Gypsies, tramps, and thieves

“Gypsies, tramps, and thieves”


Phoebus/Clopin from Disney’s “The Hunchback of Notre Dame”

Title inspired by a song by Cher

[ Oral sex, the concept of prostitution, Male/Male relationship ]

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Clopin had been called a plethora of unfavorable names his entire life;

Gypsy? Certainly. Tramp? Undeniable, but thief? That is one thing he was not.

He, along with the rest of his gypsy brethren, had a hard enough time living in Paris as it was, what with the vicious rumors of the wicked nature of ‘their kind’ smogging the air in hushed whispers.

How were the gypsies ever to gain fair recognition among the population if enough of them lived up to their unfavorable titles? For the sake of his future and armed with a determination not to be seen as scum his entire life, Clopin did not contribute to the disdainful acts of robbery.

Instead, he worked hard for an honest pay. By day, he collected his coins from the children as they skipped, readily brandishing their loot to see another exciting adventure in the Gypsy’s puppet theatre and hear another captivating tale.

By night, he earned his coins in a rather different way.

“You shouldn’t make yourself so obvious so late.” The soldier advises as he approaches the street performer, who is only too noticeable clad garishly in his typical purple attire.

Clopin leans confidently and unmoving against the alley wall, raising an eyebrow which peaks over the brow of his mask. His arms are crossed challengingly and a small smile perks at the corners of his lips. The solider clarifies,

“I don’t suspect you’re doing anything wrong, but I wouldn’t expect the other guards to assume the best in you. They’ve deemed any gypsy at night to be ‘up to something.’”

This soldier is different than the rest and it peaks Clopin’s interest right away. Perhaps he may get some enjoyment out of this, after all.

“Who is to say I am not?” Clopin offers with a rather daring inflection. This was always the hardest part, coaxing them in.

“Please don’t give me a reason to arrest you, that’s not why I came down here.”

“Then why are you here?”

The gypsy asks, shifting his weight off of the wall and slinking towards the blonde man, arms still folded.

“Just making my way home.”

Clopin both loved and hated this part of the game; it was like playing with fire: if he said the wrong words to the wrong soldier, he could loose his life. On the other hand, if he said the right words to the right man, he’d gain both a returning customer and a regular source of income. That was a risk he had to take.

“Alone?” He inquires, walking next to the man who has continued his journey down the dark path, the cobblestone road flickering with the orange glow from the candlelight streetlamps.

“Obviously.”

“Then perhaps it is not my safety you should be concerned with.”

“If you’re going to rob me I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed to find I’m not carrying any gold," The soldier says rather bluntly with an unfazed smile, trekking onward.

“I am no thief!” Clopin snarls, sharply turning his head to face the guard, fists clenching at the very thought of the implication. However, he recollects his composure and tries again in a gentler voice,

“I was merely stating there are a lot of interesting folk that come out at this hour. Unholy folk. Scammers, dealers…prostitutes.”

He can tell that he soldier is listening, but wonders if he understands. He presses onward,

“Think of it, right under the nose of Notre Dame herself! One might think it inexcusably despicable…unless they stopped to consider that such lifestyles may be one’s only way to earn a living.”

The blonde looks over, his narrowed gaze and thinly pursed lips reveal that the message has, indeed, been received. This was the first time that Clopin had ever come close to playing the sympathy card, but he was able to read his audience well—this guard was different. And it was not as if he had told a lie; the performer’s words were entirely genuine.

Clopin notices that they have stopped before a door, having arrived at the blonde’s home. He waits until the man he has been accompanying gives a long sigh and holds open the door to him.

Whether out of pity or the charm of seduction, the gypsy has been let in. His advances have been a success. The soldier lights a few candles in the dark abode before he searches through a drawer, returning to his guest with a small sack of valuable metal,

“I don’t need your services, just take it.”

“I’m not a charity case. I will work for it.” Clopin explains, a bit insulted.

“Don’t be stubborn. Gold is gold.”

“And work is work! If you gave out gold to every gypsy for nothing in return, then you’d be the one in the poor house and the lazy would rule Paris. I do my best not to associate with those who expect pay without contribution to society. Not all of us are thieves.”

“So, those who are not thieves are whores?”

“Work is work.” Clopin repeats.

A difficult situation it was for the blonde soldier, but he truthfully did desire to help the performer and did agree with his philosophies. Perhaps it was alright to indulge in sin just this once, for a good cause. Shrouded in a curtain of night, they’d be hid well from the eyes of the cathedral.

The defeated soldier awkwardly fingers the pull string of the coin purse,

“So, do I pay you before or after—“

“After, love. I trust you’re an honest man.”

Despite being new to the house, Clopin leads his customer instinctively to the correct door: the bedroom.

There is silence for a while as heavy golden armor is shucked off, revealing humble cotton clothes beneath. The gypsy tries to fill the quiet air and put the man at ease,

“Tell me your name, we should be personable.”

“Phoebus. Don’t tell me yours. If this business ever gets you into trouble, I don’t want to have to lie if I’m ever asked if I knew you.”

“Smart man; but you’ll find gypsies are pretty good at avoiding trouble. We only find it when we seek it.”

The sentence finishes with Clopin closing the space between their lips. The kiss is purposefully chaste because he can tell such an honorable man is new to such forwardness and is understandably apprehensive—but he knows kisses are not what Phoebus is paying for—it was mainly just to shock him into submission.

It works.

Clopin pushes down gently on Phoebus’ shoulders to make him sit on the edge of the bed and the man, still stunned from the kiss, is only too compliant to do so.

The performer’s gaudy feathered hat is removed, but the mask remains. He had a feeling Phoebus would have preferred him to keep it on anyway, as a deliberate effort not to light any candles in the room was made.

He falls to his knees. This is something he’d done only too many times.

Unfortunately his poverty did not allow him the luxury to choose solely customers that ‘interested’ him—he’d been involved in numerous business trips that brought him no pleasure whatsoever, pressing onward with only the reward of gold in mind. Males, females, soldiers, commoners, everyone and anyone who was willing to pay for his services was welcome to.

That is why Clopin cherishes this moment, because it is one of the rare times in which he is actually enjoying the man he is pleasuring.

He rubs Phoebus through the fabric, just enough until he can feel him begin to arouse, before parting the folds of his trousers and exposing him to the cool air of the dark room.

The man has been well blessed and Clopin surprises himself at just how eager he is to get his lips around him—but he vows to start out slow and give him the best service possible.

He kisses the base of the shaft, nuzzling up and down, ghosting his lips over the heated, stretched flesh of the now-fully-erect cock. But, eventually, the kisses become more than a ghost, more than a fleeting sensation as the gypsy flicks his tongue out to lap the entirety of the erection.

To quell the slow torture of the teasing licks, Clopin wraps a comforting hand around the body of Phoebus’ member, giving it a few, consistent squeezes to inform the solider that he would give him full relief in a moment, silently suggesting patience in the meantime.

The customer is only too grateful that the darkness lends itself as his own mask, afraid to stare and seem rude, or openly display how indescribably wonderful this felt and melt from embarrassment. For now, he tries to suppress both his voice and ecstasy, kneading fistfuls of bed sheets in his sweaty palms.

Clopin loves the man’s cock with his mouth, tilting his head to suck upon it long ways, flattening his tongue to the underside of it and sliding along the length as if it were an instrument. When he rubs a sly finger over the slit and hears Phoebus give a sharp hiss, he knows he is finally ready.

Running a tongue upwards along the vein all the way to the tip, Clopin stops when he reaches the head. Precum is already beading in clear globes, threatening to spill down the shaft but the gypsy greedily swallows them up before they have the chance.

After abusing the too-sensitive slit a bit more with a bit of pressure from his curious tongue, Clopin circles the crown, regularly sipping at the persistent drops of fluid. Then, at last, the gypsy decides he likes the man too much to torture him any further and swallows him down completely.

Phoebus’ hips give an instinctive buck and, despite all his resistive efforts, a hearty moan escapes him. His hands move to twine into the straight, black hair.

The man’s desperate, wordless noise of encouragement fuels Clopin onward and he decides to really impress him now. Years of practice have taught the gypsy to calm his gag reflex and he tries to relax the back of his throat.

He bobs once for preparation, gulping half of him down. Twice to be sure, still, just half, and on the third try, Clopin fully and professionally deep throats the man, nose pressing into the soft golden curls.

It is all Phoebus can do to keep from holding the gypsy’s head steady and shamelessly fuck his mouth. Instead, he trusts that Clopin will take care of him and resists every urge he has to thrust upward.

The prostitute does not disappoint and draws in his cheeks as he sucks the blonde down entirely each time. His hands are put to other use as he fondles the man’s sac with one and rubs his inner thigh with the other.

Phoebus can feel the pressure swell as Clopin bobs faster and sucks harder. Attempting to keep his manners he warms him,

“Agh—If you don’t want to swallow, now’s a good time to stop!”

But, again, Clopin is insulted. Even the most inexperienced prostitutes knew that spitting was both unprofessional and insulting to the customer. Swallowing was a must in Clopin’s book and, for once, he was enthusiastic to indulge in all that his customer could give him.

Tightening his fists into the gypsy’s raven hair, Phoebus arches forward and gives a cry. Clopin, fully prepared, draws upon him harder to literally milk the pleasure out of him.

There is no possible way of holding back at this point and, as Phoebus hits the very back of the gypsy’s throat, he bursts. Clopin, showing off, does not pull away before swallowing and, instead, guzzles it down consistently as it comes, esophagus convulsing to push it downward, making lovely, audible gulping sounds.

Clopin waits for Phoebus to finish and, even afterwards, gives a few more amiable sucks to make absolutely sure the soldier had spilled all that he had. Finally, the gypsy releases him without as much as a cough. He licks his teeth to display an empty mouth.

The soldier just now recovers from seeing white spots pop behind his eyelids. Dear God, that was incredible. He can’t manage any words, but nothing really needs to be said.

Recovering his hat and placing it atop his head, Clopin stands to his feet with a smirk that—were it visible in the darkness—would have revealed just how very satisfied he was with himself.
He lingers and Phoebus finally regains his motor skills and ability to form coherent sentences,

“Oh, right,” He stammers weakly, reaching over to his pouch of coins and rewarding the prostitute with all of it.

“You tip generously, monsieur,” Clopin says as he loosens the leather string of the bag to examine the glittering medallions.

“I reward good work where good work is done.” Phoebus replies, almost sheepishly.

“I am glad it was good for you, I quite enjoyed myself as well. I hope this will mean we get to do this again sometime.”

“I…might consider it, yes.” Definitely.

Clopin turns his back before the blonde can make note of the gypsy’s own hardening erection. If the truth were to be told, there was nothing the prostitute would have loved more than to have Phoebus shove him down and fuck him, free of goddamned charge.

But that could wait. It would give them both something to look forward to.

Meanwhile, he would have to take care of himself in an alley somewhere before making his way back out onto the streets.

“You’re going back out?”

Phoebus asks, fully concealed in his trousers as he follows Clopin to the door.

“Have to. The night is young.”

“It’s already so late.”

“For my business, it is young.”

The door is opened and the gypsy exists, but the solider stays, leaning against the door frame. Clopin takes a few steps, then murmurs over his shoulder,

“Until we meet again, I will count the seconds.” It is a horribly cliché line, dripping too-sweet with a stale romanticism, prompting Phoebus to quirk an eyebrow,

“I can’t tell if you’re interested in seeing me specifically, or just interested in the payment.”

“Both, love. Which is so much more than I can say for the rest of Paris who only apply to the latter,” Clopin gives a gentle smile, “Do you believe that?”

“I trust you’re an honest man.”


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The End