Towards the beginning of Portia Blackburn’s short stint at uni, a hypnotist came and did a show. He was disappointingly ordinary; he was a short, scrawny fennec fox named David Smith, a name that was so generic Portia was convinced it had to be made up. He had about a dozen students come up on stage, where he would hypnotize them and make them do ridiculous things; pair up and perform a tango, for instance, or pretend to be surgeons in an operating room. Portia thought that the people up on stage would have been audience plants, but her friend Gwen was one of the people chosen, and she wasn’t a plant as far as she knew. 

Towards the end of it, David Smith gave one final command to those hypnotized. “When you cross the threshold from the auditorium to the lobby,” he said, “you’re going to wake up.” And indeed, they did; as soon as they walked through the exits, the hypnotized blinked their eyes and went “huh?” or “hey!” or “oh, hell!”

The same thing happened in reverse when Portia’s mistresses left the manor to meet friends for lunch. As soon as Portia heard the distant sound of a closing door, she dropped the rag she was using to clean the window, stopped humming the aimless tune she was humming, and spoke to herself aloud. “What the fuck am I doing?”

It hadn’t even been half a week since the shiftless party girl arrived at Rutledge Manor, a last resort before disownment. In that time, she had been slapped, spanked, and humiliated. She had been made to lick the feet of her mistresses, made to eat out of a dog bowl, made to clean a room with a plug shoved up her rear. And now that she had this place to herself for the first time, she was just going to keep cleaning like a good little maid? Not bloody likely. The three witches hadn’t gotten to her that quickly.

If you’re such an independent spirit, why did you wait ‘til they were gone? This was the smart-aleck voice in the back of Portia’s head that liked to needle her sometimes; it sounded a great deal like her older sister Ophelia, which must have been a coincidence. The Eevee girl did her best to ignore it, turning away from the window and walking out the door.

It was time to do a little exploring.

---

Portia-

Given that you’re new here, and given that we’re not around to walk you through things, your chores for the afternoon are simple. Put the laundry in the washer out to dry; if you don’t know where the drying rack is, ask Cora. The dishwasher should have finished by now; empty it and put everything where they belong. (Miss Charlotte was thoughtful enough to leave a note on the counter; thank her when she returns.) When you’re finished, you may eat your lunch and wait patiently for our return.

Please excuse my handwriting; I tend to scrawl when I hurry.

-Miss Heather

Portia couldn’t help but laugh reading the note Heather left out for her. Even her hastily scribbled-out notes were as neat as a wedding invitation and contained no fewer than four semicolons. Not like it mattered; the Cinccino could have etched her directions in stone and it wouldn’t make Portia follow them any quicker.

Lunch, though, might be nice. The Eevee walked into the kitchen, looking around; modern and well-stocked, if a bit smaller than she expected. She went to the fridge and opened up the door, looking inside before giving an exasperated sigh. It was just as she expected.

The lunch itself looked appetizing indeed; a grilled chicken breast, marinated in balsamic vinegar. It was perfectly cooked, looking tender and juicy instead of wan and chalky-dry. But the silver dog-food bowl that it sat in reminded the Eevee, once again, of her place in this house. Her cheeks blushed hot as she remembered that humiliating first night, eating on the floor like some meek little animal. She turned with a huff, going to the cupboard and grabbing a small plate.

As the chicken heated in the microwave, Portia looked for something to drink. There was a liquor cabinet, thank God-the only thing worse than living with three prissy dominatrices was living with three teetotalling prissy dominatrices. Although, considering that most of the bottles in the cabinet were barely touched, maybe they didn’t drink anyway; once again, that would explain a lot.

Vodka! Thank Christ. Good vodka, too-not the kind that used sleek, fashionable labels to hide that they sold glorified potato water. Portia went to get a shot glass, but thought better of it and took the whole bottle. No one needed to know, right? She uncapped the bottle and set at it.

Vodka isn’t thought of as a particularly comforting drink, but the burn in her throat and belly reassured Portia somewhat. It felt good to be free from prying eyes, to pop open a drink and take a swig without having that preening dust mop flounce over with a cat o’ nine tails. What she originally thought to be a quick nip turned into a few strong gulps, leaving her wincing from the strong taste. Still, she bounced right back, capping it and putting it back in place as the microwave beeped.

Portia never thought she’d be so glad to use a knife and fork.

---

When Portia drank, the connections between events grew blurry. Take last October for Emily’s birthday party; she could remember climbing atop a table drunkenly warbling the chorus to “Wannabe”, she could remember puking into the rubbish bin in the club toilets because all the stalls were occupied, and she could remember grinding into the lap of a lanky badger who kept sniffing her hair, but how one thing led to another eluded her.

And so it was that Portia found herself standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at a plum. She wasn’t completely sloshed, but she had enough of a buzz going that things were fuzzy around the edges, and apparently in one of those fuzzy moments she had a craving for fruit. Well, she may as well.

Portia opened her mouth as wide as she could and, with a feral sort of abandon, sunk her teeth into the flesh of the plum. Juice ran down the corners of her mouth and stained her grey dress with sticky purple, but she didn’t notice until she was chewing through the mouthful of fruit. Maids’ll take care of it, Portia thought; that Portia herself was the maid didn’t register at the moment. She swallowed with an audible gulp before taking another bite and sending more rivulets of juice down her face and onto her dress. She wondered if this is what feral wolves felt like when they opened up a lamb’s middle and got at the juicy bits within.

By the time Portia was done, her face looked like she put on purple lipstick blindfolded, and her dress looked like it had been dry cleaned by Jackson Pollock. Oh, well-not like there was anyone to see her. Besides, there were higher priorities at the moment.

Like some more of that vodka, for instance. Oh, and while she was here she could look for some orange juice, maybe make a nice screwdriver…

Portia took out the bottle of juice and went back to the counter, ready to mix her drink and look for her phone.

---

“‘Ello?”

“Gwenn-oooo!”

“...pardon?”

“Gwenny! Gwenevere! Gwenjamin! What’s up?”

“Oh, erm, hi, Portia.” Gwen Driscoll held the phone to her ear by her shoulder, the Furret’s fingers tapping away at her keyboard. “Sounds like someone’s in a good mood, hmm?”

“Yeah, the Wyrd sisters are off doing whatever the fuck they’re doing, so I’ve got the place to myself.”

“I thought you hated Harry Potter.”

“Eh? No, Wyrd sisters are Macbeth. Din’t you know that?”

“Sue me, I’m a STEM major. Why’d you call?”

“I thought I’d check in on you while I’m stranded in the sticks, s’all.”

“Oh, right, you’ve got that charm school thing. Where are you again?”

“Think it’s called Welcham or summat.”

“Welcham? That’s a half-hour from King’s Cross. What d’you mean, the sticks?” Gwen decided not to press that any further. “How goes the charm school? Or whatever it is.”

“Ugh! It’s awful. I’m the only one there, and there’s three girls in charge of me.”

“Girls?”

“Yeah, girls. I’d bet the oldest of ‘em’s only got ten years on me. Thought they’d be some of them fat old Victorian ladies. And from the way one of ‘em acts, you’d think they are.”

“How do you mean?”

“There’s a Cinccino who owns the place, name’s Heather. I swear to God, she’s got the biggest stick up her arse. She’s just this awful, preening little thing.” Here, Portia imitated Heather, drunkenly approximating her plummy warble of a voice. “‘Oh, goodness, you missed a spot cleaning! Time to beat you with a bleedin’ riding crop and make you eat from a fucking dog bowl!’ Ugh, and that’s not even-”

“Stop, stop,” Gwen interjected. “You can’t just drop that on me and run. What was that last bit?”

“Oh.” Portia, even after downing two screwdrivers and halfway through a third, was embarrassed to talk about it. “Well, she wrote ‘fat cunt’ on my forehead in lipstick. Then the three of ‘em made me lick their feet. Then-”

“Oooooh, hell, it’s one of those things, huh?”

“One of what?”

“Lot of times, when a really rich kid’s being a fuckup, their parents send them off to someplace where they learn discipline. Sometimes it’s a bunch of kids at once, but sometimes it’s like with you where there’s just the one. And, well, it gets sort of...erm, kinky.”

“Huh! First I’ve heard of it.”

“Yeah, it’s not really common. It’s sort of like if your mum sent you off to become a beekeeper or something, you know what I mean? You don’t see it every day, but if it works then more power to ‘em.”

“More power to them, maybe,” Portia groused. “Fucking Heather and her creepy fairy Sylveon friend.” The Eevee shrugged, before conceding “One of ‘em’s alright. This Weavile girl from up north. She gave me a candy bar from Dahlmann’s on the first night.”

“Well, that was nice of her. Listen, I’ve got to get ready for a date now, so-”

“Oh? Does his shepherd know?”

Portia cackled as Gwen remained silent; she could see the tight-lipped, hiding-her-amusement look on her face, the same face she always gave whenever Portia joked about Wales, sheep-fucking, or both.

“His name is Colin, and he’s an astrophysicist at Cambridge.”

“I didn’t know sheep could look up at the sky. Or was that pigs who can’t?”

Gwen shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Look, if we’re through with the sheep-fucking jokes I’d like to make myself presentable for him.”

“But he is a sheep, isn’t he?”

“He’s an anthro ram,” Gwen said, a little more defensively than she’d have liked. “He walks on two legs and talks like you or me.”

“HAH! I knew it!” Portia said, triumphantly. “Talk to you later, Gwen.”

---

From House to Home centered around the Kenton twins, a pair of short, excitable, identical mice from Newcastle who took dilapidated houses that no one wanted and renovated them into something presentable. Most episodes were interchangeable; the two of them went to some place in the UK (today, it was Dorset) and worked themselves into a fit of bubbly excitement over the potential of a house that could be charitably called a “fixer-upper” and uncharitably called a “crime scene”.

“Oh, look at that!” marveled Grace, running her hand along the wallpaper, avoiding the giant gaping hole in the wall. “It’s got a rustic charm, don’t you think?”

Jenny nodded, inspecting a window so dirty it was nearly opaque. “It might need some tidying, but who doesn’t?” She tittered.

“Skree!” said the feral badger giving birth in the corner.

Portia never sought the show out, but it was decent enough to have on in the background when trying to sober up. She had made herself a cup of coffee to help the process along (Gwen had told her a few years ago that it didn’t do anything to make you sober, but Portia never much listened to her advice in the first place). Portia usually loaded hers with cream and sugar, but when she was drunk she took it black; the logic, fuzzy as it was, went that having the coffee undiluted would help her snap back quicker.

She took a gulp from her mug, grimacing from the bitter taste, and decided she was tired of hearing the twins babble about moldings and backsplashes. Portia picked up the remote and flicked through the channels, never settling on one for too long. There was the news (an MP from Brighton said something anti-Semitic, what a bloody surprise), football (Tottenham leading Arsenal 3-1), some quiz show that Portia skipped right past, and-

“Ahem.”

-and Heather, who stepped in between Portia and the television, a murderous scowl on her face.

Portia blinked, her reaction slowed after drinking, and frowned. “You’re in the way, luv. Can’t see through you.”

With startling speed, Heather darted a hand forward, ripping the remote from Portia’s hand and turning the television off.

“I take it you didn’t read your instructions, did you, girl?”

Portia snorted. “No, I did. I just didn’t do ‘em.”

Heather seemed about ready to lunge at Portia’s throat, but instead she said, in that quiet voice people only use when they’re furious: “Have you been drinking, Portia?”

“Why? You want some?” Portia pointed her thumb to the kitchen, a smug, drunken leer on her face. “There’s bottles in the kitchen. Barely even touched.”

Heather closed her eyes and took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth-whoooooooooosh. “Charlotte? Sera?”

The Weavile and Sylveon entered the room, moving in near-lockstep. Charlotte’s expression was hard and stony; Seraphine’s face was as hard to read as ever.

“Would you take care of our little lush, dearies?” Heather asked, her eyes narrowing and staring at Portia on the word “lush”. The Eevee just scoffed.

“Why don’t you do it yourself, you stuffy little cow?” Portia said, sneering at Heather. “Besides, Charlotte likes me.” She turned her head to the Weavile, cooing and puckering her lips. “Ain’t that right, sweet-YEOW!”

She was interrupted by a slap to her face that nearly knocked her off of her seat and onto the floor. Portia raised her hand to her cheek, looking up at Charlotte with bleary, confused eyes.

“Th’fuck was that for?”

Charlotte didn’t say anything. The big, curvy Weavile reached down to pick Portia up beneath the armpits, hoisting her to her feet and motioning for Seraphine to come alongside her. Portia wriggled in her grip, but even now knew better than to antagonize these two even further.

“Look, Charlotte-I mean, Miss Charlotte, I didn’t-rrf-didn’t mean that. It was a joke, you know?” Portia laughed a jumpy little laugh as she was more or less dragged down the hall by two of her mistresses. “Where’m I going? What’s going on?”

“You,” Charlotte responded, tersely, “are going in the drunk tank.”

“The what?” Portia kicked her legs a little, dragging her feet along the hardwood floor. “What’re you, the fuckin’ cops?”

“No,” Seraphine said, an odd little smile on her face. “We don’t have to be.”

Portia growled under her breath. For fuck’s sake!

---

Portia had, of course, been in drunk tanks before. They had recently taken to calling them “welfare centres” and moved them to the back of trucks, but they were still basically the same thing. Mostly they were plain, featureless white rooms with a cot and little else. If the decorators were feeling adventurous, the walls would be painted a baby blue color, but aside from that they were pretty uniform. Very few of them felt the need to strip her down (except for the one in Amsterdam, but she was 85% sure that that was a voyeuristic peep show she was drafted into).

And yet, here she was, laid out on a bed with her plain grey dress being unceremoniously removed. “Watch it!” Portia spat out, flinching away from some of the rough handling Seraphine was giving her. “If I get a bruise I’m going to fuckin’...” She trailed off, her vodka-fogged mind fresh out of ideas.

Neither Seraphine nor Charlotte said anything, the Weavile casting the dress to the side while the Sylveon set to work unhooking Portia’s bra. Working her hands behind the squirming Eevee’s back, Seraphine took off the plain beige undergarment and discarded it, letting Portia’s soft, full tits bounce free. With Charlotte pulling down her panties, Portia was fully naked and exposed, looking from Seraphine to Charlotte with wide-eyed confusion.

“Charlotte-I mean Miss Charlotte,” she said, blurting out her own correction before the Weavile had the chance to respond. “Weren’t you on my side?”

Charlotte sighed, sitting next to Portia on the bed. “I am on your side,” she said. “But you broke the rules, and you disrespected us. I can’t just wave that by.” Seraphine flipped Portia onto her stomach and brought her hands behind her back. The telltale rrrrip of duct tape could be heard, and Portia yelped in surprise.

“Heather wanted to put a catheter in and attach it to a gag in your mouth,” Charlotte said, as the duct tape wound along Portia’s arms, securing them neatly behind her back. “That’d make it so you’d have to swallow your piss while you’re all wrapped up. But I talked her down from that. That was nice of me, wasn’t it?” Portia shuddered at this cold, severe tone Charlotte was using.

“Yes, Miss Charlotte,” she responded. “Thank you, Miss Charlotte.”

“Good girl,” the Weavile said, before helping Seraphine flip the Eevee onto her back again. The Sylveon went down to Portia’s feet; there was another rrrrip, and Portia felt the tight, sticky bondage start to wind up her ankles.

“What the fuck is she doing?” Portia turned her head to Charlotte in alarm.

“Getting you ready for the drunk tank,” Charlotte responded, simply. 

“Aye, and what the hell is the drunk tank?”

“You’ll see. Now, hold still.” Charlotte held out a hand, and received a strip of tape from Seraphine. Holding Portia’s head still, she affixed the duct tape over Portia’s mouth, gagging her as the Sylveon continued mummifying her.

Whatever the drunk tank was, it couldn’t be worse than this.

---

It was, in fact, worse than that.

Everything below Portia’s collarbone was cocooned in two layers of shiny silver duct tape, sandwiching a layer of saran wrap to keep the bondage secure. There was absolutely no wiggle room whatsoever; her arms and legs were held so tight that she could barely move even one toe. Her head was left untouched except for the duct tape secured around her lips and wrapped around her muzzle; the Eevee could breathe through her nose, but any noise was muffled into an “mmmmf” that was hardly audible. Portia would remain in this bondage while kept in the drunk tank for the night, left bound up until she was sober.

The drunk tank itself wasn’t a tank at all; located in the hall just outside the dining room, it was only a little bit bigger than the average broom closet. Illuminated by only a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling, the walls were a shade of light pink, the kind intended to soothe people but only succeeded in making Portia fume even more about the indignity of her situation.

She was propped up against the wall like an old mop, her airtight bondage making it so she couldn’t adjust her position at all. On the back of the door, there was a piece of paper, only recently taped up. It must have been written for her-and, from the looks of the neat handwriting, Heather must have done it. It read:

Portia-

If you find yourself bored over the night, I’ve provided some light reading. Take this to heart:

You are a filthy, drunken little cunt.

You are a spoiled, useless drain on society.

You are nothing without your parent’s money.

You are lower than a junkie whore on the street.

If you drank yourself to death tomorrow, no one would miss you.

Read it over and over again. When you understand it, you’ll take your first step to being something better.

Portia narrowed her eyes. Well, fuck you too, Heather, she thought to herself. She may have been a hard-drinking loudmouth bitch with the impulse control of a horny lab rat on coke, but she knew where she stood, and she wasn’t about to let some flouncy cunt try and brainwash her into feeling bad about herself. Maybe she would change by the end of this, maybe not, but Portia would rather boil in cat piss than let Heather into her mind that easily.

It was nice to think those defiant thoughts, but the truth of the matter was that Portia’s limbs were starting to get sore. The Eevee was a naturally restless sort of person; when she was bored, she had a tendency to drum her fingers or bounce her leg, just so there was something going on. But with the dense, tightly-wound tape holding her in a cocoon, that reflex was forcibly stifled, leaving her muscles aching and throbbing.

It was hot, too; a closet isn’t exactly the sort of place you’d go to for fresh air, and the layers of tape made it even more stuffy and suffocating. Portia could still breathe, but it felt like her lower body was being braised, and beads of sweat started to drip down her forehead, matting her tawny fur.

Time passed; Portia wasn’t sure exactly how much, since they couldn’t be bothered to hang a clock or anything in this godforsaken closet, but the minutes crawled by. Day transitioned into night, and with it the air cooled, but it was still a stifling, sticky heat that made Portia groan and wriggle, trying her best to get even a little bit of wiggle room. Her legs were tense and sore, and her arms felt like they were about to fall off, secured as they were behind her back.

Surely she must be sober by now? If nothing else, the alcohol must be turning to sweat and seeping out of her pores. (Did alcohol do that? She wasn’t sure.) Should she signal to the dommes that she was ready to be taken out? Even thinking that, Portia realized it was a stupid idea; she got the feeling that the point was to stay in this miserable little cubby for the whole night.

Portia wondered if she should just go to sleep. Maybe that would help; it wouldn’t be so tedious if she was out like a light. But there were, of course, the same problems that made this so uncomfortable. She couldn’t move from her position propped up against the wall, and she was so sticky and hot that she felt lightheaded. She couldn’t fall asleep like this.

Besides, something outside her door caught her attention.

The sound of shoes clicking on the floor, making their way to the dining room. And, more importantly, the voices that came with them.

“Thank you for checking in, ma’am,” Heather said. Her voice sounded different; it wasn’t prissy and snobbish, but rather friendly and welcoming. The Cinccino was clearly speaking to someone who she thought was an equal, rather than, well, whatever Portia was to her.

“It’s no trouble,” another voice said. Portia’s blood froze for a moment. “I was passing through the area anyway.” The voice was clipped and chilly, distant but not unfriendly. Portia’s mother.

“Mmmf! Mrrrph!” Portia cried out through her gag. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to achieve; for one thing, she could barely make a sound, and for another thing it was Lacey that put her here to begin with. She wasn’t here on a rescue mission, she was just checking her progress. Portia exhaled sharply through her nose, growling.

“You know, some parents just drop their girls here and don’t see them again until we’re through,” Charlotte said. There was a chorus of chairs against hardwood as the four of them (from the sound of it) sat down at the table. “But if you ask me, it’s better to have Mum and Dad in the loop.”

“That’s the idea,” Lacey said. “Now, I won’t be bothering you every few days, but I’ll do my best to see you three...biweekly? Monthly?” 

“Monthly works well,” Heather said. Portia groaned. Fuck, she was going to be here for months?

“Very good. Now, to business.” Lacey’s voice went a touch softer, and Portia craned her ear to listen. “Has she been doing alright?”

“For the most part,” Heather responded. “You know, she’s not quite as bad as I thought she would be.” Portia blinked at that. Was that a compliment from Heather?

“Is that so?” Lacey chuckled. “She hasn’t tried to snort up the powdered sugar?” Portia flushed with embarrassment. Christ, it was one time! Can’t let anything go, can you?

“Erm, no,” Heather said. “She did get into the liquor cabinet earlier today, but rest assured she’s getting the proper discipline.”

“Good,” Lacey said. “For the record, whatever you’re seeing is from her father’s side.” The table burst into laughter at that, and Portia rolled her eyes.

“In all seriousness, though,” Heather said, “she’s ahead of where we thought she’d be. You know, some girls come in strung out and wild, and we thought that’d be Portia from how you talked about her.”

“Well, she’s been sober for most of the time, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s so. But what I mean is, some girls are simply incapable of behaving. That’s not Portia. She’s obviously a bright young woman, very sharp. She just chooses to behave the way she has. At least, that’s how I see it. Do you two agree?”

“I’d say so,” Charlotte said. “If she just had the proper discipline, the proper humility-she could be brilliant. And that’s our job.” Portia felt an odd glow of pride at that assessment, which (given the restraints) made things even warmer. Fucking hell, they better have ice water at the end of all this.

“That’s what I’ve always told Roger,” Lacey said. “I’m sure you know my other two daughters, yes?”

“Of course,” Heather said.

“Now, when you have three children, you sort of trace their development and compare. It’s not something you really talk about, but it’s something you notice.” Lacey scraped the inside of her teacup with a spoon.

“Yes?”

“Portia moved very quickly. She learned to read quicker than even Ophelia did. For the first ten years or so you couldn’t get her nose out of a book. And she was so clever! Not a lot of people knew.” Lacey sighed. “She was a very quiet young girl, you know.”

Seraphine said something in French, which made Heather and Lacey cackle. Portia was confused; so was Charlotte, it seemed.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing, dear. It loses something in translation.” Lacey cleared her throat. “But yes. If I thought she was nothing more than a brat, I’d leave her to her own devices. But I just...well, I hate seeing potential go unfulfilled. You understand, don’t you?”

“I do,” Heather said. “And we’ll get there soon.” Portia was still; she would have been still even without the bondage.

“I don’t think she cares for me,” Heather said, wryly. Portia snorted. Fucking understatement of the century. “But it’s really nothing personal. Some girls just need an extra push.” She sounded different talking like this; Portia wasn’t sure what to think.

“Well, I’m sure you can give it to her,” Lacey said. “Thank you for this.”

Portia leaned her head back and sighed. Nothing felt worse than having something be done for your own good.