The idea of being owned by him stirred something deep within me. The notion that I belonged to him, that I was tied to him by this debt, was becoming more than just a burden—it was becoming an obsession.
A knot of shame tightened in my chest at how much I craved his control, the way his words turned the debt into something more… something almost seductive. It wasn't just about the debt anymore; it was about the thrill of being marked as his.
The more he talked, the more I felt myself slipping from who I used to be. The debt was no longer just a financial burden—it was becoming a symbol of something I didn't fully understand yet. I hated how much I wanted to stay in his world, even knowing I was losing pieces of myself to him.
As Oliver guided me back to the room where I had first seen the debtors, the weight of my impending duties pressed heavily on my shoulders. The space felt even more oppressive now, with the knowledge of what awaited me here.
His hand still lingered on mine, the warmth of his touch a constant reminder of the connection we were forging.
He led me past the heavy velvet curtain and into the room. There, amidst the haze of smoke and dusky light, was the woman I had glimpsed earlier, casually smoking a cigarette. She was an older lady, likely in her seventies or eighties, with the unmistakable signs of a lifetime of smoking etched into her face. Her voice, when she spoke, was raspy and weathered, carrying the gravelly tones of years spent with cigarettes.
She was dressed like a Sunday school teacher, in a pale, floral-print dress that fell just below her knees. The high collar and lace trim clashed with the heavy smoke in the air, giving her the odd appearance of someone who had stepped out of a church potluck and into a den of sin. Her bouffant hair was an architectural marvel—thick, teased into a perfect puff, and frozen in place with hairspray, like something straight out of the 1960s. The juxtaposition between her prim, almost wholesome attire and the gritty underworld of the Vault was jarring, as if she had wandered in from another life and simply decided to stay.
She looked up as we entered, her gaze sharp and assessing. She raised an eyebrow in recognition, her cigarette dangling between her fingers. "Oh, look who's back," she drawled, smoke curling lazily from her lips. "I remember you from earlier. You're the one who was peeking in on the clients."
Oliver gestured in her direction. "This is Marge," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an authoritative edge. "She's been handling things around here for a while and knows the ins and outs of how we operate. Marge, this is Lux.
She'll be working here under my arrangement."
Marge's eyes drifted back to me, her gaze both curious and amused. "Nice to see you again," she said, her voice raspy.
I felt a flush creep up my neck. The walls seemed to close in around me, filled with the echoes of the earlier performances I had witnessed. The thought of joining this world, of working in this room, filled me with dread.
Oliver gave me a reassuring smile, which did little to calm the swirling storm inside me. "Marge will help you get acclimated. She's the one to talk to if you need anything or have any questions about how things work."
Marge gave me a nod, her gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Come on, then. Let's get you settled. The sooner you get used to the way things work around here, the better."
She led me further into the room, her voice taking on a matter-of-fact tone. "You'll be living here until your debt is fully paid off," she said, her raspy voice echoing in the dimly lit space. "This is where you'll spend most of your time, so you might as well get comfortable."
I nodded, trying to absorb the reality of it all.
The idea of living here, in this place, made everything feel more real. Oliver's presence next to me only intensified the feeling, a constant reminder of the arrangement we had made.
Oliver glanced at me with a smirk and said, "Lux will be getting a Class A living space, as long as she performs well. Make sure she gets the best treatment and send her my top clients."
Marge's eyes widened slightly, and she looked at me with a mix of surprise and approval. "Lucky girl," she said with a hint of admiration in her voice. "Getting the top treatment in here. Our debtors normally have to work hard for this kind of treatment." Her gaze lingered on me, as if assessing whether I truly deserved this special treatment.
Oliver's smirk widened. "Yes, well, Lux and I have a special kind of arrangement. I expect her to stand out."
Marge leaned in closer to Oliver, her whisper barely audible. "You know, the other debtors aren't going to be too happy to hear about this. They'll see her getting the top clients and the best room, and they might get a bit… restless."
Oliver chuckled softly, his tone casual. "Let them grumble. I trust you to keep things running smoothly."
Marge gave a nod, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Don't worry, Oli. I'll make sure everything stays in line."
"Each living space here has a window view," she said, gesturing to the rows of doors lining the hallway. "Clients can view the debtors through these windows and choose who they want based on what they see. The living spaces are ranked in Classes, from Class A to Class C."
She pointed to a door with an elegant touch. "Class A is the top tier. The rooms here are the most desirable. They get the best clients and the finest treatment. That's where you'll be staying—the Violet Rooms."
Marge then motioned to a set of doors further down the hall, painted in a rich, enticing shade of pink. "Class B rooms are in the Pink Rooms. They're a step below but still offer good treatment. The clients here are respectable, though not quite as high-profile as those in Class A."
She glanced towards the end of the corridor where the more utilitarian rooms were situated. "Class C are the lower- tier rooms, often referred to as the main viewing stalls. These are the ones you saw earlier, where the lower-value debtors are placed. The rooms aren't as glamorous, and the clients are less selective."
I absorbed the information, my nerves easing slightly as the weight of the Class A designation sank in. "The higher the Class," Marge went on, "the more valuable the debtor. It's all about the size of the debt and the desirability of the debtor. Class A means you're at the top of the hierarchy here, along with all the perks that come with it."
I could feel a mixture of pride and trepidation bubbling up inside me. Being in Class A meant I was at the peak of the system here, but it also came with the intense pressure to perform and maintain that status.
As we approached the door to my new room, Marge unlocked it and swung it open. The space was small but immaculately maintained. The entire room was drenched in shades of violet—deep purples, lavender, and soft lilacs blending seamlessly. The walls were adorned with rich, plush fabrics that echoed the color scheme.
Oliver handed Marge the lingerie that had been chosen earlier. Marge took the sets from him, handling them with practiced care. She began to hang them up on a display rack against one wall, arranging them neatly so clients could get a clear view of what I had to offer.
The lingerie was prominently displayed, each set catching the light in a way that made them look even more alluring. The room's violet tones seemed to highlight the pieces, creating a seductive ambiance that was both intimate and inviting.
Marge looked around approvingly. "This is where you'll be showcasing your… talents," she said with a knowing smile.
Oliver's gaze lingered on the room, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Marge, make sure she's comfortable here," he said.
Marge nodded, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and understanding. "Will do."
Oliver turned to leave but the weight of his gaze still clung to me. I felt both lighter and lost without the steady pull of his presence.
I took a deep breath, absorbing the atmosphere of the Violet Room. The soft violet light, the display of lingerie—it all felt both overwhelming and exhilarating. It was my new reality, a space where I'd have to prove myself and navigate this complex world.
I turned to Marge; my curiosity piqued. "Before I dive into this, I want to see what the other rooms and debtors are like, if I can?"
Marge raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Sure thing, sweetheart. Let me show you around."
We moved through the corridors, past doors that led to rooms just like mine—small, purpose-built spaces with their own distinct color themes.
As we walked, I caught glimpses of the other debtors in their respective spaces. Some looked resigned, while others appeared to be trying to make the best of their situation. The environment was a mix of tense anticipation and acceptance.
As we approached one of the Class A rooms, the door was partially open, and I could hear muted sounds of activity from inside.
Marge motioned for me to stand by the window. "You're welcome to take a look, get a feel for what goes on in the higher-end rooms."
I hesitated for a moment, then moved closer to the window. The scene inside was both fascinating and intense.
Inside, a girl in striking leather lingerie was dominating her client. Her outfit was tight, accentuating her curves with every movement. She had one foot firmly planted on the man's face; his body twisted in submission. The man knelt before her, his rear end raised, fully exposed to her control.
With deliberate, practiced motions, she handled him, her dominance clear in the way she moved. Her voice, a mix of cruelty and amusement, cut through the room. "You're a nasty boy," she said, her tone dripping with mockery.
The girl glanced up and noticed me standing at the window. A smirk played on her lips, and she slowly removed her top, revealing her full, confident figure. She leaned forward, making sure I had a clear view.
"Look at this audience," she taunted, her voice carrying through the room. "Seeing your pathetic ass being punished."
The man's face was hidden beneath her foot, but his muffled responses and the way his body shivered in reaction told me he was deeply accepting by the scene unfolding.
Marge leaned in, her tone casual. "This is how things go in the top-class rooms. It's all about performance and making a statement. The better you are, the more clients you attract."
I felt a mix of emotions—curiosity, apprehension, and a strange, undeniable arousal. The display was raw and intense.
"Is this the kind of thing I'll be expected to do?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Marge gave me a reassuring smile. "You'll find your own way. Everyone has their style. You'll figure out what worked for you."
Being in Class A was a privilege, but the weight of it was pressed down on me. What if I couldn't live up to the expectations Oliver had set? What if my "best clients" demanded something I wasn't ready to give? The more luxurious the surroundings, the more suffocating it all felt.
We left the window and I felt a renewed sense of determination.
As Marge led me down the corridor towards the Class B rooms, the atmosphere shifted noticeably. The lights were dimmer, casting a subdued glow that created a more subdued and intimate setting. Here, the control seemed more balanced, though the power dynamics still favored the clients.
We stopped in front of one of the Class B rooms, and Marge gestured towards the window. "You should get a sense of what happens in these rooms too," she said.
I peered through the window, and what I saw was a striking contrast to the Class A room. Inside, a male debtor lay on the bed, his body tied up, with his head hanging off the edge of the bed. The scene was intense and charged with raw power dynamics.
A large man, clearly dominant, was thrusting forcefully into his mouth with his hands firmly gripping his throat. The muffled gags and noises from the debtor penetrated through the walls, making the situation painfully clear. It was a harsh display of power and submission.
Marge's voice was matter of fact as she explained, "This client prefers this kind of session. He has a kink for exerting control in this way."
I felt a shiver run down my spine. The image was unsettling. Yet, despite the discomfort, I couldn't look away. The scene was a powerful demonstration of the extremes to which clients could push their fantasies and the lengths to which debtors were pushed to fulfill those desires.
Marge's tone softened slightly. "It's not always pretty. But it's part of the reality here. You'll have to navigate it all, find your place, and figure out how to make the most of your situation."
We moved on and Marge took me to the Class C area, the main space I had seen earlier. The energy here was significantly different—darker and more somber.
Marge reminded me, "Class C debtors don't have much say in their treatment. They're often paired with clients who have less regard for their well-being. It's a tough situation and these individuals are frequently given the lowest level of and respect."
She led me to a closed curtain and parted it slightly. Inside, a young woman, clearly struggling with the effects of long-term drug use, was being attended to by a client. Her condition was apparent, with visible signs of neglect and hardship.
He prepared a syringe and administered it to the young woman, her body slowly going limp as the drug took hold. As I watched the girl's body go limp under the drug's influence, a chill ran down my spine. There was a part of me, buried deep, that feared I might end up just like her—used up and hollow, a product of this place and its promises.
I wondered if anyone had ever looked at me the way I was looking at her now.
Moving with unsettling ease, he took advantage of her vulnerable state, his actions deliberate and invasive, until he finally finished, leaving a degrading mark on her unconscious form.
He smirked as he pulled her mouth closed and adjusted his clothing, casting a final, careless glance at her before walking past us without a word. Marge stepped forward, draping a blanket over the girl's still body, a moment of quiet resignation passing between us before we moved on.
Marge looked at me with a serious expression. "This is the harsh reality for many in Class C. It's the price they pay to be drug addicts without the care of consequences."
Marge continued, "Food around here is basic, but it keeps you going. You'll get your meals, but don't expect any gourmet cuisine. As for drugs, well, those are usually dealt with separately. You might get access through your clients or by trading favors."
I nodded, taking in the information. "Oliver assured me I'd have access to Nebula…"
Marge's expression turned serious. "Nebula is a different beast entirely. It's a powerful drug, one that not only enhances pleasure but also creates a craving that's hard to quench. It'll make your time with clients more enjoyable, but it also has a way of making you want more and more. It's insatiable. If Oliver promised you Nebula, you will get it. He is good on his word."
Nebula sounded dangerous in the way Oliver was, a temptation with consequences I couldn't fully grasp yet. A darker thrill crept in at the thought of it. Would it numb me to fear, or would it leave me craving something more, something I couldn't control?
With that, She led me back to my room, the plush purple surroundings feeling both comforting and overwhelming. I had a lot to learn and adapt to.
"Marge, by the way, what is this place called?"
She took a long drag off her cigarette before answering. She said "Many people call this place The Debtors Isles, but you'll hear this place called many things. The regulars just call it the Isles."