DM Post
The sun settled high and proud overhead, bearing down on all who were unfortunate enough to get caught in its sweltering heat, and establishing reign over all that its rays could touch through the regal, golden light. One such set of poor souls stood below. A galleon vessel, seafaring as the day she was built, bobbed nonchalantly along through the murky blue ocean. On its deck, a mismatched crew of sailors, subordinates, and sleazes all stood, sweating as they toiled at their own paces. Even so, as many broke their backs swabbing the deck, manning the oars, or making their rounds, they were hardly the most "unfortunate" of the souls about the place.
Just below the deck, swabbed to perfection by errand boys a-plenty, existed a place far less glamorous. Prisoners had been stowed away like cargo, forced into cramped quarters that were about as desolate as they were small. No matter how the higher-ups of the boat tried and tried to keep the place clean, the faint stench of sex persisted like a curse. Moans, screams, and cries alike slipped out in all directions through the thin walls and barred gates that clients and whores were provided in their time together. A brothel ship needs its merchandise after all, and there was no brothel more wretched nor with more to spare than the infamous Geeldes Traveling Brothel.
Now, during the early lunchtime hours, Hatiith Geeldes, the king himself, meandered fearlessly about his domain. He was not a tall man, slouching down to a meager five-foot-six, and bent slightly upon a cane at that. The tabby cat's orange fur, striped with white, caught the golden light well, while a lone canary feather, jetting out from his wide-brimmed hat, bore fruit as evidence of his cleverness. The dull and incessant "thunk... thunk" of his wooden cane always announced his presence long before he could arrive, and slowly, as he made his way below deck and down the long stretch of hallway, he passed every last one of his slaves without a glance nor care in the world as he approached the canteen.
Lunchtime was orderly, and the system was simple. A third of the whores currently ate within the canteen, another third would do the same in half an hour, just as the final third would a half hour after that. Hatiith was not a kind man, but he knew that the bare-minimum indulgence of social lunchtime settings would do well to keep the slaves a hair's breadth from revolt. During this time, brothelmates are either at lunch, given the chance to eat and chat quietly under the watchful eye of guards, with a client, expected to cater to each and every sexual whim of their temporary buyers, or in their cells, alone, and to their own devices.
---
Milo
The harrowing "thunk" of the beast outside moved excruciatingly slow for Milo. He didn't dare bring his eyes to peer out of his cell, fearing the face of any captor who may have stared back. Knees to his chest, and tail swishing nervously behind him, Milo kept his gaze firmly focused on the wall, breathing hard, and doing anything to calm him own fears as he sat on the floor. This was a daily thing for the demur cougar man. Ever since the first few clients had their way with him, he was reduced to an anxious, shuddering mess. A weaker-willed being such as him would be broken in with time, but in the present, he faced the hardest time for a brothel whore: the first few weeks.
The sun settled high and proud overhead, bearing down on all who were unfortunate enough to get caught in its sweltering heat, and establishing reign over all that its rays could touch through the regal, golden light. One such set of poor souls stood below. A galleon vessel, seafaring as the day she was built, bobbed nonchalantly along through the murky blue ocean. On its deck, a mismatched crew of sailors, subordinates, and sleazes all stood, sweating as they toiled at their own paces. Even so, as many broke their backs swabbing the deck, manning the oars, or making their rounds, they were hardly the most "unfortunate" of the souls about the place.
Just below the deck, swabbed to perfection by errand boys a-plenty, existed a place far less glamorous. Prisoners had been stowed away like cargo, forced into cramped quarters that were about as desolate as they were small. No matter how the higher-ups of the boat tried and tried to keep the place clean, the faint stench of sex persisted like a curse. Moans, screams, and cries alike slipped out in all directions through the thin walls and barred gates that clients and whores were provided in their time together. A brothel ship needs its merchandise after all, and there was no brothel more wretched nor with more to spare than the infamous Geeldes Traveling Brothel.
Now, during the early lunchtime hours, Hatiith Geeldes, the king himself, meandered fearlessly about his domain. He was not a tall man, slouching down to a meager five-foot-six, and bent slightly upon a cane at that. The tabby cat's orange fur, striped with white, caught the golden light well, while a lone canary feather, jetting out from his wide-brimmed hat, bore fruit as evidence of his cleverness. The dull and incessant "thunk... thunk" of his wooden cane always announced his presence long before he could arrive, and slowly, as he made his way below deck and down the long stretch of hallway, he passed every last one of his slaves without a glance nor care in the world as he approached the canteen.
Lunchtime was orderly, and the system was simple. A third of the whores currently ate within the canteen, another third would do the same in half an hour, just as the final third would a half hour after that. Hatiith was not a kind man, but he knew that the bare-minimum indulgence of social lunchtime settings would do well to keep the slaves a hair's breadth from revolt. During this time, brothelmates are either at lunch, given the chance to eat and chat quietly under the watchful eye of guards, with a client, expected to cater to each and every sexual whim of their temporary buyers, or in their cells, alone, and to their own devices.
---
Milo
The harrowing "thunk" of the beast outside moved excruciatingly slow for Milo. He didn't dare bring his eyes to peer out of his cell, fearing the face of any captor who may have stared back. Knees to his chest, and tail swishing nervously behind him, Milo kept his gaze firmly focused on the wall, breathing hard, and doing anything to calm him own fears as he sat on the floor. This was a daily thing for the demur cougar man. Ever since the first few clients had their way with him, he was reduced to an anxious, shuddering mess. A weaker-willed being such as him would be broken in with time, but in the present, he faced the hardest time for a brothel whore: the first few weeks.
