You ever notice how the nobility steal everything except our debt? So here's the latest. In the city-states down the coast—the rich ones, with the marble fountains and slave-operated harp quartets—there's this whole trend now. Pleasure-thrall chic. I'm not even joking.
Apparently, being half-naked and covered in ornamental chains is fashionable now. Oh yes. You've got these highborn virgins—well, "virgins"—trailing around their garden parties and sunlit rooftops dressed like they just escaped a very expensive brothel. Not that they've ever sucked cock for coin, gods no. They just like the aesthetic.
Of course, they don't actually say "I want to look like a harem slut." No. They say "inspired by Eastern exotic minimalism" or "post-sacral sensual elegance." What that means is: no clothes. Or barely any. A couple swirls of gold mesh over the nipples. Maybe a loin-wrap so sheer it qualifies as a rumor. And the jewelry—body chains, nipple chains, toe rings with sapphire clasps, anklets that jingle like they've got a bellboy inside.
And don't even get me started on the "sacred veil" look. That's the one where they wrap this floaty thing around their waist or shoulders. It's called diaphanous. I keep tripping on the word. Di-fan-ous? Diaphragm-something? Whatever. Looks like a priest's bedsheet got drunk and tried to do burlesque.
But the best part? Half these girls think they're being rebellious. Like, "Look at me, daddy, I'm so scandalous, I'm wearing the outfit the temple concubines used to wear when they were auctioned off for goat weight." Bitch, I was the goat weight.
And gods help me, it does look good. I just hate that they get applause for it, while I still get called "that chain-skank from Seebulba." Hypocrites. All of them.
Anyway. I'm stealing one of those veils next time we're in Delvida. I wanna see if the Dragon twitches.
You go to one of these fancy coastal orgies—and I mean proper ones, with wine fountains and ten kinds of fruit I can't pronounce—and you can't even tell who's a Duchess and who's a fuck thrall anymore.
Everyone's lounging around half-nude, glittering in body oil, wearing gold mesh and those tinkling chain harnesses like they were born in them. And I'm standing there thinking, wasn't this the outfit I got whipped in for sneezing during a ritual? But oh no, now it's "fashion."
The only way to tell who's who used to be the collar. Right? Collars mean owned. That was the rule. That was the line. And sure, they'd gild them, stick a ruby in front, maybe write "property of House D'What'sit" in sparkly script—but a collar was still a collar.
Until some preening tart—probably the Countess of Boredom—decides, ooh, what a bold statement, and starts wearing one for fun. Gods. Once that happened? Chaos. Suddenly everyone's got chokers on. "Oh, this? It's ornamental." Is it? Is it, though?
Next thing you know, half the noble girls are clinking and strutting around like they just escaped from Madam Zoobaya's holding pens, calling it "Temple Revival." Meanwhile, real thralls are being mistaken for party guests and getting offered wine and finger food.
Which, alright, fine—I may have accidentally spent an entire evening as someone's date because of it. Not my fault. I thought the oysters were for everyone.
But yeah. The lines are blurry now. Between silk and leash. Between "liberated" and "display model." Between fashion and branding. One big sweaty, perfumed mess.
And they say I have no class.
So yeah. One time—I still don't know whose villa it was, something marble, somewhere coastal, probably ended in -ia—I'm at this orgy, right? Pretending to be someone's bed thrall or cousin or whatever. And someone hands me a crop.
Just… hands it to me. All casual-like. Says, "It's your turn, darling."
I blink. I look down. It's the Duke's daughter on all fours, arse in the air, wearing nothing but gold mesh and anticipation. Everyone's watching. And I'm standing there thinking, well… when in Rome.
So I shrug, give her a little slap—testing the waters, you know?
She moans. Loud. Like theater moan. Like "slap me again, I've been a very naughty heir to a coastal province" kind of moan.
So I oblige. Couple more. A rhythm. Crop leaves these perfect little pink stripes on her lily-white noble ass. And she's panting, begging for more like she's auditioning for a priestess role at the Temple of the Bleeding Heart.
Honestly? It was fun. A bit of justice, a bit of theatre, and a lot of I cannot believe I'm doing this and getting away with it.
She kissed my ankle afterwards. Told me I had "divine control." I told her I once got flogged for stealing soup. She said "so did I." I think it was metaphorical. Rich girls are weird.
Anyway. That's when I learned I'm apparently really good with a crop. Who knew?