Lady of Chains

by Scottie Kaye

  She didn't understand the apology at first—but then she saw them, the prostitutes, lounging on every porch with one leg hanging out, with their breasts pushed up to the brink of escape. Several of them winked at her, making her blush. Cliff took care not to look at them, though one of them—a Soma girl with bright green eyes—called out to ask after his health.

  Her body warmed. In Olfact, prostitutes were secret things. They were either spurned and despised, or they were licensed and widows. It depended on wherever their virginity went. To hire one of the former group was reserved for low-class men only; but to hire a licensed "keeping woman" was common among the upper class. It was considered a sort of charity, since widows could not inherit their husbands' estates—and of course, no new man would want them. After all, they'd long been despoiled.

  But here, soldiers and commoners wandered about openly, or stood on porches while women fawned on them, aiming to be chosen. Peasant women walked the street, waving to friends and relatives on the porches, clearly not in the business themselves. Some of the prostitutes were even men, dressed so as to expose their bare chests while still covering their arms, their multiple layers of trousers clinging tight. And toward the end of the thoroughfare, she saw a man disguised as a woman—complete with a dress and a wig. Surely everyone can see through that? Lassyne asked herself. But if so, why did he have a line?

  Crazier still, as they drew closer to Loren's home, she saw the carriages of nobles parked in the streets outside two of the finer establishments. As she watched one of these brothels, a man in blue livery—clearly a noble's attendant—led three young women out of a door which shone in red enamel, and loaded them into the carriage.

  It was flagrant, so flagrant. It made her heart race.

  "Sorry," Cliff said again, as they finally swerved out of the district. "You're Olfact. You probably didn't want to see that."

  "It's quite alright," she replied. She paused. "Is that... legal?"

  He shrugged. "Yes? Why wouldn't it be?" He glanced back. "Wait. It's not legal in Olfact?"

  "Only for licensed widows."

  He shook his head as if amazed. "Then where do all the young boys get it?"

  She frowned. She'd had some experience with "young boys" back when she'd also been young. So she knew where they got some things. But it had never occurred to her that they might want more. After all, there was no stigma for them to contend with, no expectation for where they spent their first times.

  "But—why would men want them?" she asked. "They've been... around."

  Cliff snorted. "That's exactly why they want them," he said. "Any young maid can open her mouth. But only a professional can manage her tongue."

  They were approaching Loren's mansion now. She could tell it was his, even from a distance. Austere and hard, with two wings, both only wide enough for two rooms and a hall. A simple, angry shape. A protective shell.

  Only a professional can manage her tongue.

  "Sorry," Cliff said. He seemed to like that word. "I shouldn't have said that. You're not from here."

  "I don't mind," she assured him, as he stepped up to the mansion's gates. Olfactory iron, wrought in fine, choking vines. Loren had done well for himself.

  Far down a gravel path, the mansion door opened. It took the servant several minutes to reach them, his face expressionless as a flat pane of glass.

  "Yes?" he said.

  Lassyne expected Cliff to speak for her, but he didn't. He looked back, frowning.

  "Oh," she said, stepping closer. "My name is—it's Lassyne. I'm here to see the lieutenant general. He'll know me."

  The man stared at her. "Master is living in the palace. Indefinitely."

  Her face fell. "What?"

  "Master is not here, miss. And I do not know the date of his next visit. He only visits us on occasion."

  She glanced at the Soma castle, an ugly stone thing leering from behind the high palace walls. As she watched, her eyes widened. The very same carriage she had seen loaded up with prostitutes was currently trundling through the wide gates.

  "How do I see him?" she asked, although she already had a good idea.

  "You don't," the man said.

  "Hey now, Darrik, there's no need to be rude," Cliff said.

  "The lieutenant general does not 'see' commoners, Cliff Barren," the attendant replied.

  "That ain't what I heard," Cliff muttered, but before Darrik could speak, Cliff turned to Lassyne. "You could send a message—"

  "No," she said, her eyes on the closing gates. "No, that would take too long." Lassyne was fresh out of money, and without more, she didn't even have a place to stay. She nodded to Darrik. "Besides, he clearly would not pass the message." She could offer something in return for it, she knew, but she'd rather end her bargaining days with a high note rather than get on her knees for a sour-faced man who looked down on her. Lassyne might be a little bit free with her mouth, but she had standards, too.

  So she patted Cliff on the arm and said, "Thank you. I'll find another way. Until then, I have some family I can stay with. You can get back to your inn."

  He looked dubious, but at the sound of the phrase you can get back, his mouth formed a thin line. Whoever this customer was, he couldn't afford to disappoint him.

  "Alright, miss," he said. "But you come back to the Lotus, if you need anything."

  Lassyne nodded, then waited until he was gone before turning to Darrik. "So," she said, conversationally, "where does the lieutenant like to buy sex?"

  Twelve

  Lassyne stood before the madam of Mirage, the finest brothel in the city of Touch.

  "You look nice enough," the woman said. "But I don't normally hire virgins, especially ones who want to stay that way. Sen?"

  Sen was another word for magic. "I'm a truth mage," Lassyne replied.

  "What kind?"

  Lassyne considered this. She should probably lie. Her real ability was too strong, and it would stand out.

  "It only works on men," she said.

  "Any other limiters?"

  "Um. They have to want me."

  It was a bold misdirection. She'd never heard of a Sen working that way, but magic was strange. She'd heard of a limiter, once, where a man could only cast illusions if he believed they were real. And her brother could only get truth out of people if he gave up his own truth in exchange.

  The madam rubbed her chin, frowning at Lassyne's midsection as she leaned back in her chair. She was a Soma woman, with the cool brown skin and bright blue eyes the region was known for. Her gray hair was styled atop her head, swirling like a cluster of whirlpools.

  "Hired," she said.

  Lassyne blinked. "What?" This seemed far too easy. Surely the woman would want to test her out first? Let her ply her trade on a client?

  But what did it matter, so long as she worked here? If what Darrik had told her was true, Loren would be stopping by Mirage within the week. All she had to do was get in front of him, and Loren would recognize her in an instant. He'd spirit her away without a second thought, and she'd be able to make her propositions.

  And if she had to suck on a dozen men before Loren appeared, she would do so. She might want to be picky, but she had come all this way. She wouldn't be giving up now.

  "I said, you were hired," said the madam. "Go to the Blue Room. I already have a client in mind."

  Lassyne swallowed, then curtsied. The madam laughed.

  "We bow here," she said. "To the waist. Run along now." With that, she reached toward the wall behind her, where a glass tube had been built into the wall. She pulled a small glass door open in the side of it, but Lassyne knew better than to stare, so she bowed and left. The madam said nothing, so she must have bowed right.

  She found the Blue Room only two doors down the hallway. It was empty but for a deep indentation full of blue cushions. Three of the walls were painted to look like a vast body of water—but the third was made of clear glass, a curtain drawn across the other side. Curious and nervous
and a little claustrophobic, Lassyne stepped up to the glass wall near the corner where the curtain didn't quite close the gap.

  The other room was occupied.

  It was nothing like this one. Bare floor, bare walls, all in rigid stone tile, with nothing to decorate it except an iron ring in the center of the floor. The prostitute and her client stood near the ring. The man was smiling at the woman, their noses close as he stroked her sunbeam hair. She was a pureblood Audit, by the looks of it. As white as they come.

  He held a riding crop in one hand.

  She could hear nothing as the man kissed the woman. She leaned into him, her body curving upward so that her hips could grind into his. He ran the hand holding the crop down her back, and whispered into her ear.

  The woman nodded, and the man placed the riding crop between her teeth. He reached for his belt, but instead of removing it, he unclipped an object from it. Lassyne's hand rose to her mouth.

  Is that... a collar?

  The woman exposed her throat, and the man fastened the collar around it. A chain hung from the collar to his waist, and this he also removed, clipping the chain to the iron ring on the floor.

  He said something else, and the woman started to undo her buttons.

  Lassyne's vagina responded. She had never watched other people do anything like this before—the servants in the elevator was as close as she'd come. Trying to keep out of sight of the couple, she worked a few buttons free at her own waist, and slipped her hand inside. Her mind always felt clearer, her body more relaxed, after she was done pleasing herself. It would make her do a better job with her very first client.

  The man—dark-skinned, part Gustatory but clearly not a pureblood—pushed the dress off the woman's pale shoulders. He took the crop out of her mouth and trailed it down between her breasts.

  He spoke, and she sank to her knees.

  Lassyne's fingers found her sex ready and wet, but she went slow, avoiding her clitoris and massaging her hot center. The man exposed his penis without even lowering his pants. He had a long one, and it poked out sideways. He raised the woman's chain in his fist, and tugged her forward.

  The prostitute obeyed him, her white mouth on black skin. She went slowly as he trailed the crop down her bare back, as if she enjoyed the flavor of him. Lassyne fell for a few minutes into their rhythm, her fingers pulsing in time to the other woman's hungry mouth.

  Then, the man tugged harder. The woman went faster. He gripped her by her head, and forced her to speed up.

  Lassyne wasn't sure at first if she liked this. Her fingers stalled, her orgasm like a gathering storm in the distance.

  Angry now, the man ripped the woman's head away from his penis and shoved her to the floor. He shouted something, swung the crop across her arm. She flinched.

  Shakily, the woman undid more buttons.

  What did she expect? Lassyne thought. She let him chain her to the floor. She wondered if she should call the madam.

  "Ah. Voyeurism. I like it."

  Lassyne whirled. She hadn't heard the door open, yet a man stood behind her, his feet near the edge of the pool of blue cushions, not a full pace away. He was taller than her, strong-looking, in a black uniform she didn't recognize. Tawny skin, part-Audit. Silver eyes.

  He gestured with a hand. "Please. There's no need to stop on my account." His gaze dropped to the slot she'd unbuttoned in her dress, and he stepped closer. "In fact, I'd be happy to help...."

  Lassyne didn't have time to gather herself as he closed her into the corner between the ocean-painted wall and the glass. His palms graced her hips, his eyes sinking into hers.

  She realized he looked vaguely familiar.

  Moments passed. His smile faltered. He raised an eyebrow.

  "Oh," she said, remembering. She was a prostitute now, for the time being anyway, until Loren came to call. Just a temporary position using the only real skill she had, to make some coin while she waited to nab him.

  "Um." She reached for his belt, feeling suddenly lucky. He was handsome—very much so. She'd expected some old fart or some sweaty soldier. That's what the stories always said about whores.

  "You're not going to ask for my consent first?" he said, smiling again. He had noticed her discomfort, and he found it amusing.

  She had never heard of such a thing. "Sorry," she said. "Do I have your consent?"

  "You do."

  Lassyne continued to work on his belt. It was thick leather, black as the rest of his clothes. I know him from somewhere. Why can't I remember?

  "And I don't have your consent, right?" he said. "You're a virgin, and you're keeping it that way?"

  She nodded, glad the madam had passed the word.

  "Why?" he said, as she ran her hands along his hips in order to tug down his trousers. He touched her wrist. "Turn around, Lassyne. Tell me why."

  She paused, unsure. Was he going to try something? Didn't rape often happen from behind?

  He'd have to get my dress up first, she thought. I'd notice that. But the thoughts themselves were scaring her. What was she even doing here? This was a bad idea. She knew so little about this country, its rules. What was consent, anyway? What rights did she have? Wasn't she supposed to sign some sort of contract?

  He tugged on her, and she turned.

  The woman in the next room was naked now, on her hands and knees. Her client was spanking her with the crop, her mouth opening with each strike. Her face twisted with a very real pain—but Lassyne saw pleasure there, too.

  "Not my kink," Lassyne's client whispered into her ear. He made a fist at both her hips, pulling her dress up and gathering it. "Do you like it?" he asked.

  She tensed and tried to turn back, but his arms held her in place. "Don't," was all she could say.

  "Let me please you," he whispered, though he'd stopped lifting her dress. "I'll follow your golden rule. I promise."

  With that, his hands wandered under the layers of her skirts, riding up the insides of her thighs. She understood what he meant then. He would touch her.

  She looked back at the other couple. The man was crouching behind the woman. Petting her, like she was a dog.

  "I—I consent," Lassyne managed. "To the touching, I mean."

  Her client licked the inside of her ear, breathing into the wet spot. Then he slipped one hand into her panties and stroked her.

  She had never been touched like this before—not by anyone but herself. The novelty of it was enough to make her gasp, to melt around him, even though he, too, had not yet touched her clit.

  "Watch," he said.

  She did so. Through the thin gap between the curtain and the wall, she could see the man running a hand down his own penis, and then inserting it between the woman's butt cheeks. He raised the chain again, pulling on it as he pushed into her. Both of their heads went back in pleasure, and he started to thrust.

  Her client matched their sudden, frenetic pacing with his fingers, and when the man started to whip the woman again, Lassyne's own client sank his teeth in her neck. She groaned as his fingers raged mercilessly inside her. Beyond the glass, the other people were animals.

  "Tell me why you're here," her client rumbled, "and I'll make you come harder than you ever have in your life."

  Could that really be her client—her lover—speaking? The words seemed to come from some other world.

  "I love—someone," she said. The words barely had substance.

  "Who?"

  Lassyne told him.

  "All this way?" he said. "For Loren Stone?"

  "Yes."

  "And you're here because you think he'll find you in this place?"

  Her voice rose. Oh gods. "Yes—"

  "I can get you closer to him. Much closer."

  "Yes—"

  "And I can make you a whole lot more money."

  "Whatever you want," she exclaimed, pressing her palms to the glass now. He was nearly lifting her off the ground with the force of his hand, his fingers angry and forceful and raw....


  Beyond the glass, the man was fucking his whore, her head pulled to his chin by the chain. They were free-standing now, and her throat worked as if she could not breathe. They rocked together, both faces tight with pleasure. But it wasn't the man Lassyne stared at. She could barely tear her eyes off the woman.

  "I want your mouth," her own client whispered. His tongue swept through her ear, making her quiver. "But we'll have to save that for later...."

  With that, he finished her. All he had to do was put pressure on her clitoris. Just a press of his palm, and she melted into shudders. He kept his fingers inside her, the walls of her vagina undulating around them as his hands simultaneously pulled her closer. She felt his erection, a large one, and if he had asked in that moment, she would have given him everything.

  Only when her shivers were over did Lassyne realize what he had said. She turned to face him, to meet that silver gaze.

  And then she recognized him. "Jaen. You're Jaen Portent."

  Thirteen

  He laughed. "No. But you're close."

  "Don't lie to me!" she cried, shoving back from him. His hand made its exit, her skirts falling. She suddenly felt very crowded, closed in.

  He backed away. "No. I just look like him. I'm Jorr, his brother. His twin."

  Lassyne frowned. She knew Jaen from some of her father's dinners and meetings. The Housemaster of the Guard of all Soma. He had always scared her halfway to death, the way he looked at things, always as if he wanted to skin them.

  But she had never heard that the man had a brother. No. This must be a trick.

  The supposed "Jorr" raised both his hands. "You wouldn't know me. I'm the Housemaster of Thorns." He smiled. "That means I'm a spy."

  Her mind flashed blank at this, and in that moment of sudden emptiness, she realized something.

  "You—you know who I am."

  After all, he'd been using her name. Turn around, Lassyne. Tell me why.

  He nodded. "Yes. I've been keeping tabs on you for some time now."

  She frowned. "What the five hells does that mean?"