Excerpted from a review of Ophelia Blackburn’s exhibit at the Tate Modern, by The Guardian:

“...thousands of artists are inspired by the pastoral beauty of the English countryside, but Blackburn’s work takes care to avoid the bucolic cliches of chocolate box art. Her art is indeed bright, spacious, and colourful, but Blackburn expertly cultivates an atmosphere of unease that is omnipresent yet subtle. Take AFTERNOON., a painting of a small cottage in the middle of a vast green meadow. A lesser artist could have made it a piece of sentimental treacle, a bygone memory of a past Britain perfect for your Tory auntie to pine over. And yet, Blackburn adds detail after detail to place it firmly in the uncanny valley. 
The cottage, rather than a warm red or a soothing blue, is stark white, in a way that makes it feel unfinished. It’s viewed from a distance, letting the viewer appreciate the vast size of the meadow, flowerless and weedless, rolling out in all directions like an endless emerald carpet. The sky is cloudless, and all one uniform shade of blue, rather than natural gradients of colour. It’s just close enough to reality to make one queasy, suggesting a rudimentary AI generating a summer afternoon. This uncanny effect carries over to ROSES., another highlight…”

The following is an Associated Press article following the women’s alpine skiing downhill event during the 20[XX] Winter Olympics:

	“Violet Blackburn became the first Briton of either gender to win a gold medal in an alpine skiing event, winning the women’s downhill with a time of 1:39.30 on Saturday. Blackburn had already become the first Briton of either gender to medal in an alpine skiing event when she won the bronze medal in the women’s super-G on Tuesday.
	Blackburn, who fell in love with skiing at age five when on holiday in the French Alps with her family, was jubilant. “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “From just after finding out [I had won] to the medal ceremony, I kept thinking ‘oh God, they’re going to take it away any moment’. But I can relax now!”
	Ingrid Pettersen of Norway won silver with a time of 1:39.39, and Julia Marchand-Rémy of France won bronze with a time of 1:39.45. Mallory Prescott, the American skier who won gold in the women’s giant slalom, finished in ninth with a time of 1:40.67.”

The following is an article from the Daily Sun, published on 19 May 20[XX]:

	“Portia Blackburn, the 19 year old daughter of news magnates Roger and Lacey Blackburn, was arrested late last night outside of a club in Chelsea. The young socialite was brought in on charges of disorderly conduct.
	Witnesses described a drunk Blackburn causing a scene outside of Club Costello. She loudly proclaimed that she had been “felt up by a dyke” inside the club, declaring that she wasn’t a “f*cking carpetmuncher”. When a nearby tiger urged her to calm down, Blackburn quickly became hostile. She called the tiger a “f*cking c*nt”, and insulted her perceived nationality.
	“Should have kept you lot under the raj,” she said, referring to Britain’s past rule over India.
	A crowd having now gathered, the young Eevee called them “c*cksuckers” and “gutter trash”, before vomiting onto the sidewalk. “Lick that up, you motherf*ckers,” she demanded, before stumbling into a nearby alleyway to urinate.
	This isn’t Portia’s first run-in with the law; in January she was arrested at Heathrow for carrying a vial of cocaine in her purse, and her arrest last year in Berlin occurred two days after her older sister Violet’s gold medal run.” 

	
“Heathcliff! It’s me, Cathy, I’ve come home! I’m so co-oh-oh-old, let me in-a your windo-oh-ooooooh! Heathcliff! It’s me-”
Portia Blackburn’s bloodshot eyes opened, and the Eevee gave a low, primal growl from the back of her throat. Someone must have changed her ringtone after she blacked out last night-and without knowing anything else about the situation, she knew that it was Amelia. The tall, wiry ferret took perverse glee in irritating people-anyone could have changed her ringtone, but only Amelia could have changed it to “Wuthering Heights”, a song which she knew for a fact Portia loathed.
Portia reached a hand over to her nightstand, groping blearily for her phone while it serenaded her with a bag of cats being furiously shaken about. She picked it up on her third try, flicking her thumb across the screen and sighing with relief as the boiling tea kettle went silent.
“H’lo?”
“Good afternoon, Portia.”
Portia heaved a long, dramatic sigh. “Th’fuck do you want, Lacey?”
“For one thing, I’d like to be called ‘mum’.”
“And I’d like a fairy cake sprinkled in gold dust. Why did you call?”
“You’re at the Templeton, yes?”
“Hold on, let me check.”
She grabbed the television remote, pressed the power button, and waited for a moment. The home channel popped up, advertising the Olympic-sized swimming pool and world-class bar.
“Yeah, I’m at the Templeton. Who wants to know?”
“I do.”
“Well! There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”
Lacey was silent on the other end for a moment, before speaking up. “I’d like to present a choice to you, Portia. Are you listening?”
“If one of those choices is you hanging up and going off to choke on Roger’s limp prick, I’ll pick that one.”
“Are you done?”
“No, but talk anyway.”
“Your first choice is this, Portia: you keep living like this. You keep drinking, you keep partying, you keep coking yourself up to the eyeballs-”
“I’ll pick choice one, thank you.”
“I wasn’t quite finished, dear. You can keep doing that, but you can’t keep doing it as a Blackburn, with Blackburn money, with a Blackburn safety net.”
Now it was Portia’s turn to go silent. She sat up in bed. “So I’m clear, when you say that, you mean-”
“Disowning you? Yes.”
Portia’s mouth opened as though she had been slapped. Roger and Lacey were never pleased with her, but the d-word had never come up until now-and here it was, dropped coldly and dispassionately, like how a banker would say “foreclose”.
“Are you still there, Portia?”
“...yes.”
“That was choice number one. Are you ready for choice number two?”
With that hanging over her head, she might as well. “Sure.”
“Choice number two is this: we send you out to the countryside, in Surrey. Do you remember where we used to holiday there? Near Milbury?”
“Yes?”
“Ten or so kilometres north of Milbury, there’s a town called Welcham. Near Welcham, there’s a place called Rutledge Manor. You’ll be living there until you’ve become a proper young lady.”
Portia’s trepidation at the thought of being disowned was replaced with confusion and disgust. “You’re sending me to fucking charm school?”
“No. I’m sending you to three young women who will show you how to act like you ought to. You’ll be the only, erm, quote-unquote ‘student’ there. Does that make you feel any better?”
It didn’t. Portia remained silent. Lacey sighed.
“Portia, if you think this is about your sisters, it’s not. If we didn’t think you were capable of what they’re capable of, we’d let you drink yourself into a gutter. But there’s nothing sadder than wasted potential.”
	There was a slight crack in Lacey’s voice as she spoke. She wasn’t crying-Portia doubted that Lacey was even capable of crying-but the emotion was there. Maybe that emotion was what made Portia relent.
	“...fine.”
	Lacey cleared her throat. Back to business. “Very good. A car will come by your hotel in an hour. Be ready.” Another pause. “I love you.”
	As she hung up the phone, Portia snarled under her breath. Christ, and I thought waking up to Kate Bush was bad.

	Welcham was not in the middle of nowhere. It had about 6,000 people, which was smallish but not tiny, and there were a small assortment of shops, pubs, restaurants and other places for people who wanted the sweet country air in their lungs but didn’t want to venture too far out into the actual country to get it. There were rolling greens, of course, and verdant trees, but it wasn’t isolated; you could get there from London by car or train.
	For Portia, however, it was the sticks. She didn’t mind places like this when she was a kid on holiday, but now that she was older she had grown accustomed to the city-London in particular, but most any city. Welcham may have been quaint and sweet to some, but to Portia it may as well have been a twenty-person hamlet with a feral sheep as its mayor.
The Eevee sat sullen in the backseat of a large black car, driven by a short, sinewy goat. He had spoken once, before she got into the car (“Miss Blackburn?”), and was silent the rest of the time. The air conditioning was uncomfortably strong for a mild spring day, and the radio was off. It wasn’t a hearse, but it felt like one.
“I don’t see a manor,” Portia said, looking out the tinted window as they drove down Welcham’s main street. “Lacey said there would be a manor.” The goat didn’t respond, making a right turn at an antique bookshop and driving down a side road. Portia rolled her eyes, placing her index and middle fingers against her temple in a pantomime of a pistol. “Pow!” she said, under her breath.
The goat turned left, and the car drove down another road. Portia was beginning to wonder if she should open the door and roll out. They couldn’t be going terribly fast, and she didn’t have any precious cargo in the car-Lacey told her that they would send her clothes over to wherever they were going. She was trying to figure out whether she knew how to tuck and roll when the car took another turn into what appeared to be a long driveway.
“Is that Rutledge Manor up there, then?” Portia asked. The goat didn’t answer, of course, but the closer the car got the more it seemed likely. The long driveway, flanked by shrubbery, led to a large, sprawling manor house, colored pure white. Portia didn’t know much about architecture, so she couldn’t tell you when it was built, but it seemed pristine enough to have been built a year ago-although for all she knew, it could have been here before William the Conqueror. The windows were exactly spaced, the green grass before it manicured, and a grey cobblestone path led to the front door. Portia, despite herself, was quietly impressed-if becoming a proper lady meant living here, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
The car pulled up, and the goat looked over his shoulder. “Miss Blackburn?” Portia nodded, taking her overnight bag from the seat next to her, and stepping out of the car, walking down the cobblestone path to the door and knocking.
The door was answered by a tall, rotund Holstein cow with kind, smiling eyes. “Ah! You must be Portia. Welcome, welcome. Come in, dearie!” Her voice was warbly and warm, with an odd accent that could probably be traced to one specific village in Hertfordshire. Portia distrusted her immediately.
	“You’ll be teaching me?” she asked. Her ears were angling themselves backwards, and her pupils narrowed to inky pinpricks. The cow laughed. “Oh goodness me, no! I’m just a servant. You probably won’t be seeing too much of me, but for now you can call me Cora. Won’t you come in?” Cora stepped aside, and Portia, eyeing her curiously, walked in.
	“The ladies of the house are away at the moment,” Cora said. “They have some business to attend to in town. But they did leave a few instructions for you.” She reached into her breast pocket and produced a neatly folded piece of paper, which she opened. “Now, you’re to take the stairs up to the third floor, dear. You’ll turn right down the hall and go to the fourth door from the end-it’ll be open for you, so you’ll know which one. You’ll change out of your clothes into the outfit lying on the bed, and then you’re to come down to the parlor and wait there until they return. Do you need the list?”
	She held out the piece of paper, but Portia shook her head. “I’ve got it,” she said, impatiently, before walking away from the cow with not so much as a thank you. Cora shrugged her shoulders, before going to the cellar stairs, humming as she descended.

	It wasn’t until Portia reached the mahogany staircase, stained and cleaned to an almost mirror shine, that she noticed something was odd. From what she had seen of the manor, it was immaculate-she had seen the hall and the parlor going to the staircase, and both were like something out of a picture book. There was nary a speck  of dust to be seen, there wasn’t a stray object left haphazardly on the floor, and both were decorated with an artist’s eye for symmetry and color. This in itself wasn’t unusual-from what Portia had seen of manors, they were held to a higher standard of cleanliness than, say, a cheap flat in Tottenham.
	What was unusual was how quiet this place was. Any manor of this size required a small army of servants, for maintenance, for cleaning, for cooking, for attending to the needs of the people who owned the house. If it was this well-maintained everywhere else on its grounds, there should have been servants everywhere-polishing this, dusting that, talking to each other and coordinating the work to make Rutledge Manor tick. And yet, she could only hear distant footsteps and some murmurs from another room. There may have been servants, but surely not enough.
	Portia ascended the stairs, hand resting on the bannister as she did so, until she reached the third floor, pausing and looking right. This, too, was quiet-the wooden stair creaking beneath her trainers, the steady breeze outside, distant birdsong. The Eevee pricked her ears, listening closer. There were some murmurings from behind a closed door to her left, though she couldn’t pick up exactly what the voices were saying. She had half a mind to investigate, but she had other business to attend to.
	Like Cora said, there was one open door on the third floor, and Portia entered it. It was a bedroom painted robin’s-egg blue, the curtains drawn to let the light of the spring day brighten every corner. There was a writing desk, a wardrobe, and a mirror hung neatly on the wall. Was this her bedroom? Portia couldn’t help but grin, setting her bag down by the door. “And here I thought Lacey was punishing me!” she said to herself.
	As soon as she said that, however, she remembered what Cora had said about the bed. There was an outfit there, right? Well, if they were giving her this place to stay, she might as well. As Portia looked over the queen-sized bed to see what had been laid out for her, her face immediately fell.
	Against the royal purple of the bed’s comforter, the drab grey of the dress lay heavy as a raincloud. Grey dresses can look quite flattering with the right shade and the right fit, but this had neither. It was grey as a mouse’s fur is grey, and rather than sleek elegance it seemed to serve no other purpose than to cover flesh.
	Portia stared at the dress for a full minute, fists balled up at her side, before heaving a frustrated sigh. “Fuck off,” she hissed. She had half a mind to defy the instructions and greet the three women in her black skirt and tight pink t-shirt, but that dreaded d-word hung over her head. Would she rather wear an unflattering dress or be unceremoniously tossed out of her upper-crust Eden? Portia muttered a steady stream of profanities under her breath as she pulled off her t-shirt and lowered her skirt. After kicking off her trainers, she was down to her lacy white bra and panties, scowling as she lifted the dress off of the bed.
	“You’d better be fucking worth it,” she said.

Portia sat uncomfortably on the cream-colored couch, surveying the parlor. Like her bedroom (well, what was probably her bedroom), it was blue, but in a different way. Rather than paint, the walls were covered in intricate wallpaper; periwinkle daisies and golden leaves sprawled precisely over a royal blue background. Portia had seen designs like that before, in books left on coffee tables by her more artsy friends. Something Morris-Robert? Edward? William?
A grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, which set Portia even further on edge. She had never really needed to deal with actual gears-and-springs clocks regularly-she, like everyone else, had a phone for that. The constant, inexorable ticking reminded her of that old Poe story she had to read in school about the heart beneath the floorboards. She didn’t need to worry about that, at least; she hadn’t killed anyone, though if she was stuck in this dress for much longer she would be in the mood to give it a shot.
What sort of place was this, anyway? There were modern touches, like outlets and chargers, but the whole thing felt strangely out of time-as though the world progressed more or less as normal but with a lingering fascination for Victorian aesthetics. Portia wondered what sort of people would live here, and who would be teaching her how to be a “lady” (whatever the hell that meant). Her great aunt Agnes would probably like this place, scowling bulldog of an Umbreon that she was. Portia shuddered at the thought of three Agneses ordering her about and making her do chores.
Another minute passed. Portia, having been trying to sit attentively in case the three women came in, settled into a more characteristic slouch. She picked up her phone, which had been resting on her thigh, and swiped her thumb along the lockscreen. After immediately changing her ringtone back to default (fucking Amelia, Portia thought, with a sour look on her face), she went to her messages.
The most recent text came from Gwen, a Furret who Portia was friends with from school. Something up?, it read.
Portia’s thumbs ticked along the keyboard. All good
The response came back within a moment-Gwen was always quick to respond. Sorry, u went dark since morning is all
Loooooong fucking story. Lacey’s sent me to charm school
Portia could almost hear the incredulous pause through text. U wot?
Yeah she said it was that or get disowned. Don’t worry I’ll probably be out in a couple weeks
Is that how long charm school takes?
I don’t bloody know. It’s not even really a charm school, just a big manor with a few people who’ll be showing me how to be a lady
Portia added in an eye-roll emoji before hitting send.
Guess u won’t be able to come to Nausica tonite then
Two As at the end. Like the princess from the odyssey 
Haven’t read that in years
Didn’t think u would. Wink emoji.
Like u have it under your ducking pillow at night
*fucking
Lol. Make sure Emily doesn’t get too wasted
Emily’s not usually who I have to worry about. Tongue emoji.
Ur our welsh mum Gwenno!
LOL. I have problem children
We still love you even if ur a sheep fucker. A Welsh flag and a sheep emoji.
The speech bubble indicating that Gwen was texting back had just popped up when a calm, perfectly enunciated voice spoke from behind her.
“It seems as though we have a piece of work before us.”

On the couch opposite Portia sat three women. In the middle was a Cinccino, sitting perfectly straight, eyeing Portia in the same way that the Queen of England would look at a mote of dust on her robes. She wore a knee-length skirt shaded a rosy pink, with an elegant white blouse. Her grey-and-white fur looked so divinely plush and soft that Portia almost wanted to go over and touch it, just to feel. Based on the expression on the Cinccino’s face, though, that would be unwise to say the least.
To the Cinccino’s right sat a Sylveon, one leg crossed neatly over the other. Whereas the Cinccino appeared quite curvy (or maybe that was just fluff?), the Sylveon was thin, and the tallest of the four women sitting in the room. She wore a royal blue dress with a bowknot embellishment, and her face was curious and somewhat enigmatic. There was something about her icy sense of remove that felt foreign-Portia had a hunch that the Sylveon was either Scandinavian or French.
To the Cinccino’s left, there was a Weavile, who looked somewhat out of place. Perhaps that was due to her species; one could easily imagine a Cinccino or a Sylveon as an elegant lady of society, but Weaviles had a more working class image (to put it politely). Her skirt was blue and white with horizontal stripes; she was gazing intensely at Portia. The Eevee fidgeted in her seat.
The Cinccino finally spoke. “Portia Blackburn, correct?” Her voice sounded like a frozen lake in the forest; it was smooth, placid, yet icy. Like Portia, her accent placed her firmly in the upper class; unlike Portia, it had none of the grit that cigarettes and alcohol placed on a voice.
The Eevee nodded. “Yeah?”
The Cinccino blinked, slowly, and frowned. “We haven’t started yet, so I’ll allow it this once,” she said, before continuing. “My name is Heather Rutledge, and I am the mistress of the house. This is Seraphine Voclain,” she said, tapping the Sylveon on the shoulder (so she is French, Portia thought), “and this is Charlotte Ballard.” Heather tapped the Weavile on the shoulder before turning her gaze back towards Portia. “When you refer to us, you will use a title and one of our names. For instance, you may call me ‘Miss Rutledge’, ‘Miss Heather’, ‘Mistress Heather’, and so on.” Something about Heather’s tone bothered Portia; condescending and superior, the Cinccino sounded as though she was ordering a maid to draw her evening bath.
Perhaps it was that tone that prompted Portia to answer the way she did. “And what, pray tell, will happen if I don’t?” Sarcastic venom seeped into her voice. The Weavile-Charlotte-gave a small smile as Heather sighed.
“Ah, I see,” she said. “Your mother didn’t tell you.” Heather snapped her fingers, pointing at the floor before her. “Kneel here.”
The slowly-rising ire rising within Portia was replaced by confusion. She opened her mouth, closing it again, and sat in silence, gawking at the expectantly-staring Cinccino. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.
Heather repeated herself. “Kneel here,” she said. “Off of the couch. Kneel in front of us.”
For a moment, the only noise in the parlor was the steadily ticking grandfather clock. The sound of wind rustling the trees in the garden was faintly audible. A sparrow perched on the window ledge, giving a few cautious chirrups before flying away.
Finally, Portia rose from the couch, glaring daggers at Heather as her feet creaked against the hardwood floor. She moved slowly, enunciating each step as Heather enunciated each precise word.
Portia came to her knees in front of Heather, looking up at her with an ugly glare. “Does this please your fucking highness?” she asked.
Portia saw Heather’s hand dart off of her right thigh, lunging forward like a viper. She heard the palm crack against her left cheek, like the sound of a rifle being fired. It wasn’t until the burning pain started all at once that Portia realized she had been slapped in the face.
Portia lowered her head, cupping her cheek, taking in deep, ragged breaths. Her eyes squinched shut, and she was almost certain she would have a bruise later. Heather looked down upon her pitilessly.
“While you live under this roof,” she began, “you are under our control. You will obey every command, you will learn every lesson, you will accept every punishment. Among other things,” Heather said, reaching down to tilt Portia’s head upwards to face her, “you will learn how to clean, how to cook, how to sew, how to dress, how to behave in society, and how to serve. Stay still!” Heather held the moaning, wriggling Eevee girl by the scruff of her neck.
	“Our methods won’t be easy,” she continued, “but they will be effective. In time, you may even come to enjoy them.” She said this last sentence with a small smirk; involuntarily, Portia shuddered. “Perhaps you won’t like us at first,” Heather continued on, her voice never wavering from her prim, practiced tone, “but you will learn. Do you understand me, girl?”
	Girl. That, more than anything else, incensed Portia. Her parents were worth five billion pounds apiece! She had never wanted for a single thing in her nineteen years of existence, and here she was being addressed as though she were the eight year old daughter of a whore in a Victorian workhouse. Portia stared at Heather’s smug face as though she could melt it like candle wax. “Fuck you, you fat cunt,” she hissed.
	It would have been worth it just to see Heather’s imperious gaze falter for a second. Instead, the Cinccino shook her head, clicking her tongue. “Still so much to learn,” she remarked to the Sylveon, who smiled and nodded in agreement. “Would you like to do the honors, Seraphine?”
	The Sylveon shook her head. “She didn’t call me a fat cunt.”
	Heather nodded. “True enough.” And then she struck.
	THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Heather didn’t look as though she’d be particularly strong, but each slap to Portia’s face sounded like a crack of lightning and felt like a splash of boiling oil. Not only were they heavy enough to bruise, but they stung-if Portia didn’t know any better, she would think that her cheeks were sizzling like a hot skillet.
	The Eevee reacted to the first slap with a pained yowl; the second, with a sharp wail. The third was particularly painful, and she made an ear-splitting noise like a boiling tea kettle. The fourth and fifth, on the other hand, simply elicited furious growls from the back of her throat.
	Heather let go of Portia’s neck scruff, and she fell forward, resting her arms on the floor and pressing her forehead against them. She breathed deeply, heavily, quickly-she sounded as though she was liable to hyperventilate. Heather looked to her left. “Charlotte, would you be a dear and get the scale from the bathroom?” The Weavile nodded, standing from the couch and setting off. Heather smiled, lightly, down at Portia.
	“Let’s see if you’re right about me, girl,” she said. “For your sake, hope that you are.”

“Nine stone, two pounds,” Heather declared, looking down at the number on the scale. One hundred and twenty-five pounds. Portia blinked. She thought Heather would weigh more than that-for someone as curvy and shapely as the Cinccino, it seemed a surprise. Maybe it was just her fluffy fur, or maybe she just wore the weight incredibly well.
Whatever the case, it was her turn. Portia didn’t know her own weight off the top of her head, but she and Heather were about the same height (five foot three), which meant that the two could be easily compared. She hoped badly that she’d come in beneath Heather-the sting in her cheek still heated up sometimes, like it was sparking with static, and she was itching to give Heather a figurative black eye (or, indeed, a literal one).
“Well?” Heather said. “It’s your turn.”
Portia shut her eyes so that Heather couldn’t see her roll them, before climbing onto the scale and waiting. Her arms hung by her side, fingertips nervously fussing with the hem of her plain grey dress. She waited for the result, watching the number climb upwards, slowing down its progress in increments until…
One hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Nine stone, four pounds. Meaningless as it was, Portia’s heart dropped into her belly like a pebble into a koi pond.
“Oh, dear,” Heather murmured, her lips spreading into a small smile. “Didn’t your mother tell you about glass houses?” Portia simply stood, arms limp by her side, head hanging downwards, rooted to the spot in rage and humiliation.
Heather spoke again. “Seraphine, dear, may I borrow some of your lipstick? I’d like a nice red shade for this.”
The Sylveon nodded, sorting through her handbag before producing a jet-black tube of lipstick. Portia, glancing over in horrified curiosity, recognized the brand-Sylke Weiss. It was a high-class, expensive brand, with a formula guarded more intensely than the crown jewels. It gave Portia a queasy jolt, to think that they used the same brand as she did.
The lipstick was handed to Heather, who motioned at Portia. “On your knees, girl.” Portia just stared at Heather, confused and infuriated, before wordlessly complying. Her cheeks were flushing a furious red, filled with both incoherent rage and fear of just what the Cinccino was doing to her.
Heather walked over to the Eevee, uncapping the tube of lipstick and inspecting Portia. “No, dear,” she said, as Portia puckered her lips. “This won’t be going on your lips.” She positioned a hand on Portia’s neck scruff to hold her still when she realized what would happen-and then, when she did, Heather gripped tight.
“Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you!” Portia repeated this as though it were a mantra, trying to thrash her head about as Heather held her still, carefully writing on the Eevee’s forehead. Her handwriting was neat and steady, even with a surface a great deal less agreeable than paper. The Cinccino murmured the letters she was writing as she did so. “F...A...T…hold still, girl.” Heather cuffed Portia on the side of the head, not enough to really hurt but enough to remind her of the onslaught she had faced earlier. Portia was ready to burn to cinders, but she nevertheless stilled as Heather finished it off. “C...U...N...T.”
And there it was, written in big letters on Portia’s forehead. The insult the Eevee tried to hit Heather with, turned back on her and amplified until she felt like she could crumble to dust from the humiliation. The Cinccino, as always, was ready to amplify that pain. “I wonder,” she said. “Would you prefer to be called ‘girl’ or ‘fat cunt’ for the rest of the evening?” She circled around the kneeling Eevee, slowly. “See, I thought that ‘girl’ would get under your skin very easily,” she continued, “but seeing that look on your dumb fat fucking face makes me think I’ve struck gold.”
Perhaps it would be important to mention that Portia did not cry. While she is perfectly capable of expressing emotion, getting her to shed actual tears and make actual weeping noises is extremely difficult, if not impossible. In this way, she’s like her mother.
However, her flushed face, wide eyes, and quivering lips certainly got the point across. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and choked with emotion.
“Portia.”
Heather tilted her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Portia. Don’t call me girl, don’t call me…”
“Hmmm? What?” Heather’s lips spread into another small grin. “What don’t you want me to call you?”
The Eevee froze again, before murmuring. “Dntcallmeaftcnt.”
Heather twitched one of her ears. “I couldn’t quite hear that. Could you say it again?”
Portia winced, before repeating herself. “Don’t call me a fat cunt, Miss Heather.” Calling this fucking bitch “Miss Heather” made Portia feel sick, but it seemed like consequences would be dire if she didn’t.
Heather thought for a second. “Well, I’d listen to you,” she said, “but it says so right on your forehead. That’s a little hard to ignore, don’t you think?” She seemed to be getting a kick out of lording this over her, even though Portia was only two pounds heavier than her.
The Cinccino sat back down on the couch, smiling. “But very well,” she said. “I won’t call you that today. Isn’t that nice of me, girl?” Christ, Portia wanted to skin Heather alive and fashion her fur into a coat. But the sting in her cheeks reminded her of what would happen if she so much as spoke back. “Yes, Miss Heather,” she said, “it’s quite nice of you.” Her voice was low, and filled with choked-back emotion.
“Good girl,” Heather cooed. “You’re a fast learner. On your knees, now,” she said, pointing to the floor in front of her. The Eevee girl once again suppressed the rising bile within her and knelt in front of Heather, filled up to the eyeballs with indignant rage. The Cinccino kept talking in that prim, smug voice of hers.
“I thought you’d be nothing but a drunk, coked-up tart. You are, of course, but there’s more to you than that, isn’t there?” Her hand came up, reaching under Portia’s chin and stroking along the girl’s jawline. “It’s in your eyes,” she said. “There’s a fire behind them. It’s inside of you, and it wants to come out.”
Portia wanted to ask how the fuck Heather expected it to come out when she was kneeling in front of her with “FAT CUNT” written on her forehead in lipstick, but apparently she was about to get to that. “But it can’t come out when you’re a disrespectful, lazy, spiteful little bitch, can it?” Heather patted her, condescendingly, on the cheek. “When you get to where we want you to be, you’ll understand.”
Portia knew what the Cinccino was trying to do. She was trying to flatter her, instill in her the notion that she was special so that she would happily accept this absurd treatment. And, despite her cynical side screaming at her that this was a trick, it was working.
She was about to respond with a drone-like “yes, Miss Heather”, before the Cinccino uncrossed her legs and stuck one foot out.
“Are you ready for your first chore, girl?”

Portia stared at Heather’s bare grey-furred foot silently, blankly. If there was, indeed, a fire behind her eyes, it was replaced for now with blank un-comprehension. What did the Cinccino want her to do? Rub her foot? Massage it? Kiss it? What the hell was this fetish-show bullshit?
After a moment, she said, as diplomatically as she could manage, “I’m sorry, Miss Heather, but I don’t understand. You want me to do...what?”
The other two women watched with curiosity as Heather gave a small laugh. “Ah, I must not have been clear,” she said. “I want you to worship my feet. You can start slow, but you will be kissing and licking soon. Do you understand me, girl?”
Portia understood her, but she wished she didn’t. She looked up at Heather, Seraphine and Charlotte for a moment, letting those three pairs of imperious eyes look down at her. She grit her teeth, scrunched her eyes shut, and averted her gaze. Not for the first time that day, and not for the last, she became intensely aware of what was written on her forehead.
Wordlessly, she relented. She reached her manicured hands down to Heather’s right foot, taking it in her hands and gently rubbing it up and down. Her left hand took the top half of the foot, from the toes to halfway down the sole, while her right foot took the rest of the foot down to her heel. The four fingers of her left hand stroked up and down the top, while her right thumb dug into Heather’s sole and massaged it firmly.
Portia had a brief relationship with a guy who liked having his feet rubbed (a kangaroo, which might explain it), and she had enough practice with it to service Heather. Alex’s feet, however, were massive and broad and heavy; it was practically a full-arm workout to rub them down. Heather’s feet were smaller (though rather large for a young woman’s), and they were divinely soft; Portia tried to work past the humiliation of the task by shutting her eyes and rubbing her fingers along that luxuriously plush grey-and-white fur.
Of course, it could never be that easy, could it? “There we are,” Heather said, the Eevee cringing as the dominant Cinccino began to speak. “You’ve had practice with this before, haven’t you? I can tell.” Upon receiving a sheepish “yes, Miss Heather” from Portia, the mistress of the house laughed. “Oh, pish posh,” she said. “You haven’t become so meek already, dear. Don’t pretend.”
Portia heaved a growling little sigh as she dug her fingers into Heather’s sole, massaging with more vigor and roughness. “I had a friend growing up who was a lot like you,” Heather said, before crisply ordering Portia. “Switch feet.” When she did, Heather continued. “She was a Vulpix. Sweet girl, smart as a whip, but utterly lacked discipline. She was about to flunk out of school by the time I stepped in and helped her.” The Eevee simply focused on Heather’s foot, staring at the smooth furred sole, the long grey toes, the light blue nail polish. Heather continued talking. “It was a funny thing, really. At first me sitting on her face was punishment, but after a few weeks of it it became her reward.”
That made Portia look up at the smirking Cinccino, eyes wide with alarm, blush burning hot on her face. That was no accident-she brought it up to let Portia know what was in store for her. She was about to respond when the Weavile, for the first time that day, spoke up.
“Not to be a bother,” she said, “but Sera and I wouldn’t mind having a go at the new girl.”
Except it didn’t sound like that. It sounded like this: “not t’be a bovver, but Sera and I wun’t mind ‘avin a go at th’ new girl.” Portia looked at the Weavile with startled confusion. This Weavile was supposed to be teaching her how to be a lady with the other two in this elegant manor, and here she was with a working-class Mancunian accent suited for an extra on Coronation Street. It was jarring and out-of-place, like a host of a high-society dinner in New York City speaking with the accent of an Appalachian coal miner.
Heather didn’t seem to notice. “Of course! Forgive me, Charlotte, I didn’t mean to be greedy.” The Weavile smiled, before tilting her head at the Sylveon. “Sera’s been busy today,” she said. “Maybe she should get the girl ‘fore I do.” Seraphine nodded, graciously accepting. “How sweet of you,” she said. “Now, come here, girl.”
Girl, girl, girl, girl, girl. The Eevee’s eyes crossed with irritation before she shifted herself over to kneel in front of the French Sylveon. Her feet were bare, and her right foot was presented to Portia without a word. Portia thought she got the idea, but no sooner did her hands reach forward to caress that foot did Seraphine’s hand shoot forward. WHAP!
Portia hissed, wincing as she cupped her hand over her abused cheek, as Seraphine spoke. “Did I tell you to touch me, girl?” she asked. “Ask nicely.” As if having to give foot massages wasn’t enough humiliation for the rich girl! She swallowed her pride for the fiftieth time that day. “May I?”
WHAP! Portia gave an undignified squawk as Seraphine slapped her across the face again, the Sylveon’s expression queenlike in its imperious sternness. “Who are you talking to?” she asked. Portia nodded, biting her lip, before trying again. “May I, Miss Seraphine?” As soon as she finished the sentence, she saw a slight shift in Seraphine’s weight, and she yelped and covered her face with her arms.
Mercifully, Seraphine didn’t slap her this time. “You realize what you did wrong?”
Portia didn’t know what she did wrong; she just figured she should be prepared for the possibility. Still, she said “yes”.
“And what did you do wrong?” Seraphine tilted her head. Portia remained silent for a moment, thinking through the possibilities before settling on one that seemed plausible. “I didn’t say what I wanted to do.” Portia waited until Seraphine nodded in confirmation, then sighed in relief.
“Try again.”
Portia was ready this time. “Miss Seraphine,” she said, “may I please rub your feet? And kiss them and lick them, too?” 
If you had told Portia from a couple of days ago that she would say those words, she would have tossed her drink in your face and walked off with a huff. And yet, she couldn’t quite explain away the shiver down her spine when Seraphine smiled and said:
“You may.”

The silver spoon scraped along the inside of the white porcelain teacup as Heather stirred, watching the cream dissolve into the tea and turn it from a dark shade of brown to a light brownish-beige. She carefully dropped in one sugar cube, then a second, before stirring again.
She turned her head towards Seraphine. “Do you have plans for the weekend, Sera?”
The Sylveon took her tea with only a splash of cream, but four sugar cubes. “I’ll be visiting my brother in Paris,” she said. “It’ll only be for the weekend, but I’ll be away. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve tickets for the theatre Saturday night,” she said. “There’s a production of Twelfth Night that I’ve been wanting to see, and I have two tickets. What about you, Charlotte? Would you like to come?”
The Weavile took her tea black; Heather was convinced that Charlotte either had no taste buds or was able to happily drink a bottle of turpentine. “Depends,” Charlotte said. “Who’s directing?”
“Erm…” Heather thought for a moment. “Dalton. No, Dalton’s doing Midsummer on West End. Elmgren’s doing Twelfth Night.”
Charlotte made a face. “Sorry. He always does this modern stuff with Shakespeare, but it never comes out right.”
Heather shrugged. “I like him well enough. Suppose I’ll have to find a date.”
Charlotte grinned. “You could take the girl with you.”
Heather and Seraphine blinked for a second, before bursting into peals of giggles. “Oh, you’re too funny!” Heather said, before glancing down at Seraphine’s feet.
The girl in question had been at her feet for about fifteen minutes, and her tongue was getting tired. She held Seraphine’s foot by the heel, resting it upon her palms as she dragged her tongue up and down the Sylveon’s smooth sole. The fur was warm and cotton-soft; it reminded Portia of the blanket she used to have as a kid. Still, there was the omnipresent degradation of the ordeal, the humiliation inherent in a billionaire socialite kneeling in front of another woman and licking her feet. The words scrawled in lipstick upon her forehead remained in the back of her mind as she kept licking, scraping her tongue along Seraphine’s foot before kissing her toes.
“Good girl,” Seraphine murmured, lowering her hand to guide Portia’s head up and down as her other hand held her cup of tea. “This is how you show appreciation for your mistresses. You listen to them, you obey them, and you worship them. Do you understand, girl?”
Portia nodded. “Yes, Miss Seraphine,” she said, swallowing leftover spit in her mouth. She made a face; having never licked someone’s foot before, she wasn’t used to the taste, which was earthy and salty and lightly sweet yet unpleasantly alien. The Sylveon pointed to the other end of the couch, where Charlotte sat. “Her turn,” Seraphine said.
Portia made her way in front of Charlotte, looking up at her. “May I worship your feet, Miss Charlotte?” she asked, hoping that repeating it more would make her feel less embarrassed about it. Thankfully, Charlotte wasn’t going to draw it out. “You may,” she said.
Charlotte took a sip from her cup of tea as Portia set to work, rubbing her hands up and down her foot, kneading her thumbs into the sole. She did this for a minute, tracing her other four fingers along the top of her foot, before she blinked, noticing something.
“You’ve got more tension in your feet than the others,” Portia said, before quickly adding “Miss Charlotte” at the end of it. The Weavile nodded. “There’s a reason for that,” she said. “See, I didn’t grow up loaded like Heather or Sera did, or like you did.” Portia wanted to say that she gathered from the fact that Charlotte’s accent sounded like the daughter of Mark E. Smith and a Manchester United footie kit, but instead merely said “Oh?”
“Mum was a seamstress, and Dad worked on the docks ‘fore they closed. Soon as I was old enough, I got a job as a waitress for about...oh, five years. Spent a lot of time on my feet,” she said. “Speaking of feet, use your tongue.” Portia dutifully stuck her tongue out, scraping it along the sole of Charlotte’s bare foot before suckling a little on her toes. Charlotte continued.
“A friend of a friend of a friend said there was an opening for a servant in a manor out in the country, and I was sick of creeps squeezing my arse and not tipping me, so I gave it a go.”
Charlotte’s foot was covered in smooth, dark fur, lightly sweaty. None of their feet were filthy, thank God, but there was a subtle tang to it that made Portia’s nose scrunch as she licked. As she took a break to try and work the taste off of her tongue, Portia asked politely, “So what happened next?”
“Well,” Charlotte said, “Heather squeezed my arse and didn’t tip me.” Both the Weavile and the Cinccino bursts into peals of laughter, while Portia looked vaguely confused. “Seriously, though, I worked for her for a while, we became friends, and then she started this little service with Sera and asked if I wanted to be a domme sometime.” Charlotte giggled. “And I did!”
“That’s sweet,” Portia remarked, before lowering her face to Charlotte’s foot again, rolling her eyes behind closed lids. She wanted to ask how much longer she was supposed to do this, but she could practically feel her cheeks throb at the thought. She stuck her tongue out and continued licking.

Portia had almost gotten used to it. Sure, that fire Heather was talking about was currently burning at her insides with the indignity of her situation, and her tongue still tasted funny from worshiping the feet of the three dommes, but she hadn’t incurred their wrath recently; if she did, they would have cheerfully humiliated her until she wished the Earth would swallow her whole. But this day was easier than she thought, aside from the slapping-easier still now that it was almost over.
She had been sent to the dining room and told to wait for supper. Portia had taken the seat at the head of the table (she still wasn’t above sending a subtle fuck-you to her mistresses), drumming her fingers on the mahogany wood that formed its surface. They had taken her phone, so she didn’t have much to occupy herself with, but she would deal. Besides, the smell coming from the kitchen made her mouth water-lamb and roast vegetables, smelling fresh and warm and springlike. It was enough to make her forget that she had “FAT CUNT” written on her forehead in red lipstick.
Three settings were placed on the table, neatly set with a fork and knife on either side of where the plate would go. Empty wine glasses accompanied them. “That’s odd,” Portia remarked, aloud. Four of them, but three settings-maybe Seraphine didn’t eat at suppertime? Portia knew a French girl who didn’t eat until ten o’clock at night. She was probably just weird, but maybe it was a French thing?
She was busy puzzling this out when she heard a voice from behind her. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” It was smooth, teasing, and it dripped with treacly condescension. Heather.
The Cinccino smiled at Portia, whose confusion had given way once more to anger. “She thinks she can sit at the table,” Heather said, as Seraphine and Charlotte entered the dining room behind her. “And I thought you were smarter than that, girl!” She patted Portia’s cheek, and the Eevee had to resist the urge to bite her hand.
Heather pulled out Portia’s chair, pointing at the hardwood floor. “Down,” she said, as though the billionaire’s daughter was a needy dog begging for scraps at breakfast. With a sullen huff, Portia got off the chair and sat on the ground, scowling. Heather took her place at the table.
Once Seraphine and Charlotte took their places, supper was ready. A servant, a somewhat portly male lynx, set down three plates before them. Roast leg of lamb, seasoned with rosemary and pepper, served with a spring vegetable medley. Its scent made Portia’s mouth water and stomach growl; she hadn’t eaten all day, and she only now realized how hungry she was. As the wolverine poured each woman a glass of Provence rosé, Portia stared up at the table, trying her best not to look pitiful.
“Oh, would you just look at the poor dear?” Heather said. “It’s like when the RSPCA tugs at your heartstrings.” Portia blushed again, out of embarrassment and anger-Heather must have known that that would get under her skin. “Mr. Novak, if you would be so kind to bring the girl her supper?” The lynx nodded, and set off back to the kitchen.
Portia didn’t know whether or not to say “thank you”. On the one hand, eating on the floor would be a little humiliating, and annoying besides (how does one cut the meat, after all, without bracing yourself on a table?). On the other hand, she would be fed, and judging by the smell it would end the day on a high note. She was about to open her mouth and say “thank you” when her supper was brought out to her, and words died in her throat.
Portia looked down at the dish set in front of her. Then, she looked up at Mr. Novak, who had turned to go back into the kitchen. Then, she looked at the mistresses. Then, she looked back at the dish.
There, in front of her, was a dog’s food bowl. On one side of the plastic bowl was a handful of lamb meat, cut into tiny pieces (about the size of kibble, Portia noted queasily in the back of her mind). On the other side of the bowl was a handful of leaf green peas. A metal water dish sat beside the food bowl, filled about two-thirds full.
“No,” Portia said, quietly.
Heather swallowed her mouthful of lamb and looked down at Portia, curious. “Is something wrong, girl?”
“I won’t do it.” Portia’s voice was a choked snarl. “I won’t.”
Heather’s tone was calm, placid. “Now, Portia, stay calm-”
“I’m not a dog.”
“If you’d like, we can-”
“I’m not a dog.”
“Listen to me, girl-”
“I’m not a fucking dog!”
Heather sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Charlotte, if you please.”
Portia was set to tell Heather exactly where she could put that fucking dog bowl before she was, almost in an instant, face-to-face with Charlotte, who had pulled away from the table to grab hold of Portia’s scruff and hold her still.
“Listen to me, girl.” Charlotte’s voice, low and rough and smoke-seasoned, thrummed in her ears, startling Portia into stillness. “You’re a rude little cunt, but you’re not weak. We’ve had weak girls here before, and they whinged and moaned all day ‘til we decided we liked ‘em better as toilets.” Portia gulped at the thought before Charlotte continued.
“D’you feel like shit? Good. That’s how you learn the sun doesn’t rise ‘cuz you tell it to. This is how you’ll get so your mum won’t disown you. If you’re not strong enough for it, don’t waste our fuckin’ time.”
The only sound was that of Portia’s ragged breathing.
“Now, are you hungry or not?”
Charlotte let go of Portia’s scruff and sat back down at the table, spearing a piece of lamb with her fork. Portia sat on her knees for a moment, eyes shut, breathing to steady herself.
With a defeated groan, the Eevee got on her knees in front of the dog bowl, placed each hand on either side of it, lowered her face to the bowl, and hesitated for a moment. The tiny bits of lamb and handful of peas stared back at her before, wincing, she opened her mouth.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the dining room was that of cutlery on china, and of Portia moving her mouth around in the bowl, chewing and swallowing. Occasionally, she would switch bowls, and the sound of her tongue lapping at water could be heard. Some water splashed over the bowl’s rim, earning a couple of disappointed tongue clicks from Heather.
It only took a couple of minutes for the bowl to be almost empty. Portia looked up at the three dommes, trying to figure out how to ask if she could have more. Her stomach still growled, complaining.
Heather shook her head. “Remember what it says on your forehead, girl?”
It was then that Portia came the closest she had gotten in years to bursting into tears. The wealth, the luxury, the freedom, the pride-it melted away, just for a second, to reveal a scared, humiliated girl whose future now hung in the balance every second of every day.
She lowered her head again, her wet pink tongue flicking out and drinking the cold water.

Portia had been ordered to bed after dinner. It wasn’t a punishment thing, as far as she knew-they simply had no use for her for the rest of the night. “Besides,” Heather said, “it’s only your first day.”
That thought repeated on a neat loop in her mind as she descended the cellar stairs. This was the first day. This wasn’t a trick for twenty-four hours to scare her straight, this wasn’t a week-long clinic, this wasn’t a fortnight at Aunt Agnes’ house in Dorset. This was for as long as was seen fit.
She was told that the room where she was sent for her dress earlier was not, in fact, her bedroom-her bedroom was in the cellar, the last door on the right. The previous night had been spent at a five-star hotel in London, and here she would be, sleeping like a servant.
Not even like a servant! They had servants’ quarters, after all-they didn’t sleep in the cellar like a fucking Fritzl daughter. Portia was fuming even before she opened the door to her room-and what was inside did not lighten her up.
“Oh, fuck you…” she groaned, to no one in particular. A bed, a desk, and a drawer, crammed into a room that would make a monastic cell feel like Caesar’s palace. Whereas the rest of the manor was furnished and decorated, this was just plain walls, plain floor, and plain sheets. They weren’t even pretending that this wasn’t a fucking prison.
Portia was about to sink into bed, miserable and lonely, when she noticed something laying on top of the desk. She glanced at it once, not paying it much mind, before looking again. “Huh…?”
On top of the desk was a bar of chocolate, neatly wrapped in pink and white foil. Dahlmann’s-Portia’s favorite chocolate store in the world, ever since she was a kid. Beneath it was a note, written in a scratchy but practiced hand.
“You did alright today. You’ll get there yet.”
Beneath it, there was a swoop of curved ink. C.
Hesitating, as though wondering if this was a trick, Portia set the note down and opened the bar of chocolate, taking a bite and closing her eyes. Despite everything that happened today, a smile came across her face.
Perhaps she was ready for day two, after all.