It was the humming that worried me.
Not the guards, not the sheer absurdity of my post-orgasmic sprint being cut short by a rain of armored goons, not even the fact that I was still dripping from at least three or four different sources. No. It was the humming. The rich, twinkling little melody being piped through a nobleman's puckered lips as he led me—shackled, barefoot, and half-glowing from my earlier debasement—through the upper levels of the prison.
His hips had a rhythm. Not a walk. Not even a strut. It was a fucking sashay, like a man who had never known disappointment and had personally fucked the concept of consequences into an early grave.
Long blonde hair spilled over his shoulders in silky waves, framing a sharp, angular face that could cut glass. But it was his soft hazelnut eyes—calm, calculating, and deceptively gentle—that held the real power, promising both danger and delight in a single glance.
He greeted the guards as if he were giving out candy. Shook the hands of chained prisoners like they were old pen pals. Winked at one who moaned a little too loud all while giggling to himself like a gleeful child. I followed behind him like a confused concubine, trying very hard not to think about the trail of suspiciously wet footprints I was leaving on the stone.
"Gods," I muttered, watching him wave to a man who was actively being whipped. "I'm either about to be sacrificed or married."
He twirled his walking stick, which I'm ninety percent sure was just for decoration, before stopping at a door—black, massive, and lined in something that might've once been dragon hide. Two guards flanked it like unhappy statues. The nobleman raised one flamboyant eyebrow, turned to them with all the pomp of a peacock in heat, and declared, "Unshackle this angel at once. We're friends now."
The guards looked at each other. One shrugged. The other grunted. A moment later, the chains fell away from my wrists with a series of magic-dampened clicks. My collar still burned faintly at the base of my throat, but it was a distant pain now.
I let out a soft sigh of relief before taking in a deep breath.
That's when I noticed it.
The air. The…everything.
At first, I just thought I was nauseous. Like I'd caught a whiff of too much semen and regret from earlier. But no. This was something else. Everything smelled stronger. Sharper. More vivid. I could smell the guards' emotions. One of them reeked of boredom and cheap sex. The other, fear, sweat, and arousal. Behind me, the scent of my own exhaustion curled like a ribbon around the remnants of pleasure still clinging to my thighs.
I stumbled slightly. "What the hell—?"
Then I remembered the beastman.
I'd taken something from him. Not just stamina. Not just strength. But…this. This gift. The ability to smell life, lust and danger made manifest.
It was overwhelming, yes, like being slapped with the world's filthiest incense stick, but I could already feel the potential. I could smell the intent behind breath. The truth behind sweat. I swallowed hard trying not to gag as I took it all in.
"Coming?" the nobleman asked over his shoulder, already halfway through the door.
I composed myself, muttering slightly under my breath, before stepping in after him.
We emerged into a hallway that made my spine tense.
It was gorgeous, sure—dark marble walls laced in gold, velvet drapes, candelabras shaped like twisted lovers—but it was also soaked in sound. Wet sound. I heard the first moan before the door even closed behind me. Ragged, guttural. A woman's voice, choked and low, barely audible through thick walls. Another door was cracked open farther down, and I caught a glimpse of a nobleman—fat, shirtless, his gut bouncing like pudding—slamming into a sobbing slave woman on all fours.
I flinched. Hard.
My instincts screamed. The smell in the hall shifted—perfume, pain, and desperation. I hugged myself without realizing. My skin itched. I was prey in a corridor of predators, and every door was another reminder of where I lived. What I was.
"This place is…cheery," I said dryly.
"Oh, isn't it?" the noble beamed, utterly oblivious to the violence echoing behind us. "The decor is modeled after a brothel in Ventri. Very exclusive."
I nearly retched.
The corridor curved slightly, leading us toward the final door at the end of the hall—a taller, grander, more arrogantly leafed construction than the others. He opened it without knocking, because of course he did, and gestured me inside like he was welcoming a duchess to her throne room.
The room was obscene.
Bigger than any cell I'd been in. Velvet curtains framed the walls, a black piano stood beneath a massive, glimmering chandelier. There was a bar—a real one—with bottles of liquor in every color, some still glowing faintly from enchantment. The air was thick with rose oil and wine. Music played softly from somewhere, ghostly and slow.
I stepped inside like a man walking into his own funeral.
The noble trotted to the bar, humming again before poured himself a glass of something dark and rich. I stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed over my chest, half-expecting chains to drop from the ceiling or for him to suddenly start reciting a sex contract in verse.
He turned to me with a smile—unhurried, unbothered—then strolled back in that same languid, almost feline way, the hem of his robe whispering across the velvet floor. He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath as he loomed overhead. Instinctively, I shut my eyes, bracing for whatever he was planning.
But nothing happened.
I cracked one eye open. Then the other to see that he was holding out the glass of wine, offering it to me.
"What?" I asked, torn between flattery and suspicion.
He said nothing. Just kept smiling—that maddening, enigmatic curve of his lips. I stared at the glass and hesitated for a moment before taking the cup and brining it up to my nose. Then I sniffed it.
And holy shit.
My nose practically exploded.
The scent hit me like a divine slap—sharp, layered, impossibly vivid. I could name it. Every note. Every molecule. Dark plum. Burnt fig. Charred ash bark. Vanilla aged in parchment, soaked through with secrets. Leather—real, sun-cracked Arkanian leather—like the kind used by caravan smugglers who kissed with their knives out. I smelled the year it was bottled. The storm that ruined the first batch. The tears of the vineyard girl who knocked over an entire cask during harvest and was probably flogged for it.
I reeled back with a choking sound. "What the fuck is this?!"
The nobleman jolted upright. "What did you say?" he whispered, eyes wide.
I blinked. "This smells like dark plum, burnt fig, and someone's emotional trauma in a bottle—why?"
He clapped his hands, practically vibrating. "You named it. You named the bouquet!"
"…So?"
He gasped like I'd just offered to bear his firstborn child. "You're a sommelier! A natural-born nose! Oh, my glistening sugar-dipped darling star—you could sniff out the vintage with your eyes closed!"
"I can also sniff bullshit," I said, sniffing him now, just to make a point. "And yours smells like rosewater, powdered pride, and poor decisions."
He shrieked in delight, spinning in a circle before planting himself dramatically on a barstool and patting the one beside him. "Come, sit with me."
I eyed the stool, eyed him, then eyed the wine again.
He beamed as I strolled over and settled into the seat.
I sighed, took a sip, and promptly came in my mouth.
Okay, not literally—but damn near. It was like drinking sin. It glided over my tongue like silk dipped in shadow, warm, complex, and so utterly perfect that I wanted to scream. My toes curled.
"Fuck me," I gasped.
The noble giggled and chugged his glass like it was juice. He refilled it instantly.
"Name's Julius," he said, flopping one leg over the other. "Julius Ficklebottom."
I spit my wine before bursting out in laughter.
"Ficklebottom?!"
He frowned, mock-offended. "It's a proud name!"
I was wheezing now, wine in my lungs, clutching my ribs. "You're shitting me—no, that can't be real. That sounds like a name you give a goat in a children's play."
Julius grinned, before reaching over, pinching my ear softly and giving it a little shake. "You wound me," he yelped.
Then he composed himself, smoothing his robe with exaggerated dignity. "I am a man of taste and honor, I'll have you know."
I dabbed tears from my eyes. "Alright, Mister Fancybottom. What the hell do you want from me?"
He stood abruptly, stepped behind me, and dropped into a dramatic bow so low he nearly headbutted the floor.
"I need you're help" he said simply, his voice woven through with a hint of desperation.
I blinked. "Am I dreaming?"
He didn't move.
"Is this a sex thing?" I asked, standing slowly, deliberately, letting my bare skin ghost against his robes as I closed the space between us.
He lifted his head slightly and his eyes met mine. He shook his head violently.
"No! No! Gods, no—I mean, not that you're not stunning—I mean, very nice thighs, wonderful hips, very symmetrical nipples—but no. I am not a pervert."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I am," he said, standing straight, "a businessman."
He tugged his collar dramatically. "Former noble. Stripped of my title, kicked out of my estate, wandering from city to city in search of new fortunes. I heard whispers, rumors of a city built on pleasure and hierarchy. Such is the reason I now find myself in Prismillya."
"And so you came all the way to the bottom floor," I said slowly, narrowing my eyes.
He nodded, misty-eyed. "Yes."
"Why?"
Then it clicked.
"Oh my gods," I said. "You're broke."
He collapsed.
Dropped to his knees like a sack of regret, wailing. "I put everything I had into this! My last coin, my last hope! I bribed guards, I forged my name, I hired actors to play nobles, Loona! All for this!"
He grabbed my thighs and pressed his cheek between them. I froze.
"Oh for fuck's sake—"
"Please!" he sobbed. "You're golden! You're chaos! You're the goddamn eye of a storm made of cum and charisma!"
I sighed, long and loud, then smirked. I crouched down, cupped his tear-streaked face in my palm, and said, "Alright, Ficklebottom. I'll help you."
He froze.
For half a second, I thought I'd broken him. Then—his eyes lit up like twin moons catching fire, wide and wild with delight.
And then—he beamed.
"Marvelous!" he shouted, voice shrill with glee, before seizing my hands and twirling me in a tight, dizzying spin that my legs nearly give out.
I squealed—actually squealed—as he spun me around like some prized debutante, all while clapping his hands and skipping in delighted little circles like a deranged maypole dancer.
And before I could stop him, he did a triple back handspring, landing on the piano at the far end of the room.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?" I yelled, eyes wide.
He struck a pose.
"Let's make history, darling!"
I groaned.
This was either the start of my empire…or the most humiliating chapter of my autobiography.
Maybe both.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks now — glittering streaks of pure theatrical joy, like he'd just watched a swan ballet choreographed by orphans and performed on a battlefield.
Julius Ficklebottom — noble, showman, absolute maniac — leapt down from the piano with the grace of a drunk flamingo and plopped into the stool, fingers fluttering across the ivory like he was possessed by a lovesick bard.
And then…he began to sing.
About me.
"Loona, Loona, sweet little sinner~Wrapped in lace like a sacrificial dinner~I found him in filth, I dressed him in class, And now he's gonna spank some ass~!"
I stood there, blank and hollow-eyed. So exhausted I might've joined in if I wasn't clinging to my sanity by a garter strap. With the delicacy of a predator descending from its perch, I strolled up behind him and slammed the piano lid down on his fingers.
He yelped.
The note ended with a dramatic clang.
Julius turned to me with a pitiful little whimper, eyes wide and wet, hands clutching each other like they'd been mortally wounded by a passing sheet of music. I raised a brow.
He cleared his throat.
"Right," he said. "Let's talk business."
Oh thank the gods.
Julius launched into a surprisingly coherent explanation, complete with hand gestures, dramatic pauses, and many references to "the glory of bloodsport." Somewhere deep within the lower floors of the prison complex, he told me, there was an arena — a pit carved from stone, ringed in shadow, built for the amusement of broken nobles who'd lost their empires and their morals.
A gladiator circuit for the fallen elite.
"Entertainment for the damned," he called it proudly. "And what better entertainment…than you."
I gave him a flat look. "You mean me, naked, fighting for coin."
He clapped, delighted. "Yes! But with style."
He explained the mechanics — how the slaves tossed into the arena weren't just fighting for survival, but for profit. The audience could place bets, and a cut of the winnings went to the combatants. The bigger the gamble, the bigger the reward. Slaves with style, power, and a bit of fanfare could rise like stars.
"And I," Julius said with a dramatic bow, "wish to be your sponsor."
"Oh, so you do want to own me."
"No, no, no!" he waved his hands. "It's just a business arrangement. I fund your entrance fees and rile up the audience, we split your winnings. Simple. Elegant. Capitalistic."
I crossed my arms. "And what's the catch?"
He blinked. "The catch is…you survive. And win. Preferably with flair."
Honestly? It wasn't the worst idea I'd heard today.
It was dangerous, yes. Bloody, probably. But it would give me exposure, elevate my standing, and maybe — just maybe — carve me a path out of Guttermeat status. The nobles would be watching. The Sectional Warden would be watching.
And I could put on one hell of a show.
But I wasn't going to agree without terms of my own.
"One condition," I said, stepping close.
He leaned in, interested.
"When I'm returned to my cell…I want to be placed with a man named Brutus."
He didn't question it. Didn't even blink.
"Done," he said smoothly, extending a hand.
We shook — and his gaze immediately dropped to my exposed chest.
"Ah," he said, like he'd just remembered I was very, very naked.
Then he bolted to the far end of the room, flinging open a wardrobe with the energy of someone about to summon Narnia. Clothes went flying — silks, robes, cloaks, a suspiciously frilly feather boa — until he emerged, triumphant, holding a set of black lace and the smallest skirt I'd ever seen.
"This!" he declared. "This is what you need!"
He threw it at me like a bouquet.
It landed in my arms with a sinful whisper of fabric. I felt my heart skip.
Lingerie. Not just a piece—a full set. A lacy thong that teased more than it covered. Suspender straps, delicate and taut, ready to pull me in any direction. And a velvet-black miniskirt, cut so daringly high the slit alone could make even the most hardened courtesan blush with envy.
Lastly, he handed me a dark blouse—thin, almost sheer, with fabric so light it barely covered half of my stomach, leaving my skin exposed like a secret begging to be discovered.
"Why," I asked, my voice slow and deliberate, "do you own this?"
Julius spun around, clutching a pair of thigh-high stockings like some villain caught mid-monologue, struck between pride and embarrassment.
"I host dinner parties," he said, voice a little too casual as he passed me one of the stockings.
"Uh-huh."
I lifted it between finger and thumb, the delicate fabric trembling slightly beneath my touch. There were stains—old and faint, yet unmistakably there—like shadows of past indiscretions etched into the lace. They clung stubbornly, hints of dried warmth and secrets whispered in the dark, adding a raw, intimate weight to the otherwise pristine garment.
I bit my lip, torn between horror and something wickedly thrilled.
"Did you—?" I started.
"Maybe!" He squeaked, cheeks flushing crimson as he passed me the other stocking. "Consider it…preloved."
I should've thrown it right back at him.
But instead, I slipped into it. Slowly. Sensually. Strapping the suspender clips to the lace and dragging the stockings up my thighs with deliberate care, breath hitching as the fabric clung in all the wrong places.
He handed me a small mirror and I nearly moaned at the sight of myself.
Just then — of course — there was a knock at the door.
I froze, body taut like a guilty kitten caught on the kitchen counter.
"Coming!" Julius chirped, still holding a spare garter belt like it was a holy relic.
He skipped toward the door, cracked it just enough to whisper to someone on the other side. I couldn't see the figure, but the voices were hushed, urgent — all business.
Julius nodded solemnly. "Yes, yes. I'll be along shortly."
He turned back to me with a dazzling grin.
"Duty calls my velvet cupcake. Make yourself at home."
I blew him a kiss — slow, sultry, theatrical. And then, with one last wink, he vanished through the door.
Gone.
I waited until I heard his footsteps fade completely. Then I nodded to myself.
Time to find an exit.
I padded silently to the edges of the room, scanning the velvet-lined walls for secret doors, latch marks, anything hidden. Julius didn't strike me as the type to live in a place without at least three hidden tunnels and a dramatic trapdoor.
But no. Nothing. Just more decadence. More perfume. More plush furniture, candlelight, and faint, teasing moans coming from somewhere far down the corridor beyond.
There was no escape.
With a sigh, I turned back to face a velvet chaise pushed to the left of the room and caught sight of myself again in a mirrored panel across the wall.
I looked like sin incarnate — a temptress carved from satin and spite, summoned from some fevered noble's wet dream. The lace hugged me like it knew my name. The skirt kissed the tops of my thighs. And my cock — aching, swollen, and heavy with the weight of everything unspoken — strained helplessly against the delicate fabric, the lace darkening with every pulse.
I wasn't sure whether to be ashamed or aroused.
Probably both.
I tilted my head, watching my own reflection. The way my body twisted when I moved. The hunger in my own eyes. I gave myself a wink, then noticed something at the hem of the skirt — another crusty, pale stain, unapologetically clinging to the fabric.
Gods.
With a groan and a flicker of curiosity I couldn't suppress, I bent forward, lifted the edge, and sniffed.
Instant regret.
Except…not really.
The scent hit like a memory I never asked for — sweat, old musk, faded soap, and something unbearably human. My senses lit up, still hypersensitive from the beastman's earlier "gift." It was like the room breathed through my nose. Every detail turned electric.
A needy whimper slipped out before I could catch it.
Slick strands of my precum began pooling between my thighs, thick and steady, soaking into the lace with a wet bloom. I could feel it — sticky, warm, the kind of display that left no mystery about my condition. The kind of want that begged to be witnessed.
I collapsed onto the velvet couch, flushed and overstimulated, limbs spread carelessly like I'd just been dropped there by a rough lover. My skirt bunched high. My breath caught every time the fabric shifted.
"I hate how much this turns me on," I whispered, teeth grazing the side of my hand as if it could keep the sounds in.
I lay still for a long moment.
Almost.
Then a slow, burning wave began to build inside me, tightening with every breath. My leg twitched, dragging my stocking-clad thigh across the cushions before brushing against my bulge, sending sparks that ignited my whole body. I squirmed, lashes fluttering, hips rising just enough to plead without words.
I began panting uncontrollably before a sharp, delicious shiver hit me as I came, just a little, letting it spill out through the lace beneath me.
Biting my lip, I carefully lifted the hem of my underwear, eyes locking onto the glistening pool of my surrender. The mess clung between my skin and and the fabric in thick, drooling strands, wet and slick, a raw, intimate confession that made my pulse thunder louder.
I swallowed hard, breath hitching, caught between shame and hunger, fascinated by the proof of how far I'd fallen…and how badly I wanted to continue.
No escape. No plan.
Just me, dripping in my own filth, dressed like a sinful debutante, and vibrating like a wound-up toy waiting for someone to push the right button.
Tomorrow, I'd fight in an arena of nobles. I'd strut, manipulate, and spill blood in the name of survival.
But tonight…?
I let my eyes drift closed.
And tried — gods help me — not to hump the furniture.