Useful Decor
In the vast, opulent estate of Lady Seraphina Blackthorne, the concept of humanity has long been stripped away from those who serve her. The grand halls are a testament to her wealth, her taste, and her power. Every corner of her estate is a reflection of her will, but more than the gold-trimmed furniture or the towering chandeliers, it is the living, breathing pieces of human furniture that define her rule. For those unfortunate enough to fall under her control, existence is reduced to complete and utter subjugation; bodies twisted into tables, chairs, and ashtrays to serve her whims, forever at her mercy. And mercy, in the realm of Lady Seraphina, is non-existent.
The sun is just beginning to set as Lady Seraphina enters her lounge, her high-heeled boots echoing on the marble floors. Each step is deliberate, calculated, as if the very sound of her heels striking the ground announces her dominance. In the corner of the room, a servant kneels, already in position to serve as her chair for the evening. His back is bent, arms stiff as they prepare to hold the weight of her desires. The strain is visible in his shaking limbs, but he dares not move. He knows that even the smallest shift could spell his undoing.
Lady Seraphina glides across the room, her presence commanding. She doesn’t look at the kneeling man as she takes her seat on him, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. To her, he is no different than the other furniture in the room; an object to be used, an insignificant part of the decor. She reaches for her cigarette, where another servant kneels with his hands outstretched, palms upward, trembling slightly. A lit cigarette rests between his palms, the heat from the burning tip already beginning to sear his flesh, but he remains still, knowing the consequences of even the slightest flinch.
Lady Seraphina takes the cigarette between her fingers, bringing it to her lips as she inhales deeply. The ash burns to a delicate white at the tip, and she flicks it casually into the servant’s open mouth, his lips parted, waiting to catch every falling ember. The ash lands on his tongue, but he swallows it without hesitation, his eyes watering from the fear of displeasing her. She pays no attention to his suffering, her gaze instead wandering toward the grand window that overlooks her sprawling estate.
“Open wider,” she commands, her voice smooth and cold. The human ashtray complies, stretching his mouth open further. Lady Seraphina is known for her exacting standards, and any servant who falls short of them faces a fate worse than the one they currently endure.
Just last week, another of her ashtray servants made the fatal error of flinching as hot ash tumbled onto his lip. Without a word, Lady Seraphina had pressed the burning tip of the cigarette directly into his eye, watching with dispassionate interest as his body convulsed in agony. He was dragged away by a Mistress in waiting, another loyal overseer, and was later found in the courtyard, his body bound and burned alongside the other discarded pieces of human furniture. In her manor, there is no tolerance for weakness.
As she smokes, her attention drifts to the line of servants stationed by the door. These unfortunate souls serve only one purpose: to clean the filth from her boots, licking the soles and heels until they are spotless. Today, they kneel with their faces to the ground, their tongues poised to begin their revolting task. Lady Seraphina crosses the room slowly, her heels clicking ominously as she approaches them. Each step leaves a faint trace of the grime from the stables; dirt, manure, and even the crushed remnants of unfortunate creatures who had crossed her path.
Lady Seraphina pauses, her dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly. She says nothing, but the tension in the room thickens. She presses the sole of her boot down hard on the face of the man forcing his face into the grime.
“Clean it,” she whispers, her voice a deadly calm. The bootlicker obeys, his tongue dragging over the filth with slow, deliberate strokes, his body trembling with disgust and fear. The taste of dirt fills his mouth, but there is no escape from his task. He knows that to hesitate again would mean his end.
Lady Seraphina watches with detached amusement. To her, these men are nothing more than tools; disposable objects to be used until they no longer serve their purpose. The human bootlickers stationed at the front entrance endure the worst, forced to clean whatever she tracks in after a day in town; dirt, crushed insects, the remains of state-owned minimen trampled beneath her heels. They lick her boots clean without protest, their lives reduced to the simple, degrading act of cleaning the filth from her soles.
The worst is when she returns from the stables, her riding boots coated in manure, urine, and mud. The bootlickers wait for her, trembling as they anticipate the task ahead. To clean her boots after a day at the stables is to endure the most vile filth imaginable, yet none dare to falter.
One unfortunate soul, stationed at the entrance, once gagged, even very slightly at the taste of manure on her boot. Lady Seraphina had paused, her expression unreadable as she pressed her boot heel into his mouth, forcing him to choke on the filth. His body writhed in pain, but she merely watched, her lips curling into the faintest smile.
Now, he is gone; burned in the courtyard like all the others who outlived their usefulness. Lady Seraphina never hesitates to dispose of her furniture when it no longer pleases her. The courtyard serves as a graveyard for those who failed her, their bodies consumed by flames as they are reduced to ash, just as forgotten as the dirt they once licked from her boots.
As she moves through her estate, Lady Seraphina’s human furniture continues to serve her without pause, their suffering unnoticed, their lives expendable. Chairs, tables, ashtrays, and bootlickers; each one plays a role in her world, where beauty and cruelty intertwine seamlessly. To her, they are no more than objects, and when she grows tired of them, they are discarded without a second thought.
In Lady Seraphina Blackthorne’s realm, power is absolute, and those beneath her exist solely for her pleasure. Whether serving as human furniture, catching the ash from her cigarette, or licking the filth from her boots, their suffering is the price they pay for existing in her presence. And for those who fail to meet her exacting standards, there is only one fate: the flames of the courtyard, where the discarded pieces of her household are burned away like trash. To be in her service is to be nothing; nothing more than an object in a world ruled by her indifference and cruelty.