After winding through the building's first floor—navigating past changing rooms where people were either getting dressed, getting undressed, or deciding that clothes were a social construct they no longer believed in—we passed private spaces where the sounds filtering through the paper screens suggested activities that were neither private nor particularly appropriate for public establishments.

The halls were elegant in that deliberately minimalist way, all clean lines, warm wood, and the occasional artistic flourish that screamed "we have money and also taste, please be impressed."

We eventually ended up at the threshold of another waiting room, one significantly more upscale than anything we'd seen in the main lobby.

Larger bonsai plants dotted the space—not the cute miniature ones from outside—no, these were the proper bonsai brutes that had spent decades being sweetly coerced into poses no self-respecting tree would ever strike on its own. Branches looped into lazy figure-eights, trunks leaning like they'd had one too many, each twist a quiet testament to patient human mischief masquerading as art.

Red leather couches and chairs were arranged in conversational clusters, the kind of furniture that cost more than most people's annual income, plush enough to sink into, sleek enough to remind you that you probably didn't belong. Inviting and vaguely threatening, like a smile with too many teeth.

A steady trickle of water spilled from discreet artificial waterfalls along the walls, designed to soothe the soul and mask indiscreet conversations. Though all it really did was make me acutely aware of my bladder and mildly irritated at whoever decided "relaxing ambiance" meant constantly running water in a bathhouse.

Just ahead loomed the inevitable checkpoint, a sleek desk that radiated "you shall not pass" in every conceivable dialect of exclusivity.

Behind the counter lounged a man in a white suit cut so sharp and close it might as well have been airbrushed onto him. He was lost in the pages of a thick leather-bound book, half-moon reading glasses perched low on his nose with the deliberate poise of someone utterly convinced they lent him an air of refined intellect.

Two guards positioned themselves at the foot of the stairs behind the desk. Minimal clothing—little more than loincloths and strategic straps—left absolutely nothing to the imagination about the acres of muscle stacked on their frames.

They were deep in conversation, gesturing with the kind of broad, explicit hand motions—outlining lengths, tracing rhythms, mimicking thrusts—that left zero doubt they were comparing bedroom notes. Technique, stamina, girth, endurance, or possibly just trading increasingly outrageous lies about conquests that never happened. Every boast was punctuated by booming laughter and playful shoves that could've cracked the ribs of any lesser man.

Willow raised her hand as she crossed the threshold, her mouth opening to announce our presence with what could only be either brazen confidence or spectacular stupidity.

I quickly grabbed her before dragging the both of us down to crouch behind one of the red leather couches, slapping a hand over her mouth hard enough to muffle her surprised yelp.

"Shhh!" I hissed directly in her ear, putting enough urgency into it that she froze with the sound.

Her emerald eyes went wide, tracking to mine with a question that I answered by shaking my head emphatically. After a moment she nodded—slowly, carefully—and I took my hand away from her mouth with the kind of caution usually reserved for disarming explosives.

"Sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the ambient waterfall sounds. "I thought we were going to—"

"No need," I interrupted, still keeping my voice low. I peeked over the edge of the couch, assessing the situation. "It's better if I slip past on my own while you keep them thoroughly distracted. It'll avoid complications."

Willow's face transformed in an instant—her brows lifting with genuine curiosity while one corner of her mouth twisted into a skeptical half-smirk. "Slip past them? How so?"

"I have my ways," I explained with a wink. "I'll tell you later. The point is—I can get past them without issue. The question is whether or not you can get through yourself."

Willow's face transformed into the smuggest expression I'd seen from her yet, which was saying something considering her recent track record. She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear. "Sweetheart, I'm a succubus. Getting past horny guards is practically in my job description. Just watch me."

I grinned, because that was exactly the energy I'd been hoping for. We exchanged one sharp nod—the silent pact of two people who'd just mutually agreed to commit something spectacularly stupid together. And then Willow straightened, sashaying out from behind the couch as though the entire building had been waiting patiently for her return.

What followed was, quite possibly, the most seductive display of manipulation I'd ever witnessed.

And I'd witnessed a lot of seduction recently.

Willow glided toward the desk with a walk that was pure contradiction, innocent as a convent girl yet sinful as the thoughts she inspired, her hips swaying just enough to hypnotize without seeming deliberate, her skin still glistening from the hot springs and catching the ambient light in ways that made her seem to glow.

Her tail flicked behind her in playful, teasing curls while those emerald eyes of her's went wide and bright with an almost childlike enthusiasm.

The attendant lifted his gaze from the book, one eyebrow arched in that perfectly rehearsed arc of "you're wasting my time" that he'd probably perfected over years of turning away hopefuls.

Until he actually saw her.

In that very instant, his expression shifted through several stages—professional disinterest, mild curiosity, growing interest, and finally landing somewhere in the vicinity of "I need to maintain composure but also holy shit."

His glasses slipped a fraction down his nose; he didn't bother fixing them, and his book closed with a soft, forgotten thud against the desk.

"Hey mister~!" Willow said brightly, her voice pitching into registers that somehow managed to be both adorable and sultry simultaneously. She clasped her hands in front of her, the motion making her breasts press together in ways that were clearly deliberate. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could help me?"

She tilted her head slightly, letting her dark hair fall across one shoulder, then bit her lower lip in a gesture that was purely calculated innocence.

"See, I got a little lost in the public springs—there's just so many people down there and it's all very exciting but also a bit overwhelming. I heard there was a quieter area up here?" She took a step closer to the desk, leaning forward slightly. "I promise I'll be very, very good. I won't cause any trouble at all."

The emphasis on 'very good' was accompanied by the kind of eye contact that could melt steel.

Gods, the attendant's professional mask was cracking already, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Miss, I'm afraid the second floor is restricted to—"

"Oh, I know, I know!" Willow interrupted, her tone apologetic but somehow making it sound as though the restrictions were just a silly misunderstanding rather than actual policy. "But see, I'm not really from around here—I'm visiting, and I don't really know anyone. I was hoping..."

She trailed off, letting her hand drift to rest on the desk near his book, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the wood. "I was hoping maybe you could make an exception? Just this once? For me?"

Her tail came up then, the tip brushing against his arm with feather-light pressure, before she leaned close enough for her face to rest inches in front of his.

"I'd be so grateful," she whispered, "And I'm very good at showing gratitude."

The guards had noticed by now—their bawdy conversation dying mid-gesture as their eyes locked onto Willow's supernatural display of seduction. Then, with nothing but a quick glance at each other, they drifted closer, flanking the desk in perfect unison, professional vigilance melting into something significantly more interested.

One of them—a dark-skinned human with a shaved head and arms that could probably bench-press a horse—cleared his throat. "Ma'am, you're going to need to step back from the desk." he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Willow turned to face them both, her expression shifting into something akin to weaponized cuteness as her emerald eyes went impossibly wide, her bottom lip trembling into the tiniest, most heartbreaking pout.

"Oh no, did I do something wrong?" She glanced between them with what appeared to be genuine distress. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to cause problems! I just thought—I mean—"

Her hands twisted together in front of her, the motion shifting her weight just enough to make her breasts sway softly. And then she did something absolutely devastating.

She sniffled. Just once. Just enough to suggest she might be about to cry.

The effect was catastrophic. Both of the guards visibly softened, their professional demeanor crumbling like sandcastles at high tide, because apparently even trained security personnel were helpless against the possibility of making a beautiful woman cry.

"Hey, no, don't—" the second guard started, reaching out instinctively. He was an orc of the brown-skinned variety. Massive, with tusks that would've been intimidating if his expression weren't currently radiating pure protective concern. "You're not in trouble, we just—"

Willow looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes slightly damp now in a way that was either genuine emotion or the single greatest acting performance I'd ever seen. "For real?" she asked in a small voice. "Because I really don't want to cause problems. I just..." She took a shaky breath, "I just wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere I could relax without all the crowds. Is that so wrong?"

The orc stammered over his words, his professional composure crumbling like wet paper. "Look, you—you wouldn't have much luck up there anyway. It's pretty packed, you know? There's a special—"

His words were cut off as Willow—apparently deciding subtlety was overrated—pressed herself against him, her smaller frame fitting neatly against his bulk, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingers splaying over muscle that flexed involuntarily under her touch.

"Please?" she whispered, looking up at him with those impossibly wide eyes. "I promise I'll make it worth your while. All of you..."

The implication of those words hung heavy in the air.

The human guard closed in on her other side, bracketing her between their two massive frames. His hand slid down without hesitation, settling possessively on her hip, fingers brushing the slick trail running down her inner thigh.

"Gods," he rasped, voice rough as gravel, "your pussy's dripping." He leaned in, nostrils flaring as he inhaled her scent. "You just came from the springs, right?"

"Mmhmm," Willow hummed, pressing back against him slightly. "It's very active down there. All that energy just makes me so..." She trailed off, grinding slightly between them. "Needy."

The orc's massive hand rose, cupping one of Willow's breasts with embarrassing ease, his palm swallowing it whole while his thumb brushed slow and deliberate over her nipple. "And these cute little tits," he rumbled appreciatively. "Fuck, you're perfect."

"Thank you~" Willow breathed, leaning into the man's grip, eyes half-lidded and glowing with satisfaction. "You're very sweet to say so."

The attendant had completely dropped any shred of professionalism, rising from his desk for a better view as the guards lost the last of their restraint. Their massive hands roamed freely now—groping her ass with shameless greed, squeezing and spreading her cheeks, thick fingers sliding between her thighs to find her soaked entrance and pushing inside with deep, appreciative groans.

The orc suddenly dragged his tongue up the side of her face in a long, possessive lick, like an overeager hound claiming territory. Willow merely giggled, bright and delighted, as she pressed herself closer into their grasp.

I snickered quietly from my hiding spot, because gods, the sight of three grown men in positions of authority reduced to drooling, groping idiots in under thirty seconds was the funniest damn thing I'd seen all night.

Then, in the span of exactly five heartbeats, I vanished.

The world bled away—colors fading to muted grays and blacks. The guards and attendant dissolved into smoky silhouettes, vague and indistinct, still there but stripped of detail and solidity. The realm of smoke and shadows folded around me like a familiar cloak, cool and comforting against my bare skin.

I dashed out from behind the couch with confident strides, the guards completely oblivious to my presence as I slipped past them.

I reached the stairs before ascending them effortlessly, taking them two at a time, swinging around the railing at the landing and continuing upward with growing enthusiasm.

When I made it to the top and let myself snap back to reality, I materialized in a cavernous room of polished dark wood, bathed in the eerie blue glow of recessed pools that turned the whole space into something out of a very expensive fever dream.

And then there were the bodies. Gods, so many bodies.

Not dead bodies, thank the gods—no, these were very much alive. Nobles of every imaginable species and shape, draped in the barest scraps of silk or, more often, nothing at all. Skin gleamed with water, sweat, and fluids I politely refused to itemize.

Some were lounging in small artificially heated pools built into the floor, others resting on lavish pillows piled in decadent clusters, but most of them were standing, packed together in a dense crowd, cheering and shouting encouragement at something happening in the center.

There were no slaves here that I could see—only pure, concentrated high-society hedonism, the kind where everyone pretended they were equals because they all had titles long enough to choke a scribe.

I threaded through the press of bodies with single-minded determination, dodging a gauntlet of wet cocks bobbing at every conceivable height like the world's most inconvenient pinata party. Hands found my ass as I passed—grabbing, squeezing, delivering playful, or not-so-playful, slaps that rippled across my skin and announced my arrival louder than any herald ever could.

"What's a slave doing up here?"

"Gods, look at that body—"

"Whose property is this? I'll buy him right now—"

"That ass, fuck, I could spend hours with that—"

The whispers crashed over me like a wave of increasingly vulgar auction bids—"Look at that pretty little thing," "Bet he takes it better than half the room," "Ten crowns says he's tighter than a miser's purse"—but I tuned them out, elbowing forward until I finally broke through to the front row.

And gods, what I saw made me have to physically bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

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