The young man was gradually coming to his senses; his mind was clearing, leaving behind nothing but weakness. When Thomas was finally able to focus his gaze, he found that he was still lying on the bed, but now covered with some sort of robe. He managed to sit up.
In the armchair opposite him, legs crossed, sat the Madam. In her hands, she held a long cigarette holder, from which a thin wisp of smoke curled. Behind her loomed one of the bouncers.
"I need to know what price to set for you," she blew a stream of smoke.
Thomas remained silent. He tried to pull the robe tighter around himself, but his fingers still wouldn't fully obey.
"My clients are sophisticated people," the woman continued, not taking her studying gaze off him. "A beautiful body is only half the success. They need entertainment and interesting conversation. What talents do you possess?"
Thomas clenched his jaw. Long hours in the spacious, bright halls of his family estate surfaced in his memory: strict music teachers forcing him to repeat complex Bach passages time after time; the smell of oil paints in the home studio; endless lessons in French, Latin, and Italian, and everything an heir of noble blood was supposed to know and be able to do.
"I don't know how to do anything," he replied. "All my life I've brushed horses and hauled sacks at the port. I can't read, I don't know sheet music, and I don't know how to make small talk."
The Madam froze. For a second, silence hung in the room, and then the woman laughed.
She stood up, walked over to the bed, and grabbed his hand. Her sharp nails dug into his skin.
"Brushed horses?" she drawled, raising his palm so the lamplight fell on his fingers. "Look at your hands: long, slender, elegant musician's fingers, clean nails. You have calluses, yes—but these are marks from a sword hilt and reins, not from physical labor."
She roughly tossed his hand aside and leaned right into his face.
"Your posture, your appearance, and the way you hold your chin—everything screams of good breeding. You lie, and you lie poorly. If you do not wish to speak yourself, then I will demand you do whatever the client wants."
The Madam straightened up and clapped her hands.
"Bring in the wardrobe."
The doors flew open, and two girls entered the room, rolling clothing racks before them.
When Thomas saw what kind of clothes they had brought, he was horrified. It was not men's clothing, but perverted, theatrical costumes created by people with a sick imagination for one single purpose—to humiliate and seduce.
There were translucent garments revealing the stomach and shoulders; narrow embroidered corsets, long skirts with inconceivable slits right up to the thigh; lace stockings, garters, ribbons, and soft leather collars.
"Men and some women love this sort of thing," the Madam explained in a bored tone, sorting through the hangers of clothes. "They like to blur the lines of normalcy. When a youth of your beauty and build puts on something like this, it excites their blood more than any brothel wench."
She settled her choice on an outfit, the mere sight of which made Thomas nauseous. It was an attire in the style of some mythical harem: translucent white chiffon bloomers that hid absolutely nothing, and a pearl-embroidered bodice. To complement it, there were wide gold bracelets for the wrists and ankles, connected by thin, clinking chains.
"Put this on him," she ordered.
"I will not wear this!" Thomas jumped up from the bed, clenching his fists, breathing heavily.
But his rebellion lasted exactly one second. The bouncer standing by the wall stepped forward and, as easily as if handling a kitten, struck him behind the knees. Thomas collapsed onto the carpet. In that same second, his arms were again roughly twisted behind his back.
Thomas resisted and writhed as they roughly pulled the clothes onto him, pushing them away with his shoulders as they wrapped his torso in the stiff corset. The guard held him in a death grip, and the drug was still in effect, making him weak.
"Lace the waist tighter," the Madam commanded indifferently, watching the process.
Thomas arched his back when the silk laces on his back were pulled tight. The air rushed out of his lungs; the corset dug into his skin, forcing him to straighten his back. The bracelets were clasped onto his wrists and ankles with a clink.
When they were finished, the bouncer jerked him to his feet and dragged him to a huge mirror in a gilded frame.
"Look," the Madam whispered, standing behind him.
Thomas raised his eyes to his reflection and shuddered. The translucent fabric clung to his hips, the corset accentuated the fragility of his waist, and the gold chains clinked with every breath. He looked like an expensive, exotic concubine.
The sense of dignity he had tried to preserve cracked. Thomas lowered his head. He had been prepared for beatings, but he had not been prepared for this.
"Perfect," the Madam nodded in satisfaction.