Okay, so there was this one time—ahem—when I was kept as a pet. No, not metaphorically. Full-on, silk collar, actual leash, ridiculous outfits and everything.
She was this noble girl in Toemachan, rich as sin and bored out of her skull. Picked me up like you'd snag a trinket at market. Said I was "exotic." I said she was "lonely." Match made in heaven.
I spent most of that month lounging in her ridiculous sun-drenched townhouse, draped in gauze and satin, on a bed big enough to host an orgy and a buffet. She'd feed me candied dates, stroke my hair, and make me purr on command. Literally. I had to purr. That was part of the game. And yes—there were cat ears. And yes—there was a tail. Don't ask. No really. Don't.
The Dragon nearly choked when I told him.
"A what now?" he said, looking like he just inhaled a hedgehog.
"A sex kitten," I replied, stretching like one. "It was fun. Cozy. The leash was silk."
He muttered something about dignity dying in a ditch.
But anyway, things were plush until her adoring mother came back early from her moon-blessed pilgrimage. Walked in, took one look at me—collar, tail, probably still sticky—and threw me out the window. Literally. Into the street. No shoes, no coin, no goodbye.
Still. Best week of sleep I ever got. Real pillows. Goose feather, I think. Gods, I miss those pillows.
Oh, those days were lush. I mean, once you got past the ears and the tail—which, let me repeat for the perverts in the back, do not ask about—it was honestly kind of perfect.
Mornings started with me tangled in silk sheets, naked except for that stupid collar, smelling like rose oil and sin. She'd roll over all sleepy-eyed and smug, snuggle into me like I was some warm plush toy she won at a carnival, and mumble, "Purr for me." And I would. Because the bed was soft. Because the pillows were divine. Because the alternative was being back in a stable, waking up to mule piss and a rat chewing on my braid.
She was cute, in that pampered-daughter-of-a-minor-duke kind of way. Spoiled to the bone. More con than brains, honestly—like a courtesan who never needed to learn the trade because she was born at the top of the pyramid. Knew how to flutter lashes and whimper just right, but couldn't read a ledger or boil an egg. Probably thought peasants grew on trees and taxes were a kind of fashion.
But gods, was she frisky. Girl had energy. That kind of high-strung noble blood that needed constant stimulation—petting, teasing, nibbling, playing. She'd nudge me awake just to braid ribbons into my hair and then yank them out again mid-kiss. I once spent three hours pinned under her while she "admired my pelt." I didn't mind. I had no chores. No bruises. No coin to steal, no scams to run. Just lying there, stretched like a lazy jungle cat, being fed dates and honey-glazed figs, occasionally getting licked in places you don't normally get licked.
Afternoons were naps. Long, indulgent, belly-up sprawls in sunbeams. Evenings were baths together in that absurd marble tub, scented water, candles, her giggling as she tried to wash behind my ears. She made me drink wine from a saucer once. Not proud of that. But the hangover was worth it.
Honestly, I could've gotten used to it.
If the bitch-mother hadn't ruined everything.
So yeah. Just as I was getting real used to this pervy little slice of domestic bliss—curled up in a velvet nest, getting hand-fed candied almonds, purring on command, being doted on like a prized kitten with a heat problem—she arrived.
Enter: the mother.
Lady Iron-Bun herself. Stormed in unannounced like a war goddess in pearls, flanked by two beef slabs in uniform. Bodyguards, allegedly. Don't ask. I swear there was something going on between all three of them. The way one of them called her "Mistress" was doing things to me, and not the good ones.
Anyway, I'm lounging on the bed, tail twitching, Dolores halfway through braiding a ribbon into my thigh—don't ask about that either—when we hear the heels. Click. Click. Click. Like a countdown to doom.
Then—BAM—the doors burst open and there she is, all righteous fury and ancient incense.
"Dolores!" she screeches, like she just caught her daughter tongue-deep in a stable boy.
Dolores freezes. "M-Mother! It's not—"
"Again?!"
"Please, it's—she's just my—my therapy pet—"
Yeah. That went over well.
I sit up like, hi, collar jingling, tail doing God-knows-what, probably wagging in betrayal.
Next thing I know, one of the beefcakes grabs me by the scruff like a misbehaving alley cat, and Lady Doom yells something about corruption, degeneracy, and "defiling the bloodline with gutter harlots."
And then—whoosh. First floor window. No time to grab my clothes, no time to hiss a retort, just a blur of glass and sky and me flailing mid-air like some discarded sin-doll.
Landed in the hydrangeas. Naked. Bruised. Still purring, out of spite.
Good times.