him approach on the security camera, a smile formed when you noticed how much he resembled your favorite actor, you had plans for him. His wide shoulders, broad body, thin beard, and perfect head of hair almost made you think it was him, if it wasn’t for his eyes flickering around the room nervously. There’s no way Dieter Bravo would be anxious in this type of situation.

You press play on the stereo. A quick drumbeat starts, your steps keep tempo with it as you come back to stand in front of your client.

Turning around and bending over, your hips dance to the beat of the song as your hands roam along your curves, lifting your dress to give him a peek of your thighs and ass. A low groan rumbles behind you.

“Do you like what you see?” you ask, slowly turning to face him, moving your hands up and down your body.

“Y-yes,” he stammers, his nervous eyes wide and plush lips parted.

Those same nervous eyes watch as you bunch the fabric of your dress up and take it off, tossing it aside. He eyes you, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes exploring all of you like you’re a painting hanging in a gallery.

You cup your breasts, feeling the velvety warmth of your skin beneath your fingers as the purple of your nail polish brushes against your hardened nipples. Slowly you tilt your head down and let a trail of spit fall to one nipple.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask, pinching and pulling the sensitive peaks of your nipples. “Mmph–mmhmm,” he groans, nervously shuffling in his seat.

Bending forward and placing your hands on his knees gives him the perfect view of your breasts. A long sigh comes from him, his eyes planted on your tits. You like what you’re doing to him, you never start your dances off this close to a client, but you can’t resist him.

When your hands trail up to his thick thighs, the bulge of his pants makes your mouth water, tempting you to move towards it. Not yet.

Leaning closer, you nuzzle against the warmth of his neck. He smells delicious… like eucalyptus and maple syrup. His quickening breaths puff out against your hair. You taste his skin with your tongue, licking your way up to his ear.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask along with the song.

“Y-yeah,” he stutters.

Pulling away, you wink before turning your back to him and delicately sit atop his lap. Sinking down against his broad chest, the heat radiating off him burns hot against your back. The song changes just as you feel the poke of his erection against your ass.

A poppy beat soundtracks your movements as you grind yourself against the heft of him, falling back, placing your head against his wide chest. Reaching back, your hands tangle in his soft hair, humming sweetly along to the sound, letting a few lyrics slip out of your mouth.

“I bet you we’d really have good bed chem”

Your client follows directions very well, staying perfectly still, gripping the armrests so hard the golden skin around his knuckles turn white. You rub yourself against the rough fabric of his jeans, getting off on the quiet whimpers he leaves in your ear.

RING. The fifteen minute bell rings.

“And I bet it’s even better than in my head”

You rise off his lap and bend over clasping your hands around your ankles, giving him the perfect view of your ass and dripping core. The song fades out, a deeper, sultrier drumbeat begins.

“Like you, like you, ooh, I found it hard to find someone like you”

Your body gently sways along to the slow, sultry beat, and when you flip your head back to glance at him, he lets a low groan out. Placing your hands on the floor, you walk them out ahead of you before you’re on all fours, spreading your legs wide to show him even more of your glistening pussy.

“Do you wanna touch me?” you ask, settling on your stomach, snaking a hand between your wide spread legs.

“Y-yes,” he huffs.

“I know you do Bravo,” you tilt your hips up hovering them above the ground, “let me show you how I like it.”

Your middle finger enters your soaked entrance as your thumb gently dusts light circles against your clit. Your hips move in beat to the heavy rhythm of the song.

“Oh god,” he pants, when you stick another finger in, the chair creaking underneath his tensity.

RING. The ten minute bell rings.

Choreography, that’s the business term for what you’re doing. It’s all timed out, you hear these songs at least ten times every work day. Though you never sit on your clients as close as you did with Bravo, you never taste their skin like you did with Bravo. He deserves more than the same memorized steps, something better than the repetition you offer all of the others.

The song changes, signaling you to start your new routine, you ignore the cue, rolling onto your back, arching slightly, your eyes meet his. His hands remain clamped on to the armrests, fingers digging into the velvet. He’s trembling with restraint, beads of sweat glistening on his skin. His erection swells, the tight fabric of his pants tenting.

“Do you wanna touch me Bravo?”

“I do,” he whines, the lines of his neck straining as his head thuds against the back of the chair.

“Okay, okay baby,” you sit up, turning to crawl towards him. Your eyes don’t leave his.

“And I can be all the things you told me not to be

When you try to come for me, I keep on flourishing”

Kneeling on your knees in front of him, you unlock one of his clutched hands, moving it to the soft skin of your breast.

“N-no touching I thought,” he stammers, his hand laying flat against your skin.

“I make my own rules, it’s okay Bravo,” you allow, grabbing his other hand and placing it on you.

He groans when he cups your breasts in his hands. You watch the tendons of his strong hand tense and release as he cups your breasts and massages them in his hold. He’s mesmerized by his movements, like he can’t believe you’re allowing him to touch you.

Your hand teases its way up his leg to the warmth of the apex of his thighs before gripping him, thick and hard underneath the constraints of his jeans.

“Oh fuck,” he growls. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so beautiful.”

His words of adoration fall out of his mouth, eyes still locked on your tits covered by his hands.

You unbuckle his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans as the choir sings God is a woman.

The song changes.

“You got, you got the cinema”

Your eyes light at the sight of his cock, standing tall and thick, precum leaking from the engorged tip. It’s just as beautiful and wide as the rest of your client.

Bravo lets out a garbled groan when you wrap your hand around his length, slowly pumping him along to the song. Up, down, up, down, the sexy beat soundtracking your movements.

RING. RING. The five minute bell rings. Your client doesn’t seem to heed the warning, only focusing on his thumbs swiping back and forth against the peaks of your nipples and your hand stroking the smooth silk of his cock.

“Touch me Bravo,” you rise, lifting a foot up on the armrest, keeping hold of his pulsing dick in your hand. “Give me two of your fingers.”

His eyes gaze down to your dripping cunt, watching himself as his hand sweeps down your body before parting your folds.

You got, you got the cinema

Your hips undulate to the tempo of the song as he sticks two of his long, thick fingers into your heat.

“God damn,” he mutters incredulously, “you’re so wet.”

The song changes.

A steady and slow funky guitar plays along with a soulful choir. It’s soft and romantic, exactly what you like to close down your shows with. You’ve never ended a show like this, your hand wrapped around your client’s wide cock, and your pussy clenching around two of his thick fingers. His thumb begins sweeping back and forth against your clit, he may have found himself at a brothel in Amsterdam, but your client has done this before. Perfect movements, perfect angle, you stare down in reverie at the focus he holds, watching himself touch you. His adoration of your body heats your core, lighting an orgasm just as beautiful as the song that plays.

“Fuck baby,” you pant, “I’m gonna cum.”

He blinks up to you, brown eyes staring intensely into yours when you bite your lip and send a gush of wet against his fingers. Your legs turn shaky, as your clit pulses against his thumb that blesses your sensitive bub with just the right amount of pressure. Moving his hand from between your thighs, he holds it up, marveling at the sight of your juices shining against his skin. You send him a smile as your leg drops to the floor, the rest of your body following, kneeling in front of him. He still stares at his hand, watching the strings of your orgasm stretch across his widely spread fingers.

“Smear it on your cock for me,” you say, planting both hands on his thighs.

He groans and nods before rubbing the remnants of your orgasm on his shaft. He shouts an indistinguishable sound when you lick a line up to his tip, tasting yourself and the salty tang of his precum. Your lips envelop the fat tip of him, sucking and slobbering your way down the thick length of him.

The song ends, the playlist repeats. The same quick drumbeat of the first song plays loudly.

You suck him to the beat, flicking your tongue against his tip with each “YEAH!” of the song.

RING. RING. RING. The final bells ring, signaling that your client should have left by now.

Bravo locks up. Your mouth unclasps from his cock.

“It’s okay,” you assure, “we have a word for–”

A heavy knock lands against the door.

“Driehoek (triangle) Pieter! I’m good in here, thanks!”

Three rapid knocks–softer now–signal Pieter’s departure.

“You guys really have it all fig–oh god,” he moans, when you take his cock back into your mouth.

His strong legs shake against your body as your cheeks hollow, taking him into your mouth faster and harder, his hips thrusting up to meet your mouth. Drool leaks out of the sides of your mouth, your eyes stare up at him blinking back tears as he reaches the back of your throat. You don’t know if he’s ever allowed himself this much freedom, it feels like you’ve unlocked something deep within him with the way he’s snarling and grunting “Irises” over and over.

“G-gonna–yeah–yeah–cum,” he gasps, hips stuttering and chair creaking as he spills into your accepting mouth.

Bravo, client. Bravo.

—

He can’t believe he just did that. He just–he–he just– came in the mouth of a complete stranger–nay–a prostitute. You told him you’ve never done something like that with a client as you tossed him a towel… and the funny thing is he actually believes you.

You shuffle back into the see through lilac dress as he zips his jeans back up. You really are the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, even if your purple eyeliner is now streaked from the tears that sprung in your eyes from gagging on his cock. Wow, that did just happen.

You leave a kiss against his cheek and open the door for him. Pieter escorts him out the back entrance with a knowing smile.

He walks back to his hotel, a new man with a clearer mind. Marcus really doesn’t feel the shame he expected he would. He knows a fine piece of art, and you just might be the finest he’s ever seen.

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