Eliantra pressed her lips together.

He entered the water.

From the corner of her eye — the absolute periphery, barely a glance — she registered the shape of him, the waterline, and then immediately found the wall again with great attention.

Marta, beside her, had achieved the expression of a woman who is professionally required to be present and has disconnected herself from the situation through forty years of practiced dissociation.

Then Rihana moved to him.

She came from behind — her thick, wet body pressing against his back, her arms coming around his waist, her heavy breasts wrapping over his forearm from behind and simply ’overflowing’ it, the full, warm weight of them resting over his arm and against his side.

And he turned his head.

And kissed her.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a kiss that acknowledged they had company.

His hand came up, found the back of her wet hair, and ’pulled’ — not hard, just ’directional’, tilting her head at the angle he wanted — and his mouth opened against hers with the unhurried, comprehensive thoroughness of a man who has been doing this long enough to have developed preferences.

His other hand found her breast.

Not under the water. ’Above’ it, where it floated warm and full and visible — his palm lifting the whole weight of it, fingers spreading, the nipple hardening against his palm as he ’kneaded.’ Slow circles. The thumb dragging across the tip in a deliberate stroke that made Rihana’s lips part against his and the small sound in her throat vibrate against his mouth.

Then his other hand went ’down.’

Under the water.

Found the dark hair at her entrance. The specific, immediate warmth of her. His fingers parting her, rubbing in slow circles at her clit, and Rihana’s hips rolled forward against his hand with the involuntary urgency of a body that had been conditioned to respond to his touch at this point the way a bell responds to being struck.

"Hn~—"

"WHAT ARE YOU—" Eliantra’s voice cracked across the bathhouse. "This is— that’s—"

"Inappropriate," Marta said, beside her. With feeling.

"Vulgar," Eliantra added.

"Extremely."

"We are RIGHT HERE—"

Rihana was not listening.

Her lips had parted from his — briefly — and she’d spread her legs in the water, her thighs opening to give his hand full access, her head tipping back against his shoulder as his fingers worked. Her wet hair streaming. Her breasts floating at the waterline, the nipples peaked, the bite marks across them visible above the water’s surface.

"Master—" The word came out on a breath. "Ahn~—"

He was watching Eliantra.

Over Rihana’s shoulder. Over the steam. His purple eyes meeting hers across the water with the specific, direct attention of a man who has decided to do something in front of someone and is interested in their reaction. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Eliantra looked away so fast her neck cricked.

"You should—" Her voice. "You should stop. This is— we are present— this is my bathing room, this is my—"

Rihana’s hips were moving against his hand. Small, rolling strokes, the water disturbing in tiny waves.

"Hn~— aaahh~— M-Master~—"

"I am SPEAKING—"

SPLASH.

Rihana squirted.

Not subtly. Not minimally.

The full, pulsing gush of a woman who has been re-conditioned for twelve hours to produce this response to his hands — the liquid spreading warm through the bathwater in an immediate, unmistakable wave that reached both Eliantra and Marta in a wash of heat.

Eliantra stood.

The water reached her thighs, her wet nightgown pulling, and she grabbed the tub edge to haul herself out with the decisive physical energy of a woman who has decided she is ’done—’

Her foot slipped.

The tub edge was wet.

Her hand found the edge and ’didn’t hold’ — the wet stone giving her nothing — and she went backward, the full generous weight of her making a comprehensive splash as she went completely under and came back up gasping, her wet hair over her face, her bra now visible through the soaked cotton of her nightgown, both cups thoroughly outlined against the fabric.

She sat.

In the water.

Wet.

She pushed her hair back.

Looked at nothing with great intensity.

Rihana, her body still twitching from the orgasm, turned toward Viktor with the specific, heavy-lidded, post-squirt expression of a woman whose higher functions have briefly taken a rest.

Her eyes found his.

Warm. Dark. ’Wanting.’

"Come down, master."

Her voice was husky. The Siren undertone carrying it into the steam of the room.

"Come down."

Viktor looked at her.

At Eliantra, sitting soaked across the tub, staring at the ceiling.

At Marta, beside Eliantra, eyes diplomatically closed.

He looked back at Rihana.

His mouth curved.

He reached for the soap shelf.

Stepped into the tub fully.

Sat.

His cock, beneath the water — the size of it clearing the waterline briefly as he settled, the dark-flushed length of it visible for the two seconds it took the water to adjust — drew a sharp, involuntary intake of breath from the far side of the tub.

Eliantra was looking at the ceiling again immediately.

Marta had also found the ceiling extremely interesting.

"You," he said.

He was looking at Marta.

The old woman opened one eye.

"You’re a maid."

"I am, young master."

"Come here."

Marta looked at her own reflection in the water. At the state of her dress, bunched at her waist, her chest exposed, her sixty-something years worn honestly in the soft, sagged weight of her. She looked at Eliantra.

Eliantra, eyes still on the ceiling, said: "He watched you when he was small. You bathed him before. You can— it’s fine. Just clean his back."

"My lady, this situation is quite—"

"Marta."

The old woman breathed.

Stood.

The dress fell further with the motion — sliding to the floor properly now, the belt gone, leaving her in only the thin underskirt that stopped at her knees. Her breasts hung loose against her chest, the full, low sway of them moving with her steps, the dark nipples in the steam-warm air.

She picked up the soap.

Walked to him.

Stood behind him.

Began, with the resigned efficiency of her profession, to wash his back.

Viktor had positioned himself behind Rihana.

His chest to her back. Her body between his knees. His arms coming around her from behind — and Rihana, who had been watching with the patience of someone who knows exactly where this is going, pressed back against him and let his hands find her chest.

"Cleaning," Viktor said.

His hands were on Rihana’s breasts.

Both of them. The soap in his left hand, lathering against the full, heavy weight of her right breast in slow, thorough circles — or rather, the motion that began as circles and became kneading, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, the nipple hardening under the soap-slick pressure, Rihana’s head tipping back against his shoulder with a wet, quiet "ahn~."

His right hand went lower.

"Just helping her clean," he said, to the room.

The room did not respond.

Eliantra was looking at the wall with the focused attention of someone memorizing the stonework.

Marta, behind him, was rubbing soap in clean horizontal strokes across his back with the professional thoroughness of a woman completing an assigned task and thinking about retirement.

He pressed his thumb against Rihana’s clit under the water.

"M-Master~— hn~—"