Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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My knuckles whiten as my grip firms, my slender fingers no longer delicately wrapped around the support bar before me, but instead tight as I brace myself with anticipation. As Zaveri tautens the ribbons on the corset secured to me, the restriction of my torso worsens. Usually, I wouldn't be subjected to such, but tonight, my mother insists that I must endure. She hasn't bothered to specify why, but there is no argument left to be had over the matter. Her requests are hardly that, but more a necessity.
Miss Zaveri, the maid who dresses me daily, is kind. She's mindful not to tighten this stiff fabric beyond the point where it's comfortable, pressuring my lungs to collapse, but of course, she has a duty to fulfil. That's why I say nothing when my body jolts in response to each tug. With each set of eyelets passed, the ribbon is pulled tighter and tighter, particularly along my midriff, where I am expected to display a narrowed waist. One that is forced and would otherwise be entirely unattainable.
My breath catches as she continues to pull the ribbon shorter. My hands wring the support barrier in search for more traction, all the while I droop my head and clench my jaw, ignoring the way my hair, curtains of cedar brown damp following my bathe, cascades over my shoulder. "Sorry Miss Allora." She recites as she continues to tighten the shell.
"That's quite alright Zaveri." I assure her, though the audible gritting of my teeth does little to convince her. She mumbles another apology at my persistent discomfort. "I don't know why they ever created these things. My highlight of the evening will be removing it." She huffs a laugh and with one final pull, she begins to tie the ribbon against the small of my back.
"I'm sure you'll have a wonderful evening. The corset will be forgotten soon enough." She says but when I offer her a look of disbelief – a cocked brow and pursed lips – she smiles and bows her head. "Lady Gwendolyn picked a stunning dress." She tells me as though it's compensation, scuttling over towards my closet as I let my palms run down the corset, following along the hourglass shape it has moulded me to. Already, I feel as though my ribs are fighting against the restraint, prepared to shatter if I move just once.
"I'm sure she did." I mumble, turning to face her as she scans her index finger (the one chipped with her identification) on the reader, allowing the closet doors to open for her. "Your level has increased." I point out unnecessarily while watching as she skims through the plethora of gowns, most worn once and ignored since.
She hums in acknowledgement. "Courtesy of your parents. They found it particularly frustrating that my level inhibited me from doing many things around the Manor." I nod in understanding despite her attention being elsewhere.
It's a deserved promotion. Zaveri has been a maid for a long while, despite her young age. Even at twenty three, she has exerted more professionalism and dedication to her service as a maid than most. She's also quite a charming friend, one I don't mind having around. With her level increased, she now has access to more rooms across the Manor, our belongings, like my dresses and jewellery. The pantry too. It's quite the honour for her.
