"What? Don't judge. It was a good gig."
I'm lounging on his tail like it's a chaise, picking mud from under my nails while he gives me that look. The one with the raised brow ridge and slow tail twitch. Classic judgment. Dragon-style.
"Yes, I was naked all day. Uniform was a hairpin and a smile. Maybe a towel if someone important was visiting. But mostly? Buck. Ass. Naked."
He exhales, smoke curling from his nostrils. I keep going.
"It was luxurious, okay? Sabrabena wasn't some roadside shack with a goat piss bucket. This was marble floors. Golden spouts. Steam perfumed with rosewater and crushed saffron. Clients who paid in pearls. I even got tipped a bracelet once. Not gold-plated—actual gold."
I pause. "Didn't get to keep it, of course. Madam said it clashed with the bathhouse aesthetic. Translation: she pawned it for her wig powder."
He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh.
"Work was simple," I go on, ticking off fingers. "Massage. Gentle chat. A little oil here. A little glide there. And then—happy endings. You know. Happy." I make the hand motion. He growls.
"Oh, and the soapstone shelf," I add, grinning. "Everyone loved that thing. Perfect height. Bit cold on the tits, but solid support. No slipping. Good acoustics."
His wing twitches like he wants to cover his ears.
"And yes, there was scrubbing," I admit, dramatic sigh and all. "Gods, the scrubbing. Clients, tiles, benches, your own thighs—if you weren't massaging someone's ego, you were polishing their ass crack or bleaching the fucking grout with a toothbrush."
Pause. I glance up. "Do you know what it's like to have pruned fingers and a bruised pelvis at the same time?"
He doesn't answer.
"I do," I mutter. "Twice."
I flop back against his scales. "Madam was stingy. Took her cut and then some. Said we were 'investments.' Said we should be grateful we weren't getting sand burns in a roadside tent. Said a lot of things, usually while counting our coin."
He huffs. "And yet you stayed."
"I had a corner with the best lighting. You don't give that up lightly."
Another pause.
"…You miss it?" he asks finally.
I grin. "Sometimes. The tips were good. The soap was nicer. And it's the only job I ever had where the clients came out relaxed and limping."
He rolls his eyes.
"What?" I poke him. "It's honest work. Just a bit wetter than most."
He tilts his massive head, incredulous. "You? Giving massages?"
I grin. "Excuse you. I was an expert."
He snorts. "You?"
"Learned on the job," I say, sitting up straighter, proud. "First of all, there's your basic stuff. Shoulders, neck, back. All very proper. Very innocent. The kind rich ladies get while sipping wine and gossiping about who's sleeping with whose squire."
He raises a skeptical brow ridge.
I continue, undeterred. "Then there's the… enhanced repertoire. Like the one with the boob."
"The what now?"
"The boob," I repeat sweetly. Then smush my tits together and mime a slow, deliberate, bouncing motion. "You know. The lingam ritual. Divine touch. Holy oil. Lot of eye contact. Very spiritual."
He chokes slightly on his own smoke. "With your breasts?"
"Not just the breasts," I say, scandalized. "There's technique involved. Timing. Angle. Rhythm. And pressure. Pressure is key. You have to know when to lean in and when to just… breathe on it."
He stares at me like he's reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment.
"Then there's the one with the feet," I add nonchalantly.
"Gods, no."
"Yes. Very advanced. Clients pay extra for the full… podiatric engagement." I wiggle my toes dramatically. "You wouldn't believe how many noblemen moan like oxen when you so much as graze the inside of their thigh with a freshly pedicured instep."
He mutters something about moral collapse.
"And then," I say with a dramatic flourish, "there's the luxury package."
He groans. "I regret asking."
"Full body to body," I say, ignoring him. "Both of us slicked up like eels. Me gliding over them like a slippery blessing. Chest, belly, thighs—every inch. It's like wrestling, but sexy. Like making love to a seal in a perfumed sauna."
He flattens his ears. "You're giving me mental images I can't burn out."
I sigh wistfully. "That one got the best tips. And sometimes jewelry. Or honey cakes."
"You're a menace."
"And flexible," I wink.
He curls tighter, tail over his snout.
I lean closer, voice low and smug. "Admit it. You're curious now."
His muffled reply comes through a scale-thick blanket of regret: "Only about how many clients ended up concussed."
"Three. That we know of."
Pause.
"…That's not actually a bad ratio."
"Oh, and the food?" I scoff. "Terrible. Slop disguised as soup. Stew that stared back. Meat so dry it could double as a loofah. I swear one time I bit into a cutlet and it crunched. No bones. Just… crunch."
Dragon gives a slow blink.
"But!" I raise a finger. "Snacks. Always snacks. Trays of them. Little things to keep the clients woozy and compliant."
I sigh, practically salivating at the memory. "Figs stuffed with goat cheese. Honey cakes sticky enough to glue a noble's wig on. And baklava—gods above and below, the baklava. Layers of flaky sin soaked in syrup. Worth every ruined bedsheet."
"You didn't eat during work," he says, probably hoping that's the case.
"Oh, I did," I grin. "In between shifts. Or during. Multitasking, you know?"
He gives me a wary side-eye.
I smirk. "Madam always said I was the mouthy one. Said there were only two ways to shut me up."
I raise my hands and make very exaggerated air quotes. "'Keep her mouth busy with snacks… or with the other thing.'"
The Dragon groans. "Please don't clarify."
"I won't," I purr. "Unless you ask nicely."
He doesn't.
Smart lizard.
"So why did you leave?" he asks finally, voice all casual, like we didn't just spend five minutes discussing footjobs and baklava.
I pause, mouth full of honey-drenched memory. Then I shrug.
"Madam had a gambling problem."
He lifts his head. "And?"
"So she… gambled me away."
"What?!"
I nod solemnly. "Hand of dice. High stakes. I was the stakes."
"You were wagered? Like a chicken?"
"Worse," I say. "Like furniture. At least chickens get fed."
He stares at me, horrified. I keep licking honey off my fingers.
"It happens," I say around my thumb. "I was idne… indetu… indentured, remember?"
He narrows his eyes. "And how exactly is that different from being enslaved?"
I shrug again. "It sounds nicer."
He doesn't laugh. Just gives me that long, slow, ancient stare.
I roll my eyes. "Technically, indenture has an end date. A contract. A promise of freedom after a certain number of years or coins or handjobs or whatever."
"And did yours?"
"Technically? Sure. In practice?" I snort. "Every time I got close, something happened. Madam lost a bet. Someone forged a transfer scroll. I got 'assigned' to a new post in a new city under new management. If I escaped, I got 'retrieved.' Or resold. Or just ended up back in another tub with a new title. Bath girl. Temple girl. Wine girl. Sandal girl. 'Girl Who Smiles While Pouring Oil On Rich People.'"
The Dragon exhales a deep, gravelly sigh.
I look up at him, half-smirking. "Why do you think I ran the first chance I got?"
He watches me a moment longer, then says quietly, "And yet you still talk about the baklava."
"Oh please," I scoff. "You try saying no to almond-honey bliss after twelve hours of rubbing some baron's belly folds. The baklava was the only good thing about that whole golden prison."
Pause.
"…Okay, that and the sex. Some of those clients were generous."
He groans. "You are unholy."
I beam. "And flexible."