Page 39 of Born for Lace

“Then it won’t hurt as much, your body will open for them, but you have to relax. You’ll probably tighten up because you’ve never felt it before. Remember to breathe.” She inhales through her rosy lips and exhales a few seconds later. “Big breaths. In and out.”

I follow her as she sashays across the room, her body swaying, seduction carved into her soul. I don’t walk like that, so I study her movements, her salacious lilt.

“Do you know a man who can get me butter?” I ask, my lower lip folding into my teeth.

“I only know one man who can get butter, and heisa gentleman but does not take kindly to the word no. So, just… be agreeable.”

Lagos isn’t a gentle man.

The unwelcome thought forces me to swallow. She doesn’t mean Lagos. He can’t get butter and wouldn’t; it isn’t urgent.

It doesn’t matter. I’m doing this because I want to be independent, feel a man, be adored, and I want something for Tide. He found me lemon, and I don’t feel comfortable asking Lagos for something as silly and non-urgent as ingredients to make ginger cookie dough.

“Okay. A gentle man,” I accept. “What would I say no to anyway?”

She turns, her brows have hit her hairline. “A lot of things, Dahlia. Alotof things. Men do a lot of weird things. I will tell him it is your first time—as a House Girl—and hopefully, he is happy to keep your first interactions vanilla.”

“Vanilla?”

“Yes, meaning…” She considers her words carefully. “Standard sex. Cock in pussy. Talking to you is like speaking to a child. How old are you?”

I don’t take offence. It’s honestly fair in this case. I have skills growing La Mu and sewing, but I’m conditioned to be inexperienced in the ways of men.

Time to change that.

“Twenty-two, I believe, but they changed my birthday in the Lace House. One year I was six, and then a new Wardeness took over, and I was eight. My age went back and forth a few times. I am not sure why. I don’t think they actually knew.”

She huffs dubiously. “Or they wanted to confuse you on purpose. Men like young women. So, they upped your age without your knowledge.”

I blink at her, remembering the moment I was gifted to my Ward. A young girl with red hair tied back in a lace bow. I had breasts and pubic hair, but I remember feeling tiny beside him; it was the first time I’d ever met a man. All Common girls are small in comparison to a man with Xin De genes. My Ward was not Common, though his engineered genus was subtle.

Not like Lagos.

My Ward held my hand in his as they gave him instructions on how to care for me, how to treat me, what I liked to eat, and so on. “So, I could have been quite young when my Ward took me in?”

“But you’re not now.” She stands behind me again, her head over the top of mine. Turning me, she presents me to the mirror again. “Now, you’re a woman, and nothing makes you feel more like a woman than being with a man.”

* * *

I’ve scrubbed myself with soap from head to toe before dressing in the cream corset, matching skirting, and thigh-high white stocking Sweets found under a pile of sheets. They are too long for me, so I folded the tops and created a neat band around each upper thigh.

Spero is with Tomar for the night, as I told him that I wanted to spend time bonding with Sweets and The House Girls. I didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask any more questions, quite smitten with our tiny assassin.

Across the den, three girls dance on tables, and several bodies are eclipsed by dark corners. Men and women, Common and Xin De, conversing privately as everyone seems to do here at The Bite.

I don’t know what to do.

Sweets said I should dance, but I’m not a great dancer… I do sing. I used to sing to my Ward, so instead of joining the other girls on the tables, I sit beside the drum and will myself to sing.

I search the black pockets, trying to see into the depths of each private corner, but I cannot decipher shapes or forms. Still, I am almost certain Lagos is not here. Usually, I feel his eyes like nails dragging down my spine.

Drawing in courage, I inhale and exhale into song, a shanty about fresh air that matches the tempo of the drum.

At first, my voice trembles, so I close my eyes, blanketing the shadowed figures scattered around the room and the gyrating bodies on the tables.

And as I sing the words, I recall the feeling I felt when I first heard them. It’s an optimistic song, and yet, melancholic, just like breathing in clean air.

When I was no older than eight, on my first day at the Lace House, a strange girl crawled into bed with me without so much as a greeting but instead with a song. This song. I was terrified to start my studies and prepare for Meaningful Purpose, but Maple was full of peace and strange energy, as if she saw things outside of reality. Somehow, she was a protective force, steady and confident.

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