Reincarnated as a Femboy Slave

After a long walk through the slums—navigating around piles of refuse, sidestepping drunkards who looked one bad decision away from mistaking me for dinner, and very pointedly ignoring the suspicious stains on various walls—we eventually made our way into the mid-section of the city. From there, after another hour or so of trudging, we crossed into the inner circle.

Julius led us through a maze of winding streets with the easy swagger of a man who'd made this journey many times before.

Then the hot springs appeared, and the sight of them made me stop so abruptly Felix nearly walked straight into my back.

Gods above.

The building sprawled like it had been poured rather than built—two generous stories at least, possibly three if you counted whatever delicious sins were happening on the roof—and writhed in steam that poured from every vent and window.

The air carried minerals, yes, but beneath that was something sweeter, floral and expensive, the kind of scent that promised you'd leave cleaner in body yet infinitely dirtier in spirit.

The soft sounds of sex drifted through the air, mixing with the ambient noise of the city. I could hear moaning, gasping, and the occasional scream of pleasure that suggested the people inside were having an extremely good time.

But what really caught my attention—what made my breath catch and my heart start racing with recognition—was that the building resembled traditional Japanese architecture from my past life.

The slanted roof with its distinctive curves, the wooden beams exposed in geometric patterns, the paper screens visible through some of the windows, even the style of the entrance gate with its torii-like structure—all of it screamed "onsen" in a way that made nostalgia crash over me like a physical wave.

I was excited. Beyond excited. Not only because I was about to test out my shiny new magical abilities in a controlled environment full of potential targets, but because this was it.

This was the place Iskanda had advised me to visit first and foremost when entering the city, the social hub where connections were made, deals were struck, and reputations were built or destroyed.

This was where most of the city's important networking happened—nobles mingling with merchants, guards trading information with criminals, everyone naked, vulnerable, and therefore theoretically on equal footing.

If I played my cards right, I could find advantages here, promote our brothel, maybe even acquire a few allies if I were really lucky.

We slipped through the wooden gates into a pocket-sized bonsai garden that looked like someone had scolded nature into perfect obedience, each miniature tree delicately pruned and positioned, the gravel raked into precise patterns that someone—probably a perfectionist with far too much time and not nearly enough chaos in their life—had clearly spent hours, maybe days, coaxing into this serene little masterpiece.

The path led us to the central building's entrance, and when we crossed the threshold into the lounge I had to consciously close my mouth to avoid looking like a complete idiot.

The room unfolded before us like a fever dream someone had bothered to polish to a mirror sheen. Real wood floors gleamed beneath the soft, golden glow of paper lanterns swaying gently overhead, their light warm enough to make even the most jaded sinner feel briefly forgiven.

The walls wore actual art—paintings with brushstrokes that suggested talent, passion, maybe even a soul—rather than the usual brothel parade of anatomically enthusiastic nonsense—accompanied by furniture that looked plush, expensive, and suspiciously sturdy scattered around the area.

And everywhere—gods, everywhere—were naked figures. Men, women, people of all races and body types walking around completely bare, some lounging on couches, others openly having sex on cushions spread across the floor, a few standing in small groups having what appeared to be completely normal conversations despite the lack of clothing.

No one flinched. No one stared—well, not rudely. It was all so terribly civilized, as if nudity were the default setting and fabric was the deviant kink.

Almost instantly, I felt my cock begin to stiffen in my panties—because apparently my body had decided that "public place with lots of naked people" was an appropriate time to get aroused. Heat rushed to my cheeks as heads turned—slow, appreciative stares, a few low wolf whistles that curled through the air like smoke. Gods, they weren't even being subtle.

A muscular demon with red skin and impressive horns winked at me from where he was being enthusiastically ridden by a smaller human. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, willing my body to calm the hell down before I gave the entire room an unsolicited anatomy lesson through the fabric of my dress.

Julius led our group with confident strides toward the front desk, where sat a woman who could only be described as monumentally large.

She was fat—beyond fat, actually, to the point where the chair beneath her creaked with strain and her body seemed to overflow the space in ways that defied normal physics.

She had a riot of short blonde curls teased and sprayed into submission atop her head, forming a golden crown that looked one strong breeze away from declaring independence, way too much makeup caking her face in layers that probably required archaeological tools to remove, and jewelry lining every inch of her body—rings on every finger, bracelets stacked up both arms, necklaces layered so thick they formed what was essentially armor, even anklets that jingled when she shifted beneath the desk.

Her face twisted into a scowl the instant she saw Julius approaching, her painted lips pulling down and her heavily kohled eyes narrowing with what looked to be long-suffering irritation.

Julius leaned his elbow on the desk with practiced casualness and immediately began flirting with the kind of over-the-top theatricality that would've been embarrassing if it wern't so clearly intentional.

"Margaret, my darling," he purred, his voice dripping with exaggerated affection. "You look positively radiant today. Have you done something different with your hair? No, wait—it's your eyes. They're sparkling like diamonds caught in moonlight, like the very stars themselves descended from the heavens to take residence in your countenance, for even celestial bodies recognize transcendent beauty when graced with its presence."

Margaret remained completely unimpressed, one meticulously painted eyebrow arching the way a guillotine rises before it remembers what it's for.

"This is your fifth time coming here this week, Julius," she said flatly, her voice carrying none of the warmth his flirting was attempting to conjure. "Your pretty words can only get you so far, and they certainly can't get—" she gestured with one beringed hand toward Willow, "—her kind into my establishment again. Lord knows how you even managed to obtain a succubus in the first place. They're illegal in the city, strictly prohibited. I could lose my business license for allowing even one of them through my doors."

Julius doubled down, voice sliding into that frantic, velvet desperation that only surfaces when a man realizes the cliff is closer than he thought.

He spun an elaborate tale about Willow being a "dedicated cosplayer" with "completely prosthetic horns" and how the craftsmanship was so exquisite it fooled even the most discerning eye, and really, Margaret, we've been friends for so long, surely one tiny exception wouldn't shatter the foundations of civilized society. We were practically family. We promised—no, swore—we wouldn't cause any trouble at all.

But he was clearly losing ground, his performance becoming increasingly desperate and therefore less effective.

I could see Margaret's patience wearing thin with each passing second. She looked like she was approximately five beats away from having us physically removed by whatever security this place employed.

I rolled my eyes before turning to Brutus, holding out my hand expectantly. "Pouch," I said simply.

Brutus muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "pack mule" with a sigh of eternal resentment, but handed it over anyway.

I pulled out a generous handful of golden crowns—probably more than was strictly necessary, but I wanted to make an impression. Then I skipped—light and cheerful as a spring morning—up to the desk and flung the coins across the polished wood with a flourish worthy of a stage magician revealing his final trick. They scattered in a bright, glittering arc, catching the lantern light like tiny captive stars.

Margaret paused dead, her entire demeanor shifting in an instant. Absolute greed ran through her features—her eyes going wide, her pupils dilating as they tracked the coins, her tongue darting out to wet her lips unconsciously.

Then she smiled a wicked smirk directly at me, completely ignoring Julius now, and leaned forward with renewed interest.

"Well," she purred, her voice suddenly warm and welcoming. "Someone who speaks my language. I like you already, pretty thing." She scooped up the coins with surprising speed for someone her size, making them disappear into some hidden pocket in her elaborate dress. "You and your friends can go right on through. Just try not to cause too much chaos—I have a reputation to maintain."

She gestured with a tilt of her head toward the door behind her, granting us access. I couldn't help the giggle that escaped as I led our group past the desk. Julius trailed behind me, sighing like a man whose entire worldview had just been gently but thoroughly mugged.

We slipped into a changing room that, by some minor miracle, was blissfully empty—no audience, no wandering eyes, just rows of polished wooden lockers and sturdy benches begging for discarded inhibitions.

I didn't waste a second. Off came the dress, tugged over my head in one smooth motion and folded with uncharacteristic reverence. My boots followed, kicked aside with a satisfying thud, then the delicate lingerie—lace so fine it practically sighed in relief as it left my skin.

Piece by piece, until I stood there gloriously, unapologetically naked, every inch of me bared to the warm air and the faint echo of distant moans seeping through the walls.

Felix and Brutus were undressing as well—Felix with his usual shy, hurried efficiency, trying not to draw attention to himself, and Brutus with the resigned acceptance of someone who'd already been through enough indignity today that adding public nudity barely registered.

Then Willow removed her lingerie, the dark lacy fabric sliding down her wine-dark skin, as my breath caught audibly in my throat.

Her breasts were perfect—small and pert, sitting high on her chest, the nipples a darker shade of wine that stood out against her skin, already slightly hard from the warm air of the changing room.

They shifted with each breath she took—subtle, hypnotic little movements that pulled my gaze like a lodestone and refused to let go. I could feel my brain gently folding in on itself, thoughts narrowing to a single, eloquent syllable. Fuck.

I had to consciously force myself to look away before I started drooling.

Then my breath stifled even further as I caught sight of Nara's naked body emerging from behind the changing partition.

Gods above, her breasts were huge—easily the largest in our group, soft, supple, and defying gravity in ways that suggested either exceptional genetics or subtle magical enhancement.

They were pale cream in color, contrasting beautifully with her crimson eyes, her pink nipples looking almost delicate against the substantial flesh surrounding them.

Below that, her stomach was soft but not flabby, hips flaring wide in classic hourglass proportions. And there, peeking just above the glorious swell of her ass, was that ridiculous puff of white bunny tail—fluffy, innocent, and so absurdly cute it felt like a deliberate prank against anyone trying to take the rest of her seriously.

Grisha followed next, stripping off the bare minimum clothing she'd been wearing through the city—just a ragged loincloth that barely covered anything and a wrap for her breasts that looked like it had been constructed from battlefield scavenging.

Her jade-green skin gleamed in the warm light, every muscle clearly defined, her body a living testament to violence and power.

Just then, out of nowhere, a gentle pat landed on my head—light, almost affectionate—followed by Julius's voice coming from behind me. "Enjoying the view?"

I jumped back, startled, then spun around to face him. Then I froze completely, because—saints above and devils below—Julius.

I realized with dawning horror and fascination that I'd never actually seen him naked before. All our previous encounters had kept him frustratingly clothed, layers of silk and smugness preserving the mystery, but now I was getting the complete picture of him all at once, my brain struggling to process the sheer aesthetic perfection of the figure standing before me.

His body was a masterpiece of lean, lethal elegance—the kind of build that only years of acrobatic flips, theatrical leaps, and whatever private mischief he got up to could carve. His shoulders were broad but not bulky, his chest defined without being overly muscular, his stomach showing a clear six-pack that flexed slightly with his breathing.

His skin was smooth, pale, and unfairly flawless, save for a few scattered scars—thin silver lines and faint marks that whispered of rooftop chases, stage mishaps, or nights that had ended with more than just applause.

Everything about him screamed precision, strength coiled tight and ready, the sort that could pin you with a smile or flip you across a room without spilling his drink, power deployed with surgical precision rather than overwhelming force.

And his cock—gods, his cock—was massive, hanging heavy between his thighs. Almost as big as Brutus's intimidating length, but whereas Brutus's was thick and aggressive-looking, Julius's was absolutely perfect in its shape and form.

Long and elegantly curved, with a head that was proportional and inviting, the kind of length that promised incredible pleasure without the concerning logistics of "how is that supposed to fit anywhere."

My mouth had gone dry, my pulse was staging a full riot, and somewhere south of rational thought, my body was already voting unanimously to defect.

"Gods, you've been hiding that under all those costumes this entire time?" I managed to say, my voice coming out slightly breathless as I gestured vaguely at his cock. "That seems criminal. Like, genuinely, you should be legally required to inform people before entering a room so they can prepare themselves emotionally. Put up warning signs. Issue public service announcements. Something."

Julius, bless his theatrical little soul, immediately struck the most absurd pose imaginable—one hand planted on his hip, the other flung behind his head, chest puffed out like a preening statue carved by someone with a very specific agenda. His cock gave a cheerful little bob with the motion, which really wasn't helping my concentration.

"You think?" he asked with exaggerated pride, his grin widening. "I've been told it's my best feature. Well, second best. My personality obviously comes first."

"Your personality is a disaster held together by jazz hands and terrible decisions," I shot back, grinning like an idiot despite myself.

"Exactly! A charming disaster!" Then he gestured back down at his cock, presenting it before me like a master of ceremonies unveiling the city's grandest monument. "I gave it a title, you know? I call it the 'Golden Rod of Destiny.'"

I stared at him. Flat-out, dead-eyed stared. "You did not just give your dick a title."

"Oh, but I did," Julius confirmed, now doing some kind of hip thrust that made his length swing in an arc that was frankly mesmerizing in its absurdity. "It's very important to name your weapons. Builds character. Establishes dominance. I read about it in a book once—well, I looked at the pictures in a book once. Same thing, really."

"That's the single dumbest thing I've ever heard, and I've had conversations with Dregan while he was drunk," I said, but I was laughing despite myself because the sheer ridiculousness of watching Julius flex and pose while completely naked was somehow both idiotic and strangely endearing.

Julius suddenly froze before leaning down, fixing his gaze squarely on my own cock with the solemn intensity of an art critic. "Honestly though, I must say, while I've seen you naked plenty of times at this point, I still maintain that your equipment is criminally underappreciated," he continued, "It's like a perfectly sized appetizer. Not overwhelming, not trying to compensate for anything, just the right amount to be delicious without being overtly threatening. If I were—"

"Are you two going to stand there complimenting each other's dicks all day?" Grisha called from across the room, already heading toward the door, "or are we going to the hot springs? Because I didn't walk all the way here to watch you two flirt."

"We're not flirting!" I protested automatically.

But before I could say more, Willow grabbed my arm and tugged me along with surprising strength, pulling me toward the door at the end of the changing room that presumably led to the main hot springs area.

"Come on," she said with infectious enthusiasm. "Time to test out those new spells."

I let myself be dragged along, bare feet padding against the warm wood, heart hammering with a cocktail of nerves, anticipation, and the bright, electric thrill that always hits right before everything goes gloriously off the rails.

Brilliant decisions or spectacular disasters? At this point it was less a coin flip and more a matter of how pretty the mushroom cloud would be.