A Desire Newly Kindled

Next Story (Chapter 02): To be continued?

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In the bustling streets of Eldoria, a city known for its opulent markets and hidden vices, Frieren and Fern found themselves drawn into an unexpected detour. Fern’s teacher, the immortal elf mage, Frieren, had caught wind of a rumor during their travels, a particular artifact from her distant past had somehow resurfaced. Flamme’s Ring of Bimbofication, a cursed relic crafted by her mentor’s mentor. Frieren explained it had the ability to amplify a woman’s allure to intoxicating levels, making her beauty shine a hundredfold. But the price was steep: it dulled the wearer’s intelligence sharply and stripped away sexual reservations, turning restraint into raw desire. Frieren had believed it destroyed by Flamme’s own hand over a millennium ago, as a safeguard against its corrupting power.

 

Yet here it was, in the possession of a sly proprietor named Silas, who ran the “Velvet Maid’s Haven”, a maid cafe that doubled as a discreet brothel, and catering to the city’s nobles, elite, and adventurous alike. Anyone who could afford the prices. The establishment’s facade was charmingly deceptive: frilly curtains, the scent of fresh pastries, and giggling servers in skimpy maid uniforms. But behind closed doors, it offered far more intimate services.

 

Silas, a portly man with a greasy mustache and beady eyes like a rat’s, refused to part with the ring easily. “It’s a family heirloom,” he claimed with a wink, though Frieren knew better. After tense negotiations in his lavish office, adorned with numerous enchanted trinkets and very old looking grimiores, he laid out his terms. Frieren and Fern must don the cafe’s signature outfits and service 500 customers over the coming weeks. In return, not only would he surrender the ring, but he’d sweeten the deal with a rare scroll containing “Futanari” magic, an ancient spell for temporary transformations that blurred the lines of gender and pleasure. Magic recorded in scrolls was rarer and sometimes more powerful than the spells scrawled in the pages of a grimoire. Though grimoires held more details on the intricacies of the spell itself.

 

Frieren, ever pragmatic despite the absurdity, saw no other way to reclaim the artifact without resorting to violence that might draw unwanted attention. Fern, however, was mortified, her cheeks flushing at the mere thought. But her loyalty to her Mistress, and a grudging curiosity about the ring’s history, eventually won out.

 

Now, in a dimly lit changing room at the back of the cafe, Fern stood before a full-length mirror, fumbling with the erotic maid outfit Silas had provided. The fabric was a glossy black satin, trimmed with white lace that barely contained her figure. The skirt was scandalously short, flaring out just enough to tease without totally revealing everything, paired with dark stockings that hugged her legs like a second skin. But the top was the true offense, designed to accentuate her very large breasts. It featured a strategically cut hole beneath them, allowing the soft undersides to peek through in a way that was clearly suggestive of its intended use. Said use being an opening for a man to stick his dick in to receive a titjob! The outfit lifted and framed her assets, making them impossible to ignore, with delicate ribbons crisscrossing over the top for a mock sense of modesty. Fern tugged at the material, her face a mask of irritation as she adjusted the red bowtie at her neck.

 

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with the stoic annoyance she reserved for Frieren’s more eccentric decisions. The outfit clung to her curves, the exposed undersides of her breasts brushing against the cool air of the room, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. She wasn’t used to such vulnerability; her usual mage robes were practical, concealing, a far cry from this… This, parody of servitude.

 

Frieren, already dressed in a similar but somehow slightly less lewd version. Although the top was cut out to fully expose the breasts, she had on a bikini top of a similar black material with white frilly lace. Her lithe elven frame made the outfit look almost elegant rather than provocative. She leaned against the wall, watching with her usual detached curiosity. Her silver hair, done up in her usual twintails, cascaded down her back, contrasting with the black lace, and her green eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement she rarely showed.

 

“It suits you, Fern,” she said matter-of-factly, her tone as calm as if commenting on the weather. “The design enhances your natural features quite well. Flamme would have appreciated the irony. Beauty amplified, much like the ring itself.”

 

Fern’s eyes narrowed, her hands freezing mid-adjustment. A flush crept up her neck, not from embarrassment this time, but from sheer exasperation. “Mistress Frieren, that’s not helping,” she snapped, turning to face the elf with her arms crossed, though that only served to emphasize the outfit’s revealing cut further. “This is humiliating. And you think it looks good!? We’re mages, not… Not playthings for some pervert’s collection.”

 

Frieren tilted her head, unfazed. “Humiliation is temporary. The damage that ring could do in the wrong hands, that’s something else. Besides, you’ve always been beautiful. This just… Highlights it.” She paused, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Think of it as a spell. A very hands-on one.”

 

Fern groaned, turning back to the mirror and smoothing down the skirt one last time. The first customers awaited in the cafe proper, their laughter already filtering through the door. Little did she know, the real trials, and temptations, were only beginning.

 

---

 

Fern’s fingers stilled on the lace ribbon that barely held the bodice together. The changing room smelled faintly of rosewater and polished wood, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of her throat. She stared at herself, the glossy black satin, the absurd cut-out beneath her breasts, the way the skirt fluttered just high enough to promise more than it delivered. Every breath lifted the fabric against her skin, reminding her how little it actually covered.

 

Frieren lounged against the opposite wall, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. Her silver hair spilling over the ruffled collar like moonlight on water. She watched Fern with the mild, detached interest she usually reserved for rare grimoires.

 

“Look on the bright side,” Frieren said, voice soft as falling ash. “Our agreement is for five hundred customers in total. Not five hundred each.”

 

Fern glared back at her, pouting. “That’s still two hundred and fifty apiece.”

 

“Exactly. And, not every patron who walks through those doors is here for the back rooms.” Frieren pushed off the wall, the hem of her skirt brushing her thighs. “Some just come for tea and pastries, some come just to watch the girls pour tea and serve pastries. A few might even leave after a single conversation. There’s a chance you keep your mock chastity intact.”

 

Fern’s hands dropped to her sides. “Mock chastity?”

 

Frieren’s smile was small, sharp, and entirely too pleased with itself. “I’ve known you and Stark have been sharing a bedroll for at least three months. You’re not as quiet as you think you are.”

 

The words landed like a spell detonating against her. Fern’s ears burned crimson; the color raced down her neck and vanished beneath the lace. For a moment she stood frozen, mouth parted, eyes wide. Then she whirled, the skirt flaring like a dark petal.

 

“Fine,” she snapped. “Let’s get this over with!”

 

She stormed past Frieren, heels clicking on the polished floorboards. The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the perfume bottles on the vanity. Frieren followed at a leisurely pace, the smug curve of her lips lingering like a secret.

 

The Velvet Maid’s Haven opened into a long, low-ceilinged parlor lit by floating orbs of pale gold. Velvet chaise lounges ringed low tables; the air carried the mingled scents of cinnamon, coffee, and something muskier beneath. Maids, real ones, not mages doing temp work, glided between patrons with trays of éclairs and delicate porcelain cups. Their uniforms were varying degrees of lewd, with some along the lines of what Fern and Frieren wore, while others were outright decadent. One maid, her uniform left her breasts COMPLETELY exposed, her skirt parted in the front and back, exposing her pelvis, and she wasn’t wearing panties. A lute player in the corner plucked a languid melody that curled around the laughter and murmured propositions.

 

Silas waited near the archway to the private salons, rubbing his hands together. His gaze flicked over Fern’s flushed face and lingered on the opening beneath her breasts. “Ah, my newest jewels. Table three has been asking to see the new girls. Shall we?”

 

Fern’s spine straightened. “We’ll start in the cafe proper,” she said, voice clipped. “Tea service first. If someone wants more, they can wait their turn.”

 

Silas’s eyebrows rose, but he stepped aside with a theatrical bow. “As the ladies wish.”

 

Frieren drifted to the pastry counter, already scanning the room with the cool assessment of a battlefield tactician. Fern followed, shoulders squared, chin high. The first table was occupied by a pair of merchants in silk doublets, their rings flashing as they gestured. One had the ruby cheeks of a man who’d started drinking before noon; the other watched the maids with the lazy confidence of someone used to being obeyed.

 

“Welcome, sirs,” Fern said, curtsying with military precision. The motion made the satin stretch tight across her chest; the opening framed the soft undersides of her breasts like an offering. “May I recommend the honey mille-feuille? It pairs beautifully with the house blend.”

 

The ruddy merchant’s gaze dipped, lingered, rose again. “And what else pairs beautifully, little lady?”

 

Frieren appeared at Fern’s elbow as if conjured. “Conversation,” she said smoothly. “Witty, charming, and entirely free with your first pastry.” She set a plate between them, the mille-feuille glistening with glaze. “Tell me, gentlemen, what brings two such discerning travelers to Eldoria?”

 

It was a deflection, but a skilled one. Within minutes the merchants were boasting about trade routes that avoided tariffs while Fern poured tea with steady hands. She kept her smile polite, her voice even, her eyes anywhere but the cut-outs that kept drawing stares. When the red cheeked one reached to steady her wrist, she twisted free with the same motion she used to dodge spells in combat.

 

“Allow me to bring you some fresh pastries,” she said, sweet as poisoned honey.

 

Frieren hid a smile behind her teacup as she sat in the lap of the other merchant.

 

---

 

The afternoon blurred. Table after table: a shy scholar who blushed every time Fern leaned over to refill his cup; a noblewoman who requested Frieren read her palm and slipped a gold coin into the elf’s top for luck; a trio of off-duty city guards who argued over who got to request the new girl first. That one thankfully had gotten slightly violent, leading Silas to kicking the whole lot of them out. The man oozed sleaze from every pore, but he looked after his employees. Fern’s feet began to ache in the unfamiliar heels, but she refused to limp. Each refusal, each polite dodge, felt like casting a ward. She could do this. She would do this.

 

By the time the sun dipped low and the orbs brightened to compensate, they’d served thirty-two customers. Thirty-two teas, thirty-two pastries, thirty-two conversations that skirted the edge of proposition without tipping over. Fern’s tally: zero back-room requests accepted. Frieren’s: one, from a silver-haired sorceress who’d recognized the elf and wanted to discuss ancient binding circles.

 

They retreated to the changing room during the lull between dinner and the late-night crowd. Fern collapsed onto a cushioned bench, kicking off the heels with a groan. Her stockings were laddered at the toe; a faint sheen of sweat made the satin cling to her skin.

 

“Thirty-two,” she said, voice muffled against her knees. “Four hundred and sixty-eight to go.”

 

Frieren perched beside her, legs crossed, utterly unruffled. “At this rate, we’ll be done in two weeks. Maybe less if we work during the dinner rush.”

 

Fern lifted her head. “You’re enjoying this.”

 

“I’m cataloging human behavior,” Frieren corrected. “It’s… educational.” She reached out, brushed a stray lock of Fern’s hair behind her ear. The gesture was gentle, almost maternal, and utterly at odds with the outfit. “You’re doing well. Better than I expected.”

 

Fern huffed, but the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. “Stark’s going to kill me when he hears about this.”

 

“Only if he finds out.” Frieren’s smile returned, smaller this time. “And he won’t. Not unless you tell him.”

 

The door opened before Fern could retort. One of the regular maids, Lila, a petite brunette with a constellation of freckles, peeked in. “Silas says the VIP lounge is ready. Private party. Ten guests. They’ve paid for the full experience.” Her gaze flicked to the cut-outs, lingered, then skated away. “They asked for the new girls specifically.”

 

Fern’s stomach dropped. Ten at once. The lounge meant couches, dim lights, and a lock on the door. She stood, rolling her ankles to work out the cramps. “We set boundaries,” she said. “Tea, pastries, conversation. Nothing more.”

 

Frieren rose beside her, expression unreadable. “Agreed.”

 

They followed Lila down a corridor lined with crimson wallpaper and gilded frames. The lounge doors were heavy oak, carved with intertwining vines. Inside, the air was warmer, scented with sandalwood and something spicier. Ten men lounged on circular couches around a low stage. Silk robes, jeweled rings, the lazy confidence of wealth. A crystal decanter of amber liquid sat on a side table; glasses already half-empty.

 

The tallest, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across one eyebrow, smiled as they entered. “There they are. The jewels of the evening.”

 

Fern’s pulse thudded in her ears. She stepped forward, curtsied again. “Good evening, my lords. Shall we begin with…”

 

Scar-eye raised a hand. “No tea. We’ve eaten. We’ve drunk. We’ve waited.” His gaze raked over her, slow and deliberate. “We paid for the full experience.”

 

Frieren’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. “The contract allows us to refuse any request that violates house rules. House rules state explicit consent for anything beyond conversation and light entertainment.”

 

A murmur rippled through the group. Scar-eye’s smile didn’t waver. “And what, pray tell, constitutes ‘light entertainment’?”

 

Frieren stepped onto the low stage, heels silent on the plush carpet. “A dance, perhaps. A song. A story from the Age of Heroes.” She tilted her head, silver hair sliding over one shoulder. “Or would you prefer a demonstration of magic? I can conjure illusions to rival any courtesan’s charms.”

 

Fern watched, stunned, as Frieren raised a hand. Mana shimmered—soft, controlled, precise. The air above the stage blossomed into a miniature aurora, greens and violets swirling like silk scarves. The men leaned forward, entranced. One reached out instinctively; the light danced just beyond his fingertips.

 

Fern seized the moment. She stepped beside Frieren, voice steady. “Or perhaps a game. Each of you writes a question on a slip of paper. We answer truthfully—or perform a forfeit of your choosing, within reason. The winner receives a private audience tomorrow night.”

 

Scar-eye considered, then laughed. “Clever girls. Very well.” He snapped his fingers; a servant appeared with parchment and quills.

 

The next hour passed in a whirlwind of questions and forfeits. Fern recited a bawdy limerick she’d learned from Eisen; Frieren conjured a perfect replica of the night sky over the Northern Plateau, complete with shooting stars. One lord demanded Fern sit on his lap—she perched on the arm of the couch instead, close enough to flirt, far enough to evade wandering hands. Another requested a kiss; Frieren offered her wrist, pressing cool lips to the man’s knuckles with theatrical grace.

 

By the time the decanter was empty and the questions exhausted, the men were sated—not with flesh, but with wonder. They applauded as Frieren and Fern bowed, the aurora fading into sparks that drifted like fireflies.

 

Ten more names scratched onto the tally. Four hundred and fifty-eight to go.

 

Back in the changing room, Fern sagged against the door, adrenaline crashing. “I can’t believe that worked.”

 

Frieren unpinned her hair, letting it fall in a cascade. “Humans are predictable. Give them spectacle, and they forget what they thought they wanted.”

 

Fern eyed her mentor. “You planned that.”

 

“I improvised.” A pause. “But yes. I had a contingency, after all, they really just came here to be entertained in the end.”

 

Silence settled, broken only by the distant lute. Fern’s fingers found the hem of her skirt, twisting the fabric. “Stark really won’t hear about this?”

 

“Not from me.” Frieren’s voice softened. “And not from Silas. Discretion is more profitable in this business than gossip.”

 

Fern exhaled, long and slow. “Two hundred and twenty-nine each, if we keep the pace.”

 

“Less, if we’re clever.” Frieren stepped closer, brushing a thumb over Fern’s cheek where a smudge of glitter from the aurora lingered. “You’re stronger than you think, Fern.”

 

The touch was brief, almost absent-minded, but it grounded her. Fern managed a shaky smile. “Don’t get smug.”

 

“Too late.”

 

Outside, the night crowd filtered in, rowdy, tipsy, eager. Fern straightened her skirt, squared her shoulders. The heels still pinched, the cut-outs still exposed, but the tally was shrinking. Two hundred and twenty-nine. She could endure.

 

Frieren opened the door, moonlight spilling across the threshold. “Ready?”

 

Fern stepped past her, chin high. “Let’s serve some tea.”

 

---

 

The bell above the entrance chimed once, low and melodic, cutting through the murmur of the late-evening crowd. Fern glanced up from wiping a table and felt the room tilt slightly.

 

He was tall enough that the doorway seemed to shrink around him. Bronze skin, sun-kissed and smooth, stretched over the kind of muscle that came from hauling packs across mountain passes. Loose linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow; the fabric shifted when he moved, hinting at the breadth of shoulder and the taper of waist beneath. A neatly trimmed mustache framed a mouth that looked accustomed to smiling without effort. He carried no visible weapons, yet every server in the room straightened instinctively, the way prey senses a predator that has chosen not to hunt tonight.

 

He chose a small table near the window, moonlight spilling across the polished wood like spilled cream. When he sat, the chair creaked once in protest, then settled. He folded his hands, large, calloused, but gentle in their stillness, and waited.

 

Fern exhaled, smoothed the front of her apron, and crossed the floor. The heels no longer pinched; she had learned to walk as though the shoes were an extension of her feet, hips swaying just enough to keep the skirt from riding higher than intended. The hole beneath her breasts framed soft skin warmed by the room’s lanterns; she refused to tug at them.

 

“Good evening,” she said, curtsying with the same crisp precision she’d perfected hours ago. “Welcome to the Velvet Maid’s Haven. May I interest you in…”

 

His eyes lifted to hers. Not to the cut-outs, not to the expanse of thigh revealed by the skirt. To her eyes. The color was admiration, pure and unapologetic, like a painter discovering a shade he’d only read about in poems.

 

“Your hair,” he said, baritone voice smooth as honey poured over warm stone, “catches the light the way twilight catches the sea. Forgive the forwardness, but it’s remarkable.”

 

Heat prickled along Fern’s scalp. She tucked an imaginary strand behind her ear. “Th-Thank you. We have a wide variety of tea to pick from. Subtle floral notes, some with a hint of frost.”

 

“The Blue Rose tea, please.” he smiled, and the expression reached his eyes, warm, dark, steady. “Bring a pot for two, if you have a moment to spare.”

 

She returned with the tray: delicate porcelain, steam curling like incense. The blue petals floated on the surface, impossible and lovely. She set a cup before him, began to pour.

 

“Blue roses don’t exist in nature,” she said, “The color is—”

 

“…An illusion,” he finished gently. “I know. But illusions can still be beautiful.” He gestured to the empty chair across from him, not his lap, not the couch beside him. Just the chair. “Sit with me? Five minutes. I promise, I’m house-trained.”

 

Fern hesitated. House rules allowed conversation on the main serving floor; Silas encouraged it when it kept patrons spending. She slid into the seat, knees together, hands folded in her lap to keep the skirt decent.

 

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice pitched low enough that the nearest tables couldn’t overhear. “Forgive the curiosity, but a maiden with your… Presence doesn’t usually pour tea in places like this. What brings you here?”

 

The question was simple, yet it landed like a spell she hadn’t braced for. Fern opened her mouth, closed it. Telling the truth, about ancient rings and cursed artifacts, was impossible. The lie (debts, wanderlust, a dare) somehow felt flimsy.

 

“I’m… traveling with my teacher,” she said at last. “We needed funds. This was the quickest way.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, Silas was technically paying them, but it wasn’t the full truth either.

 

His brow creased, not in disbelief but concern. “There are safer ways to earn coin.”

 

“Safer, maybe. Not faster.” She lifted her cup, sipped. The tea tasted like winter mornings and secrets. “And not every story that starts in a brothel ends in ruin. Some just end with tea.”

 

A soft laugh escaped him. “Fair point.” He studied her over the rim of his own cup. “My name is Rowan. I trade in relics, mostly harmless ones. Potions, minor enchantments. I travel light, keep my word, and tip generously for good company.” He set a small velvet pouch on the table; it clinked softly. “For the tea. And the conversation.”

 

Fern eyed the pouch. Enough for three customers on the tally, maybe four. But she didn’t touch it. “We’re not supposed to accept tips until the end of the shift.”

 

“Then consider it a promise.” Rowan’s smile returned, softer now. “I’ll be in Eldoria another week. If you ever want a different kind of evening—say, dinner at the local tavern, and fully clothed, I’d be honored.”

 

Footsteps approached: Lila, bearing a tray of honey cakes for the next table. The moment fractured. Fern rose, smoothing her apron. “I’ll keep it in mind. Enjoy the tea, Master Rowan.”

 

She felt his gaze on her back as she walked away, warm, steady, curious. Not leering. Not owning. Just… Seeing.

 

In the narrow corridor to the kitchen, she pressed her palm to her chest, felt her heart racing beneath satin and lace. Two hundred and twenty-five to go, she reminded herself.

 

But for the first time all evening, the number felt smaller.

 

The first night’s tally stood at forty-three customers served, zero back-room contracts signed. Fern’s feet throbbed inside the borrowed heels, but the ache felt like victory. She and Frieren slipped through the staff corridor just after the last lantern dimmed, Silas locking the front doors with a theatrical flourish and a promise of fresh pastries at dawn.

 

Their room was small but clean: two narrow beds, a washstand, a single window overlooking the alley where moonlight painted the cobblestones silver. Frieren was asleep before her head touched the pillow, silver hair fanned across the linen like frost. Fern lingered over the basin, scrubbing glitter and pastry sugar from her skin until the water ran cool. The satin uniform lay folded on a chair, suddenly harmless in the dark.

 

She slept in her shift, dreams threaded with blue roses and Rowan’s steady gaze.

 

The urge woke her hours later, sharp and insistent. The room had no chamber pot; Silas had mentioned a shared washroom down the hall. Fern eased from the bed, bare feet silent on the floorboards. Moonlight through the window guided her to the door. She cracked it open, peered into the corridor—empty, shadowed, the air thick with the lingering scent of sandalwood and spilled wine.

 

She padded forward, shifted brushing her thighs, arms crossed over her chest out of habit more than modesty. The washroom door stood at the far end, but another door, half ajar, spilling a wedge of amber lamplight, caught her eye.

 

A soft, rhythmic sound leaked through the gap. Wet. Eager. Punctuated by low masculine groans.

 

Fern meant to keep walking. She truly did. But her feet slowed, curiosity and something darker tugging her closer. She stopped just shy of the light’s edge, heart thudding against her ribs.

 

Inside, on her knees, was Clair, another one of the regular maids. Brown hair tied in a messy tail, freckles stark against flushed cheeks. Her uniform top was unbuttoned to the waist, breasts spilling free, nipples peaked in the warm air. Between her lips stretched the customer Fern recognized from earlier: the scarred noble from the VIP lounge, robe open, hips rolling lazily. His cock was thick, flushed dark, veins standing out along the shaft. Clair took him deep, deeper than Fern thought possible, until her throat visibly swelled, the outline of him pressing against pale skin. She made a choked, wet sound, half-gasp, half-moan, saliva glistening on her chin. Her hands gripped his thighs for balance, fingers digging into muscle as she pulled back only to swallow him again, cheeks hollowing, eyes watering but bright with focus.

 

“UUGUG GUH GAH… HMMMMPH…” she choked and slurped lewdly.

 

The noble’s hand rested on her head, not forcing, just guiding. “That’s it, pet,” he murmured, voice rough. “Take every inch.”

 

Clair hummed around him, the vibration drawing a hiss from his teeth. Her throat worked, swallowing, and the bulge in her neck slid lower before retreating. She pulled off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to the slick head, then dove back down with renewed hunger.

 

Fern’s mouth went dry. Heat pooled low in her belly, unbidden and confusing. She should move. She needed to move. But her feet stayed rooted, eyes fixed on the obscene, intimate tableau. Clair’s enthusiasm was undeniable, there was no reluctance, no performance for coin. Just raw, shameless want.

 

A floorboard creaked beneath Fern’s weight.

 

Clair’s eyes flicked up, locking with hers through the gap. For a heartbeat, Fern froze, certain she’d been caught. But Clair only smiled, a slow knowing kind of smile, around the cock in her mouth, then sank deeper, throat fluttering visibly. The noble groaned, oblivious, fingers tightening in her hair.

 

Fern stumbled back, pulse roaring in her ears. She fled the last few steps to the washroom, shut the door, and leaned against it, breath ragged. The image burned behind her eyelids: Clair’s swollen throat, the slick sounds, the unapologetic pleasure.

 

She relieved herself quickly, hands shaking as she washed them in the basin. The mirror showed her flushed cheeks, wide eyes, lips parted. She looked… affected. Undeniably.

 

When she crept back to their room, Frieren hadn’t stirred. Fern slipped under the covers, staring at the ceiling until the first hint of dawn crept through the window. Sleep didn’t return. Instead, her mind replayed Clair’s eager choking, the noble’s low praise, the way her own body had responded, traitorous, curious, and very much awake.

 

Two hundred and seven to go, she thought, pressing her thighs together beneath the sheet.

 

The number suddenly felt both smaller and infinitely more complicated.

 

---

 

The second night blurred into a rhythm Fern almost found tolerable. The tally had climbed to sixty-seven by the dinner rush, teas poured, pastries served, propositions deflected with smiles and sleights of mana. Her heels no longer blistered; the cut-outs in her blouse had become just another layer of armor, framing the soft undersides of her breasts without stealing her focus. Frieren worked the far side of the parlor, her silver hair a beacon amid the velvet and gold, drawing whispers and lingering glances she ignored with elven indifference.

 

The bell chimed again, and Fern’s gaze flicked up instinctively. Rowan. Tall, bronzed, his loose shirt doing little to hide the adventurer’s build beneath. He scanned the room, eyes lighting when they found her. No leer, just that steady admiration, like she was a rare tome in a dusty library, not a maid in satin and lace.

 

He chose the same window table, moonlight framing him like a portrait. Fern approached before Lila could intercept, tray balanced on one hip. “Welcome back, Master Rowan. Blue rose tea again?”

 

His smile warmed the air between them. “If you’ll join me. A pot for two.”

 

She nodded, fetching the porcelain and petals. When she returned, he pulled out the chair across from him, again, not his lap. Fern sat, pouring with steady hands, the steam curling like secrets.

 

“You’re back sooner than I expected,” she said, sipping her own cup. The floral notes grounded her, a reminder that not every patron sought skin.

 

“Eldoria’s markets close early. And the company here is… Unparalleled.” His voice was smooth and unhurried. “Tell me more about your travels. You mentioned a teacher last night. Sounds like quite the adventure.”

 

Fern hesitated, then let the words slip like loosened threads. “Her name’s Frieren. We’re mages, actually. Professional level. We’ve crossed continents, fought demons, unraveled curses.” She laughed softly, surprising herself. “This place? It’s a detour. A ridiculous one, but necessary.”

 

Rowan’s cup paused midway to his lips. “Frieren? The elf mage? The one from the Hero’s tales?” His dark eyes widened, mustache twitching with genuine surprise. “I’ve traded relics from that era, some scrolls, a few amulets. Her name echoes in every archive. What’s she doing pouring tea in a brothel? Whatever the reason, it must be dire.”

 

Fern opened her mouth to explain, the ring, the scroll, everything, but a clatter interrupted. One of the newer maids, a slip of a girl with blonde curls, tripped over a loose floorboard near their table. Her tray tilted, and a pot of deep pink tea, something exotic, floral and viscous, splashed across Fern’s lap in a steaming arc.

 

The liquid soaked through the satin instantly, hot but not scalding, like bathwater left too long. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry!” the maid squeaked, scrambling for a cloth.

 

Fern waved her off, standing quickly. “It’s fine, no harm…” But the words caught in her throat as the tea began to evaporate, rising in pink wisps that carried a cloying, sickening sweetness. The heat lingered, seeping into her skin, her blood, pooling low in her belly like molten honey.

 

At first, it was just warmth, a flush that made her cheeks burn, her nipples tighten against the lace. Then it sharpened, an insistent throb between her thighs, her pussy clenching on nothing. Fern gripped the table edge, gasping in ragged breaths. “What… What was in that tea?”

 

The maid’s eyes widened in horror. “It’s the Rose Desire blend, for the back rooms. Enhances… Everything. I must’ve grabbed the wrong pot!”

 

Rowan was on his feet, concern etching his features. “Fern? Are you—”

 

But she couldn’t answer. The arousal hit like a spell unchecked, flooding her senses. The room suddenly felt painfully bright, her pupils dilating wide. Her knees weakened, and she sank back into the chair, thighs pressing together instinctively. It wasn’t enough. Her hand moved without thought, slipping under the short skirt, fingers finding her slick folds through the thin fabric of her panties. She was soaked already, pussy lips swollen and sensitive, clit throbbing under the lightest touch.

 

A whimper escaped her lips as she circled it, the room fading to a haze. Patrons turned, murmurs rising; Frieren’s head snapped up from across the parlor. But Fern couldn’t stop, she didn’t want to. She rubbed faster, hips bucking subtly, the cut-outs in her bodice heaving with each gasp. Her free hand clutched the tablecloth, knuckles turning white.

 

The first orgasm crashed over her like a wave, pussy clenching rhythmically, a gush of wetness soaking her fingers and the chair beneath. She bit her lip to stifle the moan, but it spilled out anyway, raw, needy. Juices trickled down her thighs, glistening in the lamplight, but the relief was fleeting. The arousal built again immediately, sharper now, edging into pain. Like an itch that burrowed deeper with every scratch, her body demanding more, more, MORE!

 

“Ahhhn, it… It hurts,” she gasped, fingers plunging inside now, two then three, stretching herself as another climax tore through her. Her pussy squirted this time, a clear arc that spattered the floorboards, drawing gasps from nearby tables. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, not from shame, but frustration. The orgasms weren’t quenching the fire. They fanned it, turning need into utter agony!

 

Rowan moved like lightning, scooping her up in a princess carry, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. Her skirt rode up, exposing her drenched panties and the hand still buried between her legs, but he didn’t flinch. His bronze skin was warm against her fevered body, muscles flexing as he held her close.

 

“Silas!” he barked, voice cutting through the din like a command on the battlefield. The proprietor bustled over, mustache twitching, eyes darting between Fern’s writhing form and the growing crowd.

 

“Which room is empty?” Rowan demanded, already striding toward the corridor.

 

Silas wrung his hands, glancing at his ledger. “Room five—it’s not in use. But sir, the house rules…”

 

Rowan didn’t wait, kicking open the door to the private salons and vanishing down the hall with Fern cradled against his chest, her moans echoing softly in the velvet-draped silence.

 

Rowan’s boots thudded down the corridor, Fern’s weight light in his arms despite the way she writhed. Her moans were raw, broken things, each one laced with a vulgarity that would’ve shocked her sober self.

 

“Manko Flower tea,” he growled, kicking open the door to Room 5. “Silas, you bastard. That’s a concentrated aphrodisiac. And it’s illegal for a reason. She’ll burn out if we don’t…”

 

The rest was lost beneath Fern’s keening. The arousal had teeth now, gnawing at her nerves, her pussy clenching so hard it hurt. “Cock,” she sobbed, voice thick and slurred with lust. “Need a big, throbbing dick, wanna feel it stir me up, make me cum my fucking brains out…”

 

Rowan tossed her onto the bed. The mattress bounced; Fern landed on her back, legs splayed, hips rolling helplessly. Mana flared violet around her fingers. A single word Zerstören and her clothes detonated into glittering ash, leaving her bare, skin flushed rose, breasts heaving, thighs slick with her own juices.

 

Rowan’s shirt hit the floor. Belt, trousers, under garments, all gone in three economical movements. His cock sprang free, half-hard and already monstrous, easily the length from Fern’s hip to her knee, thick as her thigh. Veins corded along the shaft; the head glistened with a bead of pre-cum.

 

Fern lunged. Her hands wrapped around the base—fingers barely meeting—and she *moaned*, a guttural, animal sound. “DHIIIICK!”

 

Her lips sealed over the crown, tongue swirling, throat opening on instinct. Rowan groaned, hips jerking as she took him deeper, deeper, until her neck bulged and her eyes watered. The stretch burned sweetly; the weight on her tongue was relief, like cool water over scorched earth. She bobbed her head frantically, saliva dripping down her chin, one hand pumping what her mouth couldn’t reach.

 

Rowan’s fingers laced through her hair, not forcing, just anchoring. “Easy, sweetheart, fuuuuck, your throat…!!!”

 

The pain ebbed with every thrust into her mouth, but the hunger roared louder. She needed him INSIDE, needed that impossible length and girth splitting her open, needed to be FILLED until the fire finally guttered out.

 

Fern’s world had narrowed to the throbbing heat in her mouth, the impossible girth of Rowan’s cock stretching her lips wide, her throat bulging with every desperate plunge. The Manko Flower tea’s curse raged through her veins like liquid fire, but this, THIS was balm on scorched flesh. She bobbed her head with frantic need, saliva dripping in thick strands down her chin, pooling on the silk sheets of Room 5. The room itself was a haze, velvet drapes muffling the distant hum of the cafe, a single lantern casting flickering shadows over their bodies, the air thick with the musk of arousal and the faint, lingering sweetness of the spilled tea.

 

“GUH!” The sound tore from her throat as she forced herself deeper, “GUG GUH GURGH,” the head of his dick battering the back of her mouth, sliding into her esophagus with a wet, obscene squish. Rowan groaned above her, his bronzed thighs tensing under her gripping hands, fingers digging into muscle honed by years of adventuring. She loved it! The salt-slick taste, the way veins pulsed against her tongue, the sheer SIZE that made her jaw ache in the best way. Another thrust, and “GWEH GUGH!” escaped her, a choked gurgle that vibrated through him, drawing a hiss from his lips.

 

Her pussy clenched rhythmically, untouched but dripping, juices slicking her inner thighs as she knelt on the bed. The sensations built like a spell reaching critical mass: the stretch, the fullness, the raw dominance of having him fill her so completely. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling around the underside as she pulled back only to slam forward again. “GURK!” This time, the gag was deeper, her nose brushing the coarse hair at his base, throat clenching around him like a vice.

 

Rowan’s hand tightened in her hair, not pulling but guiding, his voice a rough murmur. “Gods, Fern… You’re taking it all…” His cock twitched, hardening further in her mouth, the length from her lips to the back of her throat feeling endless. The sheer length, thickness, and unyielding hardness. She reveled in it, the pain-pleasure blurring into ecstasy.

 

Her free hand snaked between her legs, fingers circling her clit, but it wasn’t enough. No, the real fire quenched only when she choked on him, when “GLERGH!” burst from her as she deepthroated him fully, tears streaming down her cheeks from the effort.

 

And then it hit—an orgasm from nothing but this oral worship. Her body seized, pussy spasming wildly, a gush of heady juices soaking the sheets beneath her knees. She moaned around his dick, the vibration sending tremors through him, her hips bucking into empty air as waves of relief crashed over her. It was like a knife being pulled from her core, the agony of arousal easing in sharp, blissful increments. But even as she trembled through the aftershocks, the tea’s curse roared back, demanding more. Oral wasn’t enough anymore; the fire needed to be fucked out of her.

 

She pulled away with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his glistening cockhead. Gasping, chest heaving, she looked up at Rowan with eyes glazed in lust, her voice a whore’s plea, raw, unfiltered, nothing like the stoic mage she’d been hours ago. “Please… Fuck me! I need your cock inside me, now! Pound my pussy like a common slut! Make me scream! Fill me up until I can’t think! Please! PLEASE!!! IT HURTS!!! NOT BEING FUCKED HUUUURTS!!!” She crawled back on the bed, legs spreading wide, exposing her drenched folds, clit swollen and begging. “I’M YOUR WHORE TONIGHT!!! USE ME!!!”

 

Rowan’s dark eyes burned with a mix of concern and desire, his cock bobbed, fully erect and monstrous, pre-cum beading at the tip. He didn’t hesitate long, climbing onto the bed and positioning himself between her thighs. “If that’s what you need…” His voice was gravel, hands gripping her hips as he aligned himself.

 

He stabbed forward, hard, unyielding. The thick head breaching her entrance in one brutal thrust. Fern’s back arched off the bed, a scream ripping from her throat as her pussy stretched around him, walls clamping down like a vice. The intrusion was exquisite agony, his length spearing deep, bottoming out against her cervix in that single motion. She came instantly, orgasm exploding like a detonating spell, her juices squirting around his base, soaking his balls and the sheets.

 

“YES!!! OH FUUUUCK, YEEEESSSS!!!” Relief flooded her, the knife of arousal withdrawing in a rush of ecstasy, her body convulsing beneath him.

 

They started in missionary, Rowan looming over her like a bronzed god, his mustache brushing her skin as he leaned down to capture her moans in a kiss. His hips rolled with controlled power, each thrust a deep, grinding plunge that stirred her insides, the thickness of him dragging against every sensitive ridge. Fern’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.

 

“HARDER! FUCK ME HARDER! CHURN MY INSIDES INTO A STICKY MEEESSSSS!!!” she begged, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on tanned skin. He obliged, pace quickening, PLAP-PLAP-PLAP, the bed creaking under the force. Sweat slicked their bodies; her huge breasts bounced with every impact, nipples hard peaks grazing his chest.

 

Another orgasm built fast, coiling tight in her core. Rowan’s hand slipped between them, thumb circling her clit as he pounded into her, the wet slap of flesh-on-flesh echoing in the room. “Come for me, Fern,” he growled, voice like thunder. She shattered again, pussy milking him rhythmically, the relief sharp and profound, like a blade drawn from her flesh, leaving only bliss.

 

But the tea demanded more; she was a beast in heat, insatiable, flipping him onto his back with surprising strength born of desperation!

 

Now in a cowgirl position, Fern straddled him, hands on his chest for leverage, lowering herself onto his cock with a drawn-out moan. Inch by inch, she took him, the stretch even more intense from this angle, her pussy swallowing his length until her ass rested against his thighs. “SO BHIIIIIG… FILLING MY PUSSY UUUUP!!!” She rocked at first, grinding her clit against his pelvis, the friction sending sparks through her nerves. Then she rose, slamming down, riding him like a wild thing, hips undulating, breasts heaving, hair a tangled mess around her face.

 

SMACK SMACK SMACK!

 

The slap of naked flesh was drowned out by her moans as Fern worked herself into one orgasm after the next. She could FEEL every inch of him inside her, the tip of his cock had already invaded her womb like a conquering king, tenting her belly visibly.

 

Rowan’s hands gripped her waist, guiding her bounces, his eyes locked on where they joined, watching his dick disappear into her slick heat. “Ride it, Fern. Take what you need.” he told her.

 

Fern’s moans turned feral, “GUUUUUH!” escaping as she impaled herself deeper, the head nudging spots inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. She leaned back, one hand bracing on his thigh, the other pinching her own nipple, twisting it hard. The position let him hit her g-spot with every drop, and soon another climax tore through her, fiercer this time, her walls clenching and unclenching wildly, juices coating his shaft. Relief again, more knives being pulled from her, but she wasn’t done. No, the fire still smoldered.

 

“More,” she panted, dismounting with a wet schlick, turning on all fours and presenting herself like an animal in rut. “Do it. Take me from behind, and make me your bitch!” Her voice was calmer now, no longer a frenzied lust, but still filled with raw desire.

 

Rowan rose to his knees, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he got in position behind her. His hands caressed her ass, spreading her cheeks, thumb teasing her puckered hole before he lined up and thrust home. “As you wish.” The angle was deeper, more primal—his cock spearing straight to her core, balls slapping against her clit with each powerful snap of his hips. Fern buried her face in the pillows, muffling her screams, ass jiggling and rippling from every impact.

 

He fucked her relentlessly, one hand tangling in her hair to pull her head back, arching her spine. “Look at you—taking it all, begging for more.” His free hand reached around, fingers rubbing her clit in tight circles, amplifying every sensation.

 

Fern pushed back to meet him, hips circling, the friction building to a fever pitch. “Ahhhhnmmmh, yeeees! Right there! Pound my slutty pussy!” Another orgasm crashed over her, this one like a tidal wave, her body shaking as she squirted again, the relief profound, the metaphorical knife fully withdrawn for a fleeting moment.

 

They cycled back, missionary again, Fern on her back, her legs over his shoulders for deeper penetration; cowgirl reversed, her back to him as she bounced, his hands kneading her breasts from behind; doggy with her face down, ass up, him draping over her like a blanket of muscle. The hours blurred, or maybe minutes, her sense of time was gone, each position a new layer of ecstasy, every orgasm easing the pain like salve on a wound. Fern lost count of her climaxes: five, ten, more? Each one stripped away the agony, leaving her boneless, yet the curse persisted until…

 

Rowan’s rhythm faltered, breaths ragged. “Fern, I’m close…” he warned.

 

“Do it!” she wailed, on all fours once more, pushing back desperately. “Fill me, breed my hoooole!”

 

He thrust deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and erupted. Hot ropes of cum painted her walls, flooding her core, the sensation tipping her over the edge into the hardest orgasm yet. It was cataclysmic, her vision whited out, body convulsing as waves of pleasure ripped through her, pussy clamping down to milk every drop. Relief like never before, the knife not just pulled but shattered, the fire extinguished in a deluge of bliss.

 

Then, her world went black. She fainted, collapsing limp onto the sheets, Rowan’s cock still twitching inside her as he caught his breath.

 

---

 

When consciousness found Fern again, she opened her eyes to find herself in the room she shared with Frieren. Late afternoon sunlight spilling through the window in golden beams.

 

Frieren was already packing.

 

The elf stood over their travel packs, silver hair in its usual twintails, movements precise. The black satin uniform lay in a heap; her mage robes were pristine, as if the past two days had been a dream. She didn’t look up when Fern rose from the bed. She was dressed in what looked like a very expensive night gown, pink, made of what could only be pure silk.

 

“About time you woke up,” Frieren said, but her tone carried no bite. “I was about to leave without you.”

 

Fern’s heart lurched. “We’re done?”

 

Frieren turned, holding up a small platinum band, simple, unadorned, the kind of ring a village smith might craft for a quiet wedding. Inside it, rolled tight, was a scroll of pale vellum. She grinned, the expression sharp and smug and utterly Frieren.

 

“Silas folded the moment Rowan recognized Manko Flower concentrate. Turns out it’s banned even here, carries a sentence of ten years in the salt mines. He handed over the ring, the scroll, and…” She flicked a slim grimoire onto the bed. “This. A contraceptive spell. Permanent until dispelled. Thoughtful of him.”

 

Fern stared at the ring. “That’s… it? After everything?”

 

“Humans panic when their crimes are exposed for all to see.” Frieren said as she slipped off the scroll and examined it closely. “Yeah, this is it alright, better to keep this packed away. Oh, and Rowan left a message. Said to tell you he hopes you’ll have tea with him someday. Real tea. No tricks.”

 

Heat crept up Fern’s neck as she remembered EVERYTHING from the night before, she thought she would be mortified, she should have been, but oddly, she wasn’t. She managed a nod, “He was… kind.”

 

“Kind men are rare. Don’t waste the memory.” Frieren shouldered her pack. “Stark’s waiting at the inn. He thinks we spent the night negotiating with a reclusive archivist. Let’s keep it that way.”

 

Fern exhaled, the weight of the past two days sliding off her shoulders like water. She glanced once at the folded maid uniform, then at the grimoire on the bed.

 

“Five hundred customers,” she muttered. “We only had to serve sixty-seven.”

 

Frieren’s grin widened. “And zero regrets. Come on. The road’s calling.”

 

They left the Velvet Maid’s Haven through the back door, stepping into the light of the late afternoon. The city smelled of fresh bread and river mist. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed the hour.

 

Fern adjusted her pack and followed her teacher into the street. Behind them, the cafe’s sign creaked in the breeze, already forgetting their names.

 

---

 

(Story by User: SailorIo)