I pushed through the steam-filled hallway, the thick clouds swirling around my naked skin like nosy ghosts, before stepping into the main hot springs area.
Instantly the heat slammed into me—not the brutal kind that makes you regret decisions, but the sly, seductive sort that slips under your defenses and melts tension you didn’t even know you were holding. It wrapped around every inch of me, sinking deep into muscle and bone until my body decided, entirely without consultation, that surrender was the only sensible option.
The air was scented with an intoxicating mixture of salt from the mineral-rich water, exotic spices I couldn’t identify that had probably been added for ambiance, and an underlying musk of sex and sweat that spoke volumes about what kind of activities were common here.
My eyes adjusted to the steam-softened light, and for once even I felt a flicker of genuine awe slip past my usual armor of smirking detachment.
A set of smoothly winding stone pathways meandered between steaming pools of every size, each one hewn from natural rock that looked like it had been convinced, or possibly bribed, to form perfectly, inviting basins.
Paper lanterns glowed warmly, strategically placed around a bonsai garden aesthetic that continued the Japanese theme from outside.
Miniature trees in ceramic pots lined the walkways, carefully pruned and positioned. Their delicate branches swayed just enough in the warm updraft to cast flickering shadows that danced across the stone—playful, teasing silhouettes that made the entire place feel like a stage set for secrets.
Steam drifted upward from the pools in lazy, languid spirals, thick enough to blur edges and soften sounds, turning distant figures into a ghosts gliding through the clouds.
Directly ahead sprawled the main pool—a vast, steaming behemoth of a thing that could easily swallow thirty or forty bodies without once complaining about the crowd—decorated with nobles who, while not of the lavish upper-echelon type, were still substantial enough to have at least some sort of political or economic influence.
They mingled with each other in smug little knots, their laughter pompous and carrying that particular quality of people who believed themselves important, gesturing with wine glasses that servants kept refilling with great haste.
And surrounding them—being used by them—were slaves.
Women and men alike, their bodies being ravaged by the side of the pool, in the water itself, bent over rocks or pressed against the smooth stone edges while nobles pumped into them without any apparent care for whose property belonged to whom.
Some were crying softly, others had gone completely blank-faced with resignation, and a few seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves in that complicated way where pleasure and degradation tangled into something I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to unpack right now.
Almost instantly, I felt the eyes land on us like spotlights—conversations stuttering to a halt, wine glasses frozen halfway to lips, heads turning in that slow, synchronized wave to take in the sight of us
Then came the whispers. Soft at first, a rustle of curiosity like dry leaves in a breeze, before swelling into a rising tide of speculation and scandal that rippled across the pool faster than the steam itself.
"Is that a succubus?" someone gasped, their voice high with disbelief. "They’re illegal—how did someone bring a succubus into the chambers?"
"Look at that one next to her," another voice purred, distinctly male and dripping with crude appreciation. "The little one with the twitching cock. I’d love to bend that pretty thing over and fuck his tight ass until he screams, see if he can take a real man’s length or if he’d break like the delicate little slut he clearly is."
"Gods, those thighs," a woman added, her tone equally filthy. "I want to get my face between them, lick that cute cock until he’s begging, then ride him until he’s completely empty. Look how he’s already leaking—probably desperate for it, probably hasn’t been properly used in days."
"I’d pay good money to watch him get passed around," someone else contributed. "See how many loads that tight body could take before he’s reduced to a babbling mess. I bet he’d look absolutely beautiful covered in cum."
Willow, bless her wicked little heart, didn’t just tolerate the attention—she devoured it. Her wine-dark skin caught the lantern glow like it had been polished for the occasion, every curve subtly angled to maximize the collective gasp rippling through the pool.
Her tail swished behind her with obvious pleasure, that wicked smile on her face suggesting she was already planning something that would make this entire visit memorable for all the wrong reasons.
Before I could say anything in protest—before I could suggest maybe we ease into this situation with some subtlety and tact—Willow released her grip on my arm and launched herself toward the pool.
She jumped, knees tucked, arms hugging her shins, she executed the most gleeful, childlike cannonball I’d ever witnessed from a grown demoness.
Her body hit the water with a thunderous whumph! and the splash that followed was nothing short of biblical, a towering wave that exploded outward in all directions, drenching nobles mid-sip, slapping wine glasses from manicured hands, and turning perfectly coiffed hair into tragic, clinging wrecks.
One splash caught a pair mid-intercourse, the man’s rhythm completely disrupted as hot water hit his back and made him yelp with surprise.
Conversations died, moans cut off abruptly, and suddenly every eye in the main pool was fixed on Willow as she burst from the water with a massive grin.
"Come on in!" she called to me, "The water’s perfect!"
Mischief fizzed up inside me like the world’s finest champagne, because if we were going to make an entrance, we might as well make it spectacular.
I backed up several deliberate steps along the stone path, bare feet sure against the warm rock, then used my enhanced strength—channeling magical energy into my legs with practiced ease—to dash a few feet before leaping high into the air.
For one perfectly suspended heartbeat, I was airborne—naked, slick with steam, hair whipping behind me like a banner of pure anarchy, cock bobbing along with the ridiculous enthusiasm only gravity’s brief vacation can inspire. The lanterns blurred below, the nobles’ faces tilting upward in slow-motion horror.
And then I crashed.
The impact was glorious—a thunderous, full-bodied slam that punched a crater into the water and unleashed a veritable tsunami in every direction.
I surfaced with a gasp that dissolved into helpless laughter, shoving wet hair from my eyes just in time to drink in the carnage.
Saints above, they’d lost it.
Nobles were screaming—some with genuine outrage, others with scandalized delight—as they found themselves completely drenched. Their carefully maintained appearances had been destroyed in an instant, makeup running down faces in colorful streaks, hair plastered to skulls in unflattering ways, jewelry now dripping and dulled.
"How dare you!"
"My hair took hours!"
"Do you have any idea who I am?!"
"This is completely unacceptable behavior!"
"Someone fetch the management immediately!"
"I’m going to have you thrown out for this!"
The complaints filled the air in a cacophony of entitled outrage. I floated there in the center of it all, treading water and grinning like I’d just been crowned king of the world’s pettiest disaster. Because honestly? Watching wealthy people lose their minds over getting wet—in a literal body of water—was comedy so pure it deserved its own temple.
Julius and the rest of our posse emerged from the steam behind us, pausing at the threshold to survey the damage with expressions that ranged from shock, to resigned amusement, to barely contained laughter.
Before I could wave the others in—before I could play the gracious host to our freshly claimed territory—Willow decided peace was overrated. Her hands sliced the water, cupped like weapons, and unleashed a barrage straight at my face.
I sputtered, half-blind and fully delighted, before retaliating with both arms, sending up great sweeping sheets of water that caught the lantern light in glittering arcs. We descended into a playful fight, utterly oblivious to the nobles around us who were trying, and failing, to restore their soggy dignity with increasingly desperate huffs and glares.
That’s when a massive shadow fell over both of us, blocking out the lantern light and casting us in sudden darkness. I glanced up, water still dripping from my lashes in slow, teasing rivulets—straight into the looming silhouette of a nobleman planted at the pool’s edge directly above.
He was big—not tall, but wide, with a bear gut that protruded so far over his waistband it seemed structurally impossible. His bathrobe, once presumably luxurious, hung open like surrendered curtains, framing the full, unapologetic expanse of his corpulence without a shred of shame.
His hair, a ridiculous shade of blonde, had been styled into some kind of elaborate pompadour now absolutely ruined by the water sagging at the ends like a melted wedding cake, droplets plinging mournfully into the water below.
But the facial hair. Oh, the facial hair deserved its own opera.
The mustache curled upward at each end in these exaggerated, villainous spirals—tight, perfect coils that looked less grown and more engineered—while his beard had been braided into three separate sections that hung down his chest, decorated lightly with golden beads.
In both his meaty arms were draped two beauties—not ragged slaves, but actual noblewomen based on their jewelry and the haughty expressions they wore even while pressed against this man’s bulk.
They were perfectly coiffed and made up, wearing elaborate robes that somehow remained pristine despite the humidity, and they looked at Willow and me with matching expressions of disdain.
Their robes were elaborate confections of silk and embroidery, somehow still pristine in all this steam, their hair and makeup looking like they’d been glued into place by professionals with iron wills and stronger pomade. They stared down at Willow and I with matching expressions of disdain.
The man himself had gone a truly impressive shade of purple—less "royal" and more "overripe aubergine on the verge of explosion."
His jowls quivered like gelatin in an earthquake, those golden-beaded beard braids swinging with every furious breath, as he finally opened his mouth to unleashed a torrent of entitled fury, the kind that only came from someone who’d never been told ’no’ in their entire life.
"Do you have any idea," he thundered, his voice booming across the springs, "what you’ve just done?! I am Baron Cornelius Worthington the Third, heir to the Worthington shipping fortune, personal friend of Director Thalen himself, and you have just completely ruined my evening! This robe cost more money than you’ll see in your entire pathetic lives! My hair—my hair!—took my personal stylist three hours to perfect, and now it’s absolutely destroyed! I demand compensation! I demand an apology! I demand you be dragged out of here by your ears and thrown into the stocks for public humiliation!"
He continued ranting, voice climbing in both pitch and self-importance, face ripening from aubergine to full-blown plum as veins stood out on his forehead like poorly drawn rivers on a map.
The two jewel-draped beauties clinging to his arms nodded along as his words grew in vulgarity—the breezy dismissal of anyone below his tax bracket as sub-human, the wounded astonishment that the universe had dared inconvenience him, the way he kept referring to himself in the third person as if he were were narrating his own heroic saga to an invisible scribe.
Willow and I exchanged one quick glance, and that was all it took.
Her emerald eyes sparkled with the same wicked delight currently fizzing through my veins—no words needed, just pure, telepathic agreement that this walking monument to entitlement had just volunteered to be the evening’s grand entertainment.
A silent pact sealed in mutual mischief. He was ours now, and we were going to make his humiliation legendary.
Willow rose from the water like a demoness deciding the mortal realm had gone too long without proper temptation.
She took her time about it, emerging inch by tantalizing inch as she climbed the stone steps, letting water sluice off her curves in shining rivulets—down her breasts, over the soft plane of her stomach, along thighs that could start, or end, religions—catching the lantern light until she practically glowed with it.
Her hips swayed in exaggerated, hypnotic rolls, tail curling behind her in lazy figure-eights that promised things no decent person would say aloud.
The Baron took an involuntary step back, his rant dying mid-sentence as Willow approached. Then she reached out with one hand and trailed her fingers up his exposed chest, her touch feather-light and electric.
"Gods, I’m so sorry," she purred, her voice dropping into registers that bypassed rational thought and went straight to primal instinct. "We didn’t mean to ruin your evening. Please, let me make it up to you." Her other hand joined the first, both of them mapping the terrain of his body with expert precision. "You’re so powerful, so important. A man like you deserves proper... attention."
She pressed closer, her breasts brushing against his gut, and tilted her head to expose the elegant line of her throat.
"I could show you things," she whispered, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "Things that would make you forget all about wet robes and ruined hair. All you have to do is forgive us. Can you do that? Can you be... generous?"
Her tongue flicked out, slow and deliberate, tracing her lower lip until it gleamed in the lantern light. Then one hand began its treacherous descent—fingertips skating lower, lower still, not quite touching his cock but getting dangerously close, the promise implicit in every movement.
The noblewomen at his sides immediately began snapping at him, their voices sharp with jealous fury.
"Cornelius, don’t you dare!"
"She’s a succubus—she’s manipulating you!"
"Look at me when I’m talking to you!"
"I swear if you even think about—"
The two noblewomen were in full frantic chorus now, tugging at his soggy robe like it might somehow yank his attention back to them. But poor Cornelius was already lost. His eyes had gone glassy, tracking Willow’s movements with single-minded focus.
His breathing turned ragged, chest heaving hard enough to set those golden-beaded braids clinking like wind chimes in a storm. And lower, his cock was beginning to stiffen, thickening and rising with the sluggish but unstoppable determination of a drawbridge that had decided chivalry was very much alive.
Meanwhile, I’d been sneaking around the edge of the pool with careful steps, staying low and using the steam as cover.
I climbed out on the opposite side from where I’d entered and came around behind the Baron, settling into a crouch just a few feet from his exposed back. The noblewomen were too focused on trying to regain his attention to notice me, and everyone else was watching Willow’s performance with rapt attention.
I drew upon the energy in the air—feeling it flow into me with ease, that now-familiar sensation of external power responding to my will. Then I processed it through my astral nexus, converting raw energy into chaos energy with the ease of recent practice, and whispered the demonic incantation Willow had taught me earlier.
The words felt natural on my tongue now—syllables dark and velvet-rough, clicking into place with satisfying precision— before I sent the converted energy to the tip of my middle finger.
Red lightning crackled across my fingertip—thin, vicious little arcs that snapped and danced like they were laughing at the joke we were about to play. With a smirk I extended my hand, lifted the delicate hem of his sodden robes, then took careful aim before flicking the Baron’s balls.
Just once. But that’s all it took.
His entire body seized in one violent, helpless convulsion—every muscle locking tight, back arching as if drawn by invisible strings. His eyes flew wide, practically cartoonish in their panic before, in that exact, exquisite instant, Willow traced a slow, languid lick up the side of his neck—hot, wet, deliberate—her tongue leaving a glistening path that burned straight through whatever remained of his composure.
The twin assaults—my precise flick below and her velvet stroke above—shattered him completely. His cock completely stiffened in a heartbeat, going from partially interested to fully erect so quick it was almost violent.
And then he was cumming.
The first rope shot out thick and forceful, arcing through the steam to land with an audible splat across Willow’s stomach. The sound cut through the springs like a thunderclap in a library, silencing every last murmur, indignant huff, and desperate plea from the women still clinging to his arms.
More followed—smaller spurts that painted her skin in streaks of white before slowly dripping toward the water below.
Willow faked a scandalized expression of surprise, her mouth forming a perfect ’O’ as her hands came up to her face in theatrical shock. Then the mask cracked, melting into the smuggest, most triumphantly wicked grin I’d ever seen.
"My my," she purred, trailing one finger through his release and examining it. "Someone was very excited. I barely even touched you and you just... exploded. Is that normal for you? Or am I just that irresistible?"
The noblewomen at his sides immediately broke away from him as though he’d suddenly developed a contagious disease, their perfect faces twisting into masks of pure, aristocratic revulsion.
One of them—a tall woman with elaborately braided hair—raised her hand before smacking him hard across the face, the sound so sharp it could have cut glass.
"You disgusting pig!" she shrieked, then, because apparently that wasn’t emphatic enough, leaned in and spat right on his face for good measure.
And then it happened.
The entire area imploded with laughter.
The drenched nobles who’d been complaining moments ago, the dry ones who’d been watching from the sidelines, even the random stragglers lounging in distant side pools—all of them lost it at once.
Laughter exploded through the springs like a chain reaction of pure, merciless joy, bouncing off the stone walls and wafting straight out into the street for the whole city to enjoy.
Some doubled over, clutching their sides like they’d cracked a rib, while others pointed with trembling fingers, gasping out half-words between helpless guffaws, tears streaming down their faces to mix with the steam.
Willow laughed with them, her voice ringing out bright and delighted, before lifting her cum-coated fingers to the lantern light with all the gravitas of a scholar presenting a groundbreaking discovery, turning her hand this way and that, tilting her head as if genuinely fascinated by the viscosity, opacity, and the sheer comedic value of the Baron’s spend.
The Baron himself stood frozen for a long moment, his face cycling through several shades of red and purple, before—belatedly, gloriously—his hands snapped down to cup his still-oozing cock in a futile attempt at preserving dignity that was long gone.
Then he turned and scampered away, moving with surprising speed for someone his size, slipping twice on the wet stone before finally disappearing into the steam with the sound of continued laughter chasing him into exile.
I straightened from my crouch with pride swelling in my chest, brushing my hands together in the universal gesture of a ’job well done.’
But more importantly, I felt a slight tingle run under my skin—a warmth that spread from my core outward, the unmistakable sensation of magical energy being absorbed and integrated into my reserves.
My first victim. My power was growing, and gods, the sensation was absolutely intoxicating.