My Femboy System
Chapter 36: Reunion with the Devil

Chapter 36: Reunion with the Devil

There are moments in life when you find yourself questioning the choices that led you somewhere.

Like, say...when you’re naked, sweating, and reclining on a velvet chaise while your ex-girlfriend—a red-skinned succubus with a voice like a sugar-high harlot—gazes at you like she’s about to lick you clean and hang your soul up to dry.

Yes.

That was definitely one of those moments.

Willow stood in front of me in all her delicious, demonic glory—completely bare, skin glistening like candied wine, her body a fever dream sculpted for sin.

"Ceeee-cil!" she chirped, voice high, sugary, and utterly obscene. She twirled a dripping strand of wet crimson hair around one claw-tipped finger, batting her lashes at me with cartoonish glee. "My dear Cecil, still so dramatic. Still so devastatingly pretty when you pout."

I wasn’t pouting.

I was maintaining dignity. Somehow. While fully nude. In a sweat-soaked room. Being ogled by my glittering, giggling, insane ex—a creature who looked like she’d been drawn by a horny cherub and dipped in cherry liqueur.

Leo trailed into the dressing room from behind like a stray lamb who’d wandered into a scandal. His eyes darted like a frightened deer’s—from the mist, to the silken veils swaying overhead, to the shameless display that was Willow—all of Willow—and nothing but Willow.

Willow saw him.

Oh, did she see him.

"Oh. My. STARS!" she squealed, bouncing on the balls of her bare feet like a girl meeting a pop idol. She practically glided toward him, hips swiveling, every step an erotic cartoon. "Cecil," she gasped, circling Leo with all the subtlety of a predator in heels. "Did you bring me another toy? Look at those shoulders! Those lips! That tight little waist!"

"He’s not a toy," I said, dry as kindling. "He’s a person."

Willow cooed—a sound halfway between a giggle and a moan—and cupped his jaw with both hands, squishing his cheeks lightly as if she were testing peaches at the market. "Mmmf. He smells like a wet dream. Ooh, and you’ve marked him too! How naughty."

Her fingers danced along his collarbone. Leo’s ears turned crimson. He looked like someone had thrown him into a brothel and told him to pray.

"Willow." My voice cut in sharp.

She paused. Then gave the most exaggerated pout in recorded history, complete with fluttering lashes and a whimper that could melt furniture.

"Oh fiiiiiine," she huffed, drawing her claws slowly down Leo’s chest as she backed away—like she was physically tearing herself from a dessert platter. "You never let me have any fun."

Her mood flipped instantly.

With a bubbly little squeak, she spun on her heel and bounced—literally bounced—back to me, arms outstretched like a child begging to be picked up.

"Now then!" she declared. "Time for gossip, nudity, and reminiscence!"

She clapped her hands. "In that order! Shall we?"

Willow didn’t wait for an answer, just seized my wrist and dragged me through another veil of misted silk. Leo hesitated, standing in the doorway like a boy who’d wandered into the wrong opera.

"Stay," I told him. "Watch the towels. Try not to faint."

The private bath was exactly as I remembered—a den of decadent sin wrapped in white marble and gold, the kind of room where morality came to towel off and take a nap.

Gilded edges caught the lamplight like lazy winks. The floor was so polished it practically begged for sweat to be spilled on it. And the steam? Suffocating in the best possible way—thick, hot, and clinging to your skin like a possessive lover. Every breath tasted like lust and lavender.

Willow flopped onto the nearest velvet chaise with a dramatic moan, her naked body glistening like a forbidden fruit basket, limbs splayed with zero decorum. She stretched like a cat being adored by the sun, one leg bent high at the knee, the other dangling over the edge, her tail lazily flicking steam off the cushions.

"I missed you," she said dreamily.

"We broke up," I replied flatly.

"I can still miss you can’t I?" she chirped.

"You stole my wine collection."

"You seduced my cousin."

"She asked nicely."

"She was married."

"To a pineapple merchant!"

"She was allergic to pineapple!"

We stared at each other.

Then she giggled—a breathy, high-pitched tinkle that bounced off the marble like wind chimes dipped in champagne.

I sighed and settled onto the opposite chaise, the silken cushions sighing beneath me. The steam kissed every inch of bare skin it could reach. It felt like being cradled by desire itself.

"Leo," I said, flicking a hand toward the outer door, "is off-limits."

"Mmhm," she hummed innocently, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Noted."

She absolutely hadn’t.

"Now," she declared, kicking both legs into the air and rolling onto her stomach with her chin propped in her hands, "let’s do the thing. The memory lane thing. It’ll be cute."

And so we talked.

I told her about the traveling circus I joined after we’d parted—how I’d become a tightrope artist and part-time magician, charming cities one scandalous somersault at a time. She threw a pillow at me when I mimed falling into the arms of a duchess. I caught it. Barely.

Willow told me of her time in Ventri.

How she’d been kidnapped once—yes, kidnapped, because apparently Ventri can’t go ten days without a dramatic turn—and sold to a collector of "exotic beauties."

Her words, not mine.

"I was lot number six," she said breezily, kicking her feet in the air. "Right after the gemstone-skinned siren and before the werewolf with two tongues. I was a steal, really."

"And who bought you?"

She smiled softly, gaze distant for once. "Mavus Grey."

That got my attention.

"He freed me," she said, voice dipping lower, breathier. "Didn’t try to own me. Didn’t touch me. Just handed me a set of keys and asked if I wanted to go back to the world or build something new with him."

"And you stayed?"

"For a while." She plucked idly at the lace fringe of a nearby towel. "Then I didn’t. But we kept in touch. He was...sentimental. He gave me things to keep safe. Secrets. Names. Maps. And, yes—the invitation."

My breath cooled just a little in my lungs.

I leaned forward. "He’s dead, Willow."

She didn’t flinch. Just nodded, as though she’d been expecting it like bad weather.

"He always had terrible taste in immortality," she said, her smile returning, softer now. "Did he go out beautifully? Tell me he went out dramatically. I need it."

"Circus clowns. Corruption. Some tragic moonlight. It was very on brand."

She sighed dreamily. "Delicious."

I paused for a moment. "I need the invitation."

"Of course you do."

She didn’t move.

Instead, she leaned up on her elbows, chin resting on one palm, and fixed me with a look that made my stomach tighten and my blood curl.

"But," she purred, "what do I get?"

I blinked. "You want something?"

"Cecil." Her grin widened to weapon-grade levels. "I’m a devil, darling. I always want something."

I stared.

She stared back—teeth flashing, pupils wide, voice practically vibrating with glee.

"You look drained," she cooed. "Worn down. Wounded. Exhausted."

"That’s what happens when you fight circus clowns, storm slaver dens, and duel broken men in collapsing tents."

She sighed dramatically, then sat up, slowly, like a goddess rising from a puddle of wine, stretching her arms above her head. Her back arched beautifully, showcasing every muscle, every line of her gleaming red skin.

"Mmm. You know what you need?"

"No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me."

She grinned. And then she stood.

"A proper letting go."

A few moments later and I was tied to a bed on the upper floor of the bathhouse, gagged, sweating, and extremely aware of the fact that Willow’s foot was halfway down my throat.

Let me explain.

Actually—no. There’s no explaining this.

I’d like to say there were noble reasons involved. Strategy. Sacrifice. A complex web of power dynamics and persuasion. But really, it came down to one timeless, stupid truth:

Willow wanted to play.

And I—I, eternal fool—wanted something far more dangerous.

She sat atop me like a queen surveying a conquered kingdom, her ruby-red skin gleaming in the low candlelight, tail curled like a question mark behind her. Naked, of course. And smug in the way only someone straddling your ribcage while humming a tavern jig could be.

"Oh Cecil~" she sang, like someone had spiked a lullaby with lust and liquor. "You’re such a bad little thing. Letting your ex tie you up in a bathhouse. In public. On silk sheets. Shame on you."

She toyed with the rope binding my wrists above my head, giving it a tug just tight enough to make me whimper.

"What would the church say?" she gasped, claws fluttering dramatically against her mouth.

I managed a muffled, unconvincing "mmff-ehh-hmm."

She leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "What was that, darling? Speak up."

I wiggled pointedly before she slid her foot from out of my mouth.

"And to think I used to let you top," she sighed dramatically. "But this? This suits you so much better. A pretty little priest in velvet cuffs, mouth stuffed and hips squirming."

Her voice was like a feather dipped in oil—tickling and filthy, fluttering over every nerve ending like it knew where I broke.

She danced her fingers down my chest, slow and teasing, each claw-tip dragging lazy circles. Her mouth followed, pressing kisses, then teeth, along my neck, my ribs, my hips. She nipped. She licked. She whispered praise that burned hotter than fire.

"Tastes like sugar and betrayal," she purred, licking just below my navel. "Like every sweet lie you ever told me while I moaned your name."

I shuddered.

I groaned.

I arched up into her touch like I had no spine, no shame, no resistance left to offer.

"What’s that, sweetheart?" she cooed. "You want more? You want me to wreck you? To ruin you?"

She giggled. And kept going, only this time she sported an almost feral, beast-like display of lust, eyes wide and forehead violently pressed against mine as she moved her body in ways that made me gasp for breath.

Willow played me like a harp made of sin.

She whispered things. Gods. Unspeakable things.

Things that made my toes curl and my back arch and my brain melt out of my ears before sealing them with a wet kiss.

When the ropes loosened—I was a quivering ruin, head spinning, lips swollen, hair an absolute battlefield.

But I wasn’t finished.

Oh no.

I lay there for a moment, chest rising and falling like a creature freshly resurrected from the altar of lust, tasting shame.

And then—

I moved.

Fast.

Before she could hum another syllable of smug delight, I flipped her.

With a growl that startled even me, I grabbed her by the hips and pinned her face-down into the silken mattress, one hand tangled in that lush curling hair, the other bracing hard against the small of her back.

I whispered, my voice hoarse but steady, "I’m going to rearrange that smug little smile of yours until it’s begging for mercy."

Her body shivered, her breathing completely out of control now.

She giggled even as she gasped.

I trailed my fingers down her spine, slow and deliberate. "You played your game. Now it’s my turn. Let’s see how bouncy you are when you’re the one tied up and gasping."

"Promises, promises," she sang, voice pitching higher with every syllable, but her thighs had already parted beneath me.

I worked her like an instrument forged from need and memory, drawing out moans and whimpers like I was conducting a symphony of sin. Her legs shook. Her voice faltered. With each passing moment her smug facade cracked until she was left broken and gasping beneath my trusts. She cried out my name like it was being scratched into the walls of the bathhouse itself.

I might’ve blacked out for at least a minute.

Eventually, the heat blurred into delirium. My skin was slick with sweat and steam. My mouth had gone numb. My hips had forgotten restraint. My lungs? Completely useless.

And Willow? Perfectly content.

She rolled beside me with a satisfied sigh, one leg tossed casually across my spent body, practically drooling.

Then, cheerfully, she started braiding my hair.

"There we go. All better," she chirped, fluffing one of the little braids like a finishing touch on a cake. "You needed that, didn’t you?"

I groaned.

"Oh, hush." She giggled again. "You’re welcome."

And then—because of course she did—she reached over to the nearby vanity, picked up a red scroll bound in ribbon, and stuffed it directly into my mouth.

"There," she declared. "Now you have what you wanted."

She rose from the bed and skipped to the door.

I followed in silence, somehow managing to dress myself, staggering like a ghost freshly reborn.

Leo stood outside, looking red enough to catch fire.

"Don’t ask," I said.

He nodded.

We walked.

Willow, of course, came with us.

Completely naked.

"Willow," I muttered, "put something on."

She struck a pose, silhouetted dramatically in the misty corridor. "Why? This body is a gift to the world. Who am I to deny its brilliance?"

"You’re a menace."

She winked. "You say that like it’s an insult."

We reached the front lobby. The same woman behind the desk—who looked like she’d been watching through a keyhole the entire time—grinned as we passed.

"Well," she said, "I hope he paid you well, sugar."

"I took it in trade," Willow replied cheerfully.

Leo tripped on his own feet.

We stumbled back onto the city streets—me clutching the invitation, Leo clutching his virtue, and Willow clutching absolutely nothing because she refused to wear clothes.

I stared at her. "Why are you following us?"

"Because I’m coming with you," she replied sweetly, grabbing my arm and pressing her bare body against mine. "One last adventure with my favorite ex. You know, for closure."

"You don’t even know why I’m headed to the Tower."

"I don’t need to." She spun on her heel and struck a pose—one leg bent, hip popped, both arms in the air like she’d just won an imaginary award for Most Naked. "I just want to watch you burn a little brighter. Also, I’m bored."

I groaned.

Leo coughed behind us, eyes glued to the sky.

Willow wrapped herself around me like a scarf of scandal and heat. "Besides," she whispered, nipping my earlobe, "you’ll need someone to keep you entertained...or gagged."

I gave up. You don’t argue with a succubus in love. You just pray to whatever gods you haven’t seduced for mercy.

And then I facepalmed.

Hard.

Because somehow—somehow—this was still only the beginning.

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