Sara Davis shimmied back into her flimsy silk dress and slipped her feet into her silken shoes with a cat-like grace and in near-perfect silence, tying her bright red hair back with a ribbon of scarlet lace. The Eastharbor councilman on the bed next to her snored softly, deep in a sleep wrought from exhausted satisfaction. Looking back, Sara allowed herself a moment of reflection. When she arrived -- was dropped -- in Anfealt, she had quite literally hit the ground running, fleeing several goons sent by whomever had been the most recent in the line of scumbag would-be overlords bent on lording over her. She had never gotten on her knees, professionally or otherwise, for a pimp before, and she had had no intention of doing so here.

Gaining Skills in this new world’s System had immeasurably improved her life in every way she could think of. Once she grasped the basics, she had of course expected to gain skills aligned with her natural proclivities, but the improvements to her less sexual physicality -- her strength and agility, regeneration, and the like -- were beneficial beyond the ability of a formerly not-very-imposing woman to express. There were also a few other extra perks that tilted the scales a bit farther than just the Worldwalker Title; Her [Hedonist] aspect magnified her own pleasure and allowed her to gain Stamina and increase her regeneration simply by doing the things she enjoyed the most.

And I gain more of everything simply by doing what I love to do already, she thought to herself silently -- so as not to disturb her latest client. Not that anything short of a bomb could wake him now, she continued, allowing herself a momentary, fond smile. He’ll be out the rest of the night, at this rate.

Sara, on the other hand, was now fully energized and ready to be about the rest of her night’s work. As much as she absolutely loved handling her clientele in person, she simply no longer had the time to deal with any but the most important or highest-paying customers.

She made her way out of the councilman’s modest but comfortable mansion, lingering in the shadows of a side entrance long enough to allow her waiting escort to whistle the all-clear before continuing down the narrow path through the gate to the mouth of an alley. Eastharbor was safer at night now, thanks to her work over the months since her arrival, but safer was not truly safe, especially for The Harlot. Moments after she emerged from the alley and stepped onto the connecting main avenue, a small carriage pulled up in front of her. The door opened and she climbed in, greeting her assistant as she settled herself into the comfortable seat.

“Thank you, Bonnie. What’s the news?” she asked.

Bonnie -- her right-hand woman, and the first of the city’s prostitutes to throw their lot in with The Harlot -- was a slim-figured girl who fit every definition of a secretary from Earth or a scribe on Anfealt. She wore a neatly-tailored, but not gaudy or extravagant, tunic and breeches, and carried a leather-bound parchment notebook which she perused thoughtfully after straightening her spectacles. Bonnie was not her actual name, but few of the girls who worked for Sara even bothered remembering their original names in the first place, and fewer still actually used them.

“The new establishments in Docktown and the south side of Market Row are doing as well as you predicted. The only trouble has come from ship crews in port who are new to how the Daughters do things, but the Sons straightened them out fairly quickly.”

Sara crossed her arms, letting her chin fall to her chest. “The Criers’ Guild is supposed to explain the rules to newbies before they leave the docks,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Let them know their own discounts are at risk if this keeps being a problem. And spread the word among the ship captains that good behavior can get them free passes at Pinnacle. Possibly even with myself, if they can keep their crews in check.”

Bonnie nodded, making a brief note in her ledger, and then continued. “Profits at Pinnacle are still rising as word gets around. The [Enchantress] we contracted for the main hall and the stage was reluctant until we assured her you only wanted acoustic enhancements and not mind magic, so that’s complete without a hitch. The bards and other musician types should be very impressed with the benefits to their trade.”

The prostitute-turned-secretary checked off her list as she slid her eyes down the page, taking her eyes from it and giving The Harlot a look that bordered on hero-worship. With a much softer tone, she continued: “Several of the girls have expressed their gratitude for letting them learn skills outside their class, ma’am. We’ll always be courtesans of some sort, but you’ve allowed us to branch out into things we never thought we’d be allowed to experience.” Bonnie was one of the first beneficiaries of this charity, having been forced into prostitution by one of the “dark” guilds that had hitherto dominated the area; strong-armed into choosing a pleasure-based prostitution class before she was old enough to fully understand her choice.

“Some things are the same in Anfealt as on my world,” she replied ruefully. “At least here, we don’t have to worry about brutal cops and misguided laws that punish the victims as often as the pimps.” Sara gazed out the carriage window as the lantern-lit streets passed by, the sea-born mists obscuring most of the city in the late evening twilight. “It’s baffling how so many are forced into the life when there are more than enough that are perfectly willing to do so.”

Their conveyance made its way through the misty, shadowed streets. It descended from the upper hills neighborhoods, where the more wealthy individuals and elected appointees had their residences, through a sprawling business district that finally gave way to much more ramshackle constructions. Everything here was in a near-constant state of flux, new buildings arising from the corpses of old demolition -- and the Harlot was in the center of it all.

The rest of the city could fend for itself, but the ghetto, as she called the poorer sections of the city due to her Earth background, would always hold a special place in her heart. So it was that she had already funded many repair and restoration projects as her main endeavors paid off.

Bonnie continued to fill the silence in her pleasantly businesslike tone, keeping Sara abreast of profit numbers, expense estimates, and warning her about some ventures that had incurred or were likely to incur losses or extra expenses. In truth, this was nothing Sara didn’t already know -- on Earth, her natural business acumen coupled with a nearly-eidetic memory could have seen her do well in a corporate environment. It was an unfortunate fact of life that a combination of her kinks and nymphomania had rendered it impossible for her to stay on the correct side of society on Earth.

Misfortune begat fortune, however, when she arrived on Anfealt. What had been her gravest liabilities became her greatest strengths, and within a week of her arrival she had put her thumb quite handily over several local toughs, as much out of self-preservation as anything else. Efforts to keep herself from being press-ganged into a local “dark” guild’s pleasure-stock -- as had happened to Bonnie -- resulted in one less gang running the streets of Eastharbor, and left The Harlot in charge of her very first pleasure house.

At first, its victims remained battered, timid, meek things. Under The Harlot's care, tutelage, and patience, they slowly regained confidence in themselves. They came into their own, thriving just as she had thrived -- thus did the Harlot's Daughters come into being in a seedy structure that sadly befitted the current outside perception of their profession.

In spite of the name, the Daughters weren’t all female -- or even necessarily all human. Blind to gender or genetics, anyone who plied the sex trade in Eastharbor could count themselves amongst their ranks.

Alongside the Daughters were the Sons -- the iron fist under the Harlot’s velvet glove. Delivering the message that the old ways of operating the sex trade -- the conduct that had bequeathed the perception of seediness and squalor -- were over had required securing protection, and making extreme examples of any who would cross the Harlot or her Daughters.

As with the Daughters, the Sons had no regard for gender. Some of the most capable Sons were retired whores themselves, those who had suffered brutality beyond measure under the old guilds and were thoroughly pleased to mete out the Harlot’s brand of justice.

Sara’s internal reflections were cut short when Bonnie switched tracks, abandoning numbers and money to bring up another matter.

“The Temple’s Orphanage and the boarding house school were exceptionally grateful for our donation of new blankets and other sundries like linens and uniforms, ma’am.” The other woman flipped through her ledger and handed Sara a sheet of parchment almost completely filled with row after row of tiny, neat text. “Here’s the complete list of books and materials the school’s Headmistress hopes to get. I don’t think she believed you would fund their work; the first list she gave me was simply for a few used books. But our first donation seems to have convinced her.”

The Harlot signed her approval without even glancing at the total costs. “I’ll take in any woman, or man, who wants to pursue our line of work,” she said, “but nobody should ever be forced into it for lack of options.” Her expression turned dour. “Speaking of force, have the Alley Cats tracked down our missing rats?”

The secretary’s expression morphed into one of grim satisfaction. “They have. Or, rather, three of them at any rate. Irama decided to try his luck and didn’t survive the experience. The other three heads of the Cabal, however, surrendered and are awaiting your pleasure at Pinnacle as we speak.” She allowed herself a savage grin before adding, “I understand Tomtom even gained a level. The Alley Cats will have some celebrating to do tonight, I’m sure.”

“Councilman Jeem is well satisfied with the new arrangements,” said Sara with quite a bit of smug satisfaction in her voice. “We can be assured there’ll be no investigation into their sudden disappearances.”

“Not that you’d care if there was,” Bonnie fired back, with no shortage of amusement in her voice.

“Well... no, I wouldn’t,” Sara agreed, “but it doesn’t hurt to play nice when you can.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as they rode out of the former slums, the buildings under construction and renovation giving way to a broader avenue, with shops and diners and other establishments on either side of the boulevard. The paved roadway curved through this new district and looped back away from the harbor before continuing up a shallow slope. On the approaching hilltop stood a sprawling estate, hemmed in by trimmed hedges twice a man’s height. The hedges were broken in front by an iron gate, elaborately gilded and standing open, as if to welcome all and sundry. Standing to either side of the gate were several impressively-outfitted, almost ceremonial guards.

The carriage passed this gate by, circling the hedges to another, much smaller gate, this one guarded by fewer, less ostentatiously-armored men. Where the guardsmen in front were decked head-to-toe in steel, these wore mostly leather with small pieces of steel. As the carriage pulled to a stop, the guards moved to help Sara and Bonnie from the carriage with a quiet professionalism.

Sara glanced around as she debarked; these guards numbered more than she was used to seeing, and she knew from experience that for every guard she could see, there were two more that she could not.

“Pulled in extra shifts from the Sons?” she asked the stern-faced woman with a thin red braided cord embroidered down one sleeve, marking her as a sergeant of the Pinnacle’s small guard detachment.

“We need them, given who you have downstairs, ma’am,” came the reply. The polite posture was a stark contrast to the rough voice, a thick scar across the woman’s throat a silent testament to the dangers of her profession.

“Your diligence and prudence is appreciated,” she told the other woman. “I’ll get to them shortly, but for now I need to freshen up and wander the floor to be seen.”

The guardswoman nodded as Sara walked past, followed by Bonnie. The secretary continued her commentary as they walked, slowing her stride to keep from outpacing the shorter Worldwalker.

“The acoustic enchantments are working perfectly, as you can hear -- or, rather, not hear. Amplification inside the grand hall and entertainment floor, and a dampening barrier keeping the noise from overwhelming the rest of the building and the outside.” Bonnie cleared her throat, offering a smirk. “And, of course, the handy side effect of ensuring no sounds escape from downstairs.”

Sara nodded as she ascended the steps to her private quarters, Bonnie filing up behind. “And the crowd?” she asked, shedding garments as she entered her dressing room and bath. “I know the new music is a shock to this world’s tastes.”

“Not as much as you might think. Different, for sure, but after a drink or two the newcomers seem to appreciate it. Not as much as the dancing and entertainment, of course, but these...night clubs, as you call them, have found appeal with nearly everyone in Eastharbor.”

A quick wash later, and Sara was soon rummaging through her wardrobe. One thing she certainly had no complaints about with her time on Anfealt was clothing. While the poorest people may have worn rough-spun linen or less, even the commoners had access to tailored clothing. Whether due to their own Skills or those of someone they trade with, actual tailored attire was the norm and not the exception. And custom tailoring meant absolute comfort. Behind her were the days of department store clothing with sizes that never quite fit or, alternately, outrageously expensive tailoring; the clothes here were both affordable and perfectly fitted.

Sheer lace undergarments were followed by almost-as-sheer stockings, both in hues of deepest scarlet. She then slithered into a form fitting dress of a softer red, just close enough to see-through as to hint at the delights beneath and a fingernail’s width short of indecent for public wear. The neckline plunged to just shy of her navel, the body of the fabric held from bursting open by a ring of polished onyx that sat just between her breasts. Deciding to forego heels, she slipped her stocking-clad feet into comfortable red silk shoes. The lace ribbon returned to its previous place securing her wild mane of flame-red hair, and the outfit was finished with the addition of a pair of opera gloves that covered her arms almost to the elbow.

The gloves were iconic to the appearance of The Harlot, a vibrant scarlet so vividly red that it could belong to nobody else. The contrast with her pale skin and emerald-green eyes built a striking image out of her slight frame. She wore no jewelry; she needed none to keep the eyes of the crowd on her. If she gave in to her own carnal desires while on the floor of the establishment, such things were likely to disappear into various pockets and pouches in any case.

She didn’t bother with perfume, either. One of the most useful perks of her class was its signature skill [Pheromone Control], and used with proper subtlety it was the equal of all but the highest tiers of mind- and emotion-influencing magics. Wearing perfume alongside her skill would, at best, diminish its effect and, at worst, nullify it entirely.

“Now I’m ready,” she told Bonnie after the other woman added the final touches to her outfit by deftly twisting the lace ribbons into a simple braided ruffle down her back. “If you would be so kind as to check on our other guests, I need to make at least a short appearance on the floor to get a feel for the crowd.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Bonnie, gathering up her ledger and disappearing through a side entrance to The Harlot’s chambers. Sara left her comfortable but plainly decorated private quarters behind, emerging in the opulently furnished boudoir apartment where she entertained her own in-house clientele. There, a set of gilded double-doors with ornate carvings of illicit carnal acts of every kind stood at the main entrance of the room. She stepped through into a short hallway that opened out onto a balcony overlooking the main floor of her greatest accomplishment: Pinnacle.

Anfealt was no stranger to drinking establishments, inns, taverns, or brothels. It also had bards and entertainers; and various nobility and other elected or appointed officials and the very wealthy could enjoy large-scale, fine entertainment, of course. But what The Harlot had introduced into the local society was something else entirely. It was a brothel, of course. It was also a casino, a tavern, an inn, and a theater. In a world without magic, it would have been impossible to replicate, and she was inwardly thankful to whatever laws governed physics and magic in this new world.

Her balcony looked into the main performance hall from one side, the hall itself a massive half-dome lit by crystals and magical lenses to emulate the more technologically advanced stage equipment she was familiar with from strip clubs on Earth. Low tables sprawled away from the stage where bards and musicians played heavy beats in syncopated rhythms that were felt more than heard. The acoustic enchantments laid into the structure functioned as speakers, causing the music to appear to be coming from everywhere at once. The lights shifted in time with the wordless music as a seductive vixen gyrated between a pole and an ornate chair on the center-front stage. In this case, the word was more than metaphorical; the half-girl, half-fox held most of the room’s attention as she seductively tossed the last of her garments aside while covering herself with a gorgeous and luxuriously fluffy silver-furred tail.

Behind the showgirl, several more dancers -- both male and female, human and hybrid -- moved as one in time with the music. Sara had only needed to show them the basics of Earth’s pole- and belly-dancing techniques and the Daughters had taken the bit in their collective teeth and ran with it, much to her delight.

Funny how well they take to it when they aren’t beaten down and abused, she thought to herself. The sheer stupidity of extortion and intimidation infuriated her, both on Earth and Anfealt. There was so much to enjoy about her lifestyle, when society allowed it. And on Anfealt, she was forcing it to allow her Daughters to flourish.

Not wanting to steal the spotlight from the enthusiastically preening showgirl, The Harlot quietly made her way through the shadows at the periphery of the performance hall, taking a small hidden stairway to the ground floor and passing into the slightly less intense gambling section. Craps, roulette, and card tables filled this space, a magically-muted throng of voices indicating its fullness. Scantily-clad women managed the tables, and eye-catching waitstaff meandered through the crowds with trays of drinks and bite-sized snacks from the kitchens. Anfealt had its own card games and gambling, and tables where people played crowns, knuckles, and bones sat mixed among tables for blackjack and poker.

On-duty prostitutes also wandered the floor, their availability for services advertised by a crimson ribbon wrapped around the left arm of each, from shoulder to elbow. They mingled with the crowd, and thanks to the unseen but universal presence of the Sons, those without the red band enjoyed their peace. Occasionally one or more would lead a prospective client towards the guarded passageways that led to the private entertainment rooms. The Harlot needed no sash; her scarlet gloves and attire stood as bold testament to the fact that she was always available -- for the right price, of course. That thought warmed her loins and quickened her pulse -- as did the eyes that began to linger on her lithe form as she stalked across the casino.

She kept her pheromones and scent in check, however. While she was ordinarily perfectly willing to stop and enjoy herself, tonight she was already busy enough that the price to interrupt her would be exorbitant indeed. For now she was simply making her presence known, surveying her kingdom with sharp eyes. She shook hands, kissed cheeks, made small talk with city officials and local estate barons and merchant guild-masters.

Her meandering and socialization were interrupted by a sudden outcry by the bar, near where the casino merged with the dining area.

“Don’t you turn your back on me, whore!” came a shout followed by a slap and the crash of a drink tray hitting the ground. There was a collective gasp as the crowd reflexively flinched away from one red-faced and well-muscled man standing over a girl who looked to still be in her teens. The young woman scrambled to wipe up the spilled drinks as the man raised his hand to strike again, only for a vividly scarlet hand to slip around his wrist and lock it in place with vice-like strength.

“I don’t see a red sash on her arm, good sir.” The Harlot’s voice was flat and glacially cold, cutting through the whispers and background noise of the room. A subtle gesture behind her back with her other hand assured the approaching Sons that she had the matter well in hand. “Red sash means available. No sash means not available for any price. Why don’t you play nice and come talk to me or one of the other girls working the floor tonight?”

“I’m going out of business with all the girls in the city working for you!” shouted the man in a drunken rage. “Miri’s been servicing tenants at my inn for years, and I’m takin’ her back!”

“Years? She’s only in her seventeenth winter, and doesn’t even have a class yet.” This revelation changed The Harlot’s demeanor quite drastically, and glacial cold gave way to barely-restrained fire. She slid her gaze away from the inebriated innkeeper to look at the young woman. “How long was he pimping you out, girl?”

The youth refused to raise her eyes, speaking softly. “Took me in when I was eleven, Ma’am, when my pa’s fishing boat didn’t return after a storm. Had to earn my keep, he said.”

The room, quiet enough when the confrontation began, turned silent as the grave. The girl’s words fell like stones into a deep, sepulchral abyss. Every face, every eye turned to observe the trio.

The Harlot’s eyes turned into slits, her face a thunderhead. Her grip tightened on the man’s wrist, the vice closing so tight that the bones began to fracture. The twig-snap sound dominated the silence along with his pained cries.

Suddenly, her face cleared, and a serene smile spread across her features. “As a rule,” she said pleasantly, “the details of the Daughters’ pasts remain their own. Neither I nor anyone ask for more than they are willing to share.”

She pulled the man closer, dragging him in by his fractured wrist.

“You could have stayed away,” she continued, false warmth bleeding from her tone. “Miri never identified you; never gave you away. If you had stayed away, things would be different.”

Another inch closer. Another yelp.

“But...you came here.”

With a slight flex of her hand, delicate nails parted the fabric of her velvet glove. Just as easily, she drew them down the man’s tunic, revealing the skin of his belly...then, without even changing expression, she drove her arm forward and up, a wet splitting sound breaking over the crowd as she reached into the man’s chest.

“You.” Her arm flexed, driving a pained whimper out of the man’s throat.

“Came.” Another harsh movement and a wet, solid-sounding crunch preceded a foul odor as the man voided his bowels, rising to his toes and squealing like a stuck pig.

“Here.” The Harlot found what she was looking for, and the man’s eyes bulged, lips babbling sounds of negation in a terrified cadence as her hand finally wrapped around his heart. With a convulsive motion, she crushed it.

The man twitched and fell limp, sliding down the Harlot’s arm, terror etched with the finality of death into his expression.

“Thank you,” Sara said. “Thank you for sparing me the effort of hunting you down.”

The Harlot stepped back, withdrawing her arm. Blood followed; but instead of falling to the floor, it trailed after her hand. It described concentric circles in a trail up her arm, the individual droplets lit from within, a brilliant crimson. The blood dispersed into a mist, the last of it drawn from the man’s corpse as it dried to a husk on the ground. It drew against her body, highlighting her blood vessels where they lay close to the surface, then disappeared as she made it a part of herself.

“Everyone assumes my Class is some sort of prostitute,” the [Sanguine Druid] murmured to the silent crowd. “Everyone assumes wrongly. A whore is who I am, not what I am. Never forget that.”

Several of the Sons of the Harlot pushed their way through the crowd, wrapping the body in a sheet to carry off while Sara helped a very nervous Miri to her feet. “Don’t worry, girl. You only have to do that kind of work here if you want to, and if not, we can help you learn whatever Skills you need to try for the Class you really want.”

Another waitress brought a broom and another a mop, setting themselves to clean up the rest of the mess. Bonnie stepped out of the crowd as Sara made her way to the bar to snag a small glass of wine.

“Our special guests await your convenience, ma’am,” said the secretary.

The Harlot drained the wine in one continuous motion, letting the liquid slide down her throat in one gulp before setting the glass back down. “I had this whole monologue planned for them, Bonnie, but I’ve gone and gotten myself worked up again.” She gave a sigh and ran her hands down the front of her thighs as she shivered sensually. “You know what to do; spike ‘em with negatite to keep them from using magic or skills, and it’s the harbor for them. Monologues are for evil villains, anyway.”

Her assistant departed with a nod to make sure her orders were carried out. With that, Sara turned back to the crowd that was just now beginning to resume its previous merriment and revelry. She was quite excited after the sudden display of violence and power, and picked out several promising young men and women to play with. For The Harlot, the night was just beginning.