My Femboy System
Chapter 35: Hot Springs and Hungers

Chapter 35: Hot Springs and Hungers

The walk back into the heart of the city felt different.

Maybe it was the weight of Mavus Grey’s death still clinging to my shoulders like a fur coat woven from old regrets. Or maybe it was the beast boy trailing beside me—barefoot, dirt-smudged, and wearing his exhaustion like a medal.

The streets were quieter here, closer to dawn, the cobblestones still damp with dew and last night’s sins. Lamplight flickered above us in lazy, uneven rhythm, casting our shadows across the street like a pair of tired ghosts on parade.

He didn’t complain.

Of course not. He was too proud for that. The kind of pride stitched not from arrogance but from survival—threadbare and patchworked, but still holding together with quiet dignity.

His stomach growled.

Loudly.

It was less of a rumble and more of a small, mournful roar—the sort of sound that echoed slightly, like a lonely bear calling out across a snowy valley. He stiffened immediately, standing straighter, like posture could somehow shame his own body into silence.

I glanced sideways.

Another rumble.

More pitiful this time. Almost apologetic.

I sighed—long, theatrical, indulgent. The kind of sigh usually reserved for spoiled nobles and overcooked soufflés.

He looked at me in alarm.

"I’m fine," he said blankly.

"You’re starving."

"I can wait."

"That’s what people say right before they pass out and ruin the mood."

I stopped walking and turned to face him fully, placing a hand on my hip. "This is no way for my traveling companion to behave. Desperate. Hungry. Slightly feral. Honestly, people will think I kidnapped you."

The beast boy—who still hadn’t offered a name—flashed me a look, half-glare, half-embarrassment.

I smiled sweetly. "Let’s get you fed."

He blinked. "We have no money."

"Darling," I said, tapping my lip, "you forget who you’re speaking to."

I shifted smoothly, my bones whispering secrets to the air as my form softened, stretched, twisted into curves and charm. My Divine Femmeform returned like a silken glove—cheekbones sharp enough to commit crimes with, lashes long enough to brush away judgment, lips plush enough to start revolutions.

His jaw visibly dropped at the sight. He caught himself. Almost.

I winked.

We strolled into a cluster of food stalls glowing faintly under makeshift lanterns—venturers of the night who hadn’t yet packed up. A hunched man was frying skewers of what smelled like sweet garlic pork, oil popping with enthusiasm.

"Watch and learn," I murmured.

I sauntered up to the stall, leaned an elbow casually on the counter, and smiled like a sunrise dipped in sin.

"Sir," I purred, "I’m simply ravished—in more ways than one."

The vendor blinked, already sweating. "Uh—h-how many skewers?"

"Mm...surprise me."

I licked my lips.

He handed me six. Immediately. No questions. No charge.

Ah, the perks of presentation.

I twirled back to the beast boy, who was watching like I’d just rewritten the laws of physics with eyeliner. I handed him four skewers, kept two for myself, and gestured for him to sit with me on the stone steps nearby.

He inhaled the food like someone who’d never been allowed to eat slow. His eyes closed for a moment—just a moment—as if chewing something warm and savory was better than any prayer he’d ever learned.

"You know," I said, stretching one leg out and toying with my skewer, "this is where you’re supposed to say thank you."

He blinked, swallowed, and said, "...Thank you."

"And?"

His brows furrowed.

I grinned. "And... perhaps share your name with your benefactor?"

A pause.

Then, quietly, "Leo."

I tilted my head, savoring it. "Leo. How appropriate of you. Fierce, a little growly, very cute when you’re eating."

He flushed just slightly.

I leaned back on my elbows, smiling into the sky. "You don’t have to tell me who she was. The woman at the auction. I saw the way you looked at her, and the way she looked at you. That’s enough. We’ll sort it out after the hot springs. One mess at a time."

He gave a small, grateful nod.

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pen.

It gleamed faintly in the rising light.

"Leo," I said. "Would you like to join me properly?"

His eyes widened.

"I mean as a marked companion," I clarified. "No shackles. No chains. No oaths you can’t take back. Only a signature. Mine, etched into your soul."

He stared at the pen. Then at me.

And he nodded.

I touched the pen to his chest.

The mark flared—a delicate, coiling shape of velvet black ink, swirling across his collarbone and down his ribs in smooth, elegant curves. It pulsed once, twice, and then sank into his skin.

Leo’s body changed.

Not drastically—but enough to make the air feel heavier. He was beautiful before, but now? Now he radiated. His eyes brightened, his skin shimmered faintly with unnatural health. His bones were still slender, his hips subtly widened, but the transformation gave him polish, grace—like a statue made flesh, kissed by a sculptor’s final brush.

Even in his slave tunic, he looked divine.

He blinked at himself, unsure what had changed, until I offered a mirror from my pocket.

His mouth parted in astonishment.

Then he smiled.

And for the first time, it wasn’t shy. It was proud.

We finished eating and continued deeper into the city.

The atmosphere shifted block by block.

Dancers now lined the streets, twirling ribbons and laughing with painted faces. Perfumed men and women with jingling bells on their ankles strutted past, performing tricks or simply basking in attention. The scent of myrrh and citrus filled the air, blending with the sticky-sweet hum of nectar wine and rose incense. The cobblestones sparkled faintly with mica powder thrown like confetti.

Everywhere, pleasure reigned.

And at the heart of it all—wrapped in columns of steam and exotic architecture—stood the Ventri Central Hot Springs.

The gates were gilded in tarnished bronze, its inside guarded by a single figure perched atop a stool behind a lavish desk with all the majesty of a retired empress.

She was enormous. Glorious. A mountain of a woman with heavy arms, glittering bangles, and a shawl that had long given up trying to contain her cleavage. She raised a painted eyebrow as we approached, a knowing smirk tugging her lips.

"Well, well," she said, voice like velvet soaked in gin. "Two little beauties come to bathe in the city’s favorite stew. You come to relax or scandalize?"

"Why not both?" I said sweetly.

She cackled. "Two silver crowns to enter. One if you promise to put on a good show."

I flipped her two coins.

"Oh, love," she winked at Leo, "you’re going to learn things tonight."

We stepped inside.

Heat hit us instantly—lush, humid air scented with salt, spice, and musk. Stone pathways wound between steaming pools, each one glowing faintly under the lanterns strung from archways above. The soft splash of water and the even softer gasp of someone being...well, gently ravished...echoed through the mist.

Leo stopped walking.

His eyes were wide and his cheeks flushed, silver ears twitching. He tried not to look and failed.

We passed a pool where two men lounged in each other’s arms, their kisses slow and heavy. Another pool where a woman giggled as a servant fed her grapes between moans. Leo stumbled slightly.

"Don’t be shy," I murmured, unfastening my trousers and letting them drop. "It’s only debauchery."

He stared.

Then, slowly, removed his tunic.

His body was...impossibly lovely now. Lithe and lean, glowing faintly with power. He looked like temptation in its first draft—before sin was added to the recipe.

A few guests whistled.

I laughed like a madman before tossing my pants at a statue.

Leo blinked.

Then mimicked me.

His laughter wasn’t polished. It was wild. Joyful. Real.

I dove into the water with a splash big enough to soak a nearby noblewoman’s bathrobe. A man shouted in indignation.

"How dare you! This is a refined establishment! You—"

Leo cannonballed in right after me with the unfiltered enthusiasm of a boy who’d never been told he wasn’t allowed to have fun. Another cascade of water crashed over the nobleman, drenching his hair and scorching his eyes.

The man looked like he might combust. His face went red, then purple, and then a shade I could only describe as "disgruntled beet."

I raised my hand calmly and flicked his forehead.

Snap.

A sharp, precise little motion—barely a gesture, really, but it carried enough force to jolt his powdered wig slightly askew.

He froze.

Blinking.

Then, as if possessed by the sudden and overwhelming realization that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a hill worth dying on, he sat down.

Silently.

I sank deeper into my seat near the edge of the hot spring, sighing contentedly. The water lapped at my bruises like a mother’s kiss. I kept one eye open, scanning the crowd.

She was here. Somewhere in this lush maze of flesh, steam, and wicked, drifting laughter.

But for now...

Leo floated closer.

Our legs brushed—innocent enough.

Then our thighs—less so.

His breath hitched, audible even over the burble of the springs, and he leaned in. Close. Too close. His lips ghosted the shell of my ear, breath hot and trembling.

"Cecil..." he murmured, voice feather-light and dripping with want.

I turned to look at him.

Gods.

The steam gilded his features in soft gold. His lashes were wet and heavy, cheeks glowing with heat, and his parted lips trembled with a need too young to name and too old to deny. There was something beautifully obscene about the way he hovered there—fragile, aching, obedient in that utterly undone way.

His hands touched my chest—hesitant, reverent. I caught them in mine and pulled him closer.

He slid into my lap.

Straddling me.

Gasping.

He clutched my shoulders like they were the last solid thing in a world gone molten. His hips pressed flush to mine beneath the water, and he made the softest sound at the contact—a high, breathy whimper that went straight to the part of me that loved making angels fall.

I didn’t kiss him at first.

I tasted him.

Lips grazing his jaw. His cheek. The corner of his mouth. Teasing him, devouring him one tremble at a time. And when our lips finally met, it wasn’t hunger.

It was worship.

The kind that left saints blushing in their graves.

Around us, the water rippled. The soft slap of skin and steam muffled by fog. A few nearby guests—lounging nobles, bored debutantes, painted courtesans—turned to watch. Their gasps were barely masked behind jeweled fans and wine glasses, but none of them looked away.

Leo noticed them out of the corner of his eye which only made him more ravenous with lust. He picked up the pace, his soft huffing becoming ragged breath.

His mouth trailed down my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone. I exhaled a soft curse and dragged my hand along the curve of his spine, feeling every shiver ripple through him like I was playing a harp made of nerves and moans.

"You’re doing so well," I whispered, loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. I saw one woman cover her mouth, scandalized. A man across from us adjusted himself beneath the water. Others began pleasuring themselves at the sight.

Leo buried his face in my neck. His body trembled violently now, like he was holding back a storm. I held him tighter, whispering filth and praise in equal measure, guiding him through it—owning the moment, the audience, the hunger.

And when it came—

It wasn’t loud.

But it was everything.

He went still. Then limp. His head tucked beneath my chin, chest heaving, heart racing like mad against mine. I cradled him gently, stroking his damp hair, letting the steam swirl around us like a closing curtain.

I kissed his brow as he leapt from the water, finding someplace secluded to dry off. I leaned to rest my head back against the lip of the spring—

—just in time to be greeted by a bare foot to the face.

I blinked.

A woman stood above us, completely naked, her skin a rich, wine-dark red that glistened like molten glass in the moonlight. Freckles dotted her collarbones and cheeks like constellations. Emerald eyes sparkled like cut gems, sharp and brilliant, glinting with secrets and sarcasm in equal measure.

Her breasts were small—pert and high, the kind that defied gravity and expectation alike. Not the kind sculpted for spectacle, but for wicked attention, elegant, teasing, and infuriatingly perfect. They fit her frame with effortless precision, soft and taut all at once, each curve a whispered promise rather than a shouted invitation.

Her body was flawless. Her smirk? Weaponized. And just beneath her smile—so smug, so knowing—peeked a single, sharp little fang. Not threatening. Not monstrous.

Just adorably wicked.

"Well," she said, voice syrupy sweet and high like a violin string trembling in heat, "isn’t this just adorable."

I stared up at her and groaned.

"Hello, Willow."

She winked.

"Miss me?"