Chapter 298: Excellent Madam
“—all I’m saying is I’d make an excellent Madam,” I chirped, skipping a little as I walked. Just a little. Just enough bounce to make it hard for the Dragon to pretend he wasn’t staring at my ass.
“Absolutely out of the question,” he said flatly.
“Rude,” I huffed, pivoting on my heel to walk backward in front of him. “We’ve got some gold. Not tons, but enough to make a down payment on a half-decent henhouse. One of those charming little places with silk curtains, heart-shaped bedposts, and girls named after desserts.”
He squinted at me. “You mean a brothel.”
“A boutique experience,” I corrected. “Curated. Classy. A bit whippy. I wouldn’t spank the girls too much. Just enough so they don’t feel neglected. You want them perky and grateful, not traumatised.”
He made a low, volcanic noise that could’ve meant anything from “gods help me” to “I need antacid.” I took it as encouragement.
“I’m just saying I know the trade,” I went on. “I know how to price a moan. How to upsell a cuddle. How to deal with coppers who want freebies and clients who cry after. I could run the place efficiently.”
“And corruptibly.”
“And deliciously!” I spun again, skipping onto a rock, then striking a pose like I was already on the Madame’s chaise, counting coin. “Girls would line up to work for me. I’d let them pick their outfits. Do profit-sharing. Weekly cabarets. Bawdy poetry night. Maybe a whipping contest.”
The Dragon didn’t reply, which meant I was winning. I leapt down and walked beside him, nudging his claw with my bare toes.
“I’m tired of getting flogged for freelancing, alright? This would be legit. Legal. Licensed. We could even pay taxes.”
He snorted so hard a goat down the road fainted.
“Fine,” I sighed, mock wounded. “What do you want to do with our gold? Buy another jade chamber pot? More silks you’ll hoard until they rot into moldy pajamas? Invest in griffon futures? Because I’m telling you, babe—pimping is recession-proof.”
“You’re not pimping anyone,” he growled.
“I pimp myself all the time.”
“That’s different. That’s…” he paused. “Somehow less illegal.”
“Exactly. I’m a professional. I could teach the girls so much.” I smirked, eyes gleaming. “Thigh angles. Bed moans. Lip gloss made of beetle oil and sin. Eye contact, but with meaning. You know? The kind that makes a man forget his name and mortgage his barn.”
He sighed like a dying bellows. “You are not opening a brothel.”
“Fine,” I huffed, crossing my arms. “But just imagine. Saya’s House of Earthly Delights. Painted sign. Perfumed halls. Velvet ropes. Every customer greeted with ‘Welcome, darling. Are you here for the honey, the sting, or the sweet collapse?’”
There was a long pause. Then:
“…That’s actually a good line,” he admitted grudgingly.
“I know.” I beamed.
Still no brothel. But maybe a pop-up tent. Just for market days. With a complimentary spanking. For morale.