I was back.
Gods help , I was back in Madam Zoobaya’s infernal harem-palace-slash-debtors-prison, where the perfu was strong enough to kill bees and the beds creaked in three languages.
My old chamber, reeking of jasmine oil, sweat, and glitter from three girls ago. The velvet curtains hadn’t been washed since the last dynasty. And there I was—flat on my back, wrists chained to the carved headboard, ankles spread with a velvet sash that definitely used to be soone's sash and possibly soone's boyfriend.
A long iron chain connected to my Ancient—a giant obsidian idol of so forgotten fertility god that Madam Zoobaya insisted gave the rooms “authentic ambiance.” More like authentic tetanus.
Why was I chained?
Oh right.
I’d been caught stealing from the kitchen again. I regret nothing. Those honey buns were divine.
Anyway.
The body glitter clung to like bad decisions. There was barely anything on except for strategically looped gold chains and a sultry pout I couldn’t turn off. My nipples sparkled like party favors. My thighs were dusted in shimr. I looked like soone had tried to sculpt lust from sweat and gold and run out of sha halfway through.
And then—
He walked in.
Bollo.
Oh.
Gods.
Bollo.
Broad as a barn. Shirtless, of course. Chest gleaming with sweat, or maybe oil, or maybe the light just knew how to worship him. That sweet dumb face lit up the mont he saw . He was still wearing that stupid sash around his waist and nothing else. Just the sash and that thing swinging like it had ambitions.
He moooed.
Loud.
Heartfelt.
Spiritual.
Like a warhorn made of sex.
“Oh Bollo,” I gasped, arching as far as the chains would let , which, honestly, was a pretty impressive arch. “Tell you’ve saved enough. Tell you’ve co to buy my night!”
He blinked. Nodded. Held up a giant coin pouch.
It jingled.
That sound alone nearly made moan.
“You brute,” I whispered, licking my lips. “I missed you. I missed that—” I pointed toward his sash, which was starting to tent like it had a personality. “—and those—” His shoulders. Boulders. “—and definitely that.”
I pointed at his face.
Because I’m sentintal.
He took a step forward. The floor trembled. Or maybe I did.
Madam Zoobaya’s voice echoed from nowhere, nasal and disapproving: “Keep it under fifteen minutes, cow-boy. She’s on kitchen duty after this.”
I hissed. “Ignore her, Bollo. Take . Ravage like you did behind the goat stables that one solstice when you thought I was a fertility priestess.”
He nodded solemnly. Moaned again. Louder this ti. The chains rattled as I squird.
Then—he undid the sash.
And by the gods.
It thudded.
Like a log hitting a porch. Like a dropped turkey. Like destiny.
I whimpered. Bollo climbed onto the bed with all the grace of a collapsing siege tower, which, if you’ve ever been under one, is actually kind of hot.
He leaned down. His breath slled like warm oats and nostalgia. His giant hands cupped my thighs like he was evaluating pri cuts. My body arched, chains clinking like bells on a sleigh straight to sin.
I wrapped my legs around his waist. Or tried to. They barely made it halfway. I didn’t care. I was ready to be tenderized.
“Did you miss ?” I asked, breathless.
He moaned and nodded.
“Did you think of ?”
Another nod.
“Did you—wait. Did you just lick the glitter?”
His tongue was halfway down my chest.
“Bollo,” I gasped, “not the gold body shimr. That’s for show!”
He mooed apologetically and then kept going.
My toes curled. My back arched. The Ancient rattled in its chains like even the old gods were watching.
“Bolloooo…” I moaned. “YES. That’s it! That’s the spot! The prophecy was right! The taurean shall return and milk the stars from my thighs—”
I woke up with a gasp, drenched in sweat and a blanket wedged between my legs like it had been on a mission.
The Dragon blinked at from across the cave, utterly unimpressed.
“You were moaning again,” he said.
I wiped my face. “It was a private dream.”
“You said ‘milk like the moon beast, Bollo.’”
“…It was a very private dream.”
He huffed, rolled over, and muttered sothing about pasture fetishes.
Gods help .
I needed a cold bath.
Or a warm bull.
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