"We should take this one," Serena said, handing me the mission slip.
"Steal the Ring of Catastrophe?" I muttered, skimming the parchment.
"We haven't been to the Kingdom of Avonleigh in a while," she added, her blue eyes sparkling.
I frowned. "Why are you so excited? It's just snow and cold air."
"Snow has its own charm, honey," she said, snatching the slip back. "I'll check with Vector and get the details."
I gave a simple nod. "Sure."
We were tucked away in the corner of the Guild's main hall. Across from us, a crowd of adventurers huddled near the board, squabbling over mission slips. But the one Serena gave me didn't come from there. She pulled it from the special book the receptionist kept hidden behind the desk, the one reserved for A-rank and above.
We were both S-ranked.
"Great!" she chirped, heading toward the front desk. Her ass swayed with each step, the high ponytail bouncing behind her like a metronome. She wore a tight black dress that clung to her thighs and glossy tights that shimmered under the guild's lantern light. Her heels ticked against the wooden floor—sharp, rhythmic.
I caught more than a few stares trailing after her. Most of them flicked their eyes away the moment they noticed me watching. Smart. Getting caught ogling an S-rank city-scorcher would be a fast track to getting your spine turned into a soup straw.
Me? I could stare as much as I damn well pleased.
I watched her talk to the receptionist before slipping into the side room, Vector's office.
Vector didn't like company. That back room was strictly for high-clearance missions, the kind in the book.
I leaned against the wall and waited.
A few minutes passed. A familiar figure walked in.
Paul.
Big. Loud. Dick-for-brains.
He gave me a quick once-over and sneered, then strutted to the receptionist to peek at the book.
Not long after, he made his way over to me with a slip in hand.
"So," he mocked, "Still hiding behind your wife?"
I looked him straight in the eye.
He smirked and strutted away, flopping onto one of the lounge sofas like he owned the place.
Paul and I had bad blood. He was essentially my bully back at the Academy. He tried flexing again when we met at the Guild years later, until Serena slapped his ego in half. I think he's still picking up the pieces.
Just then, Serena stepped out of Vector's office. Whatever mood Paul had tried to ruin? Gone the second I saw her.
Her eyes found mine, still glittering like ice under torchlight.
She reached me and grinned. "We're going to Avonleigh tomorrow."
***
It had been two weeks since we arrived in Azark, one of the bigger cities in Avonleigh. Our target, Malek Trollon, was here—the current bearer of the Ring of Catastrophe.
Malek was powerful. Not just in the brawny sense—though he had plenty of that, too—but politically. His grip on Azark was ironclad, second only to the Dukedom. He had deep ties to the capital, the underground, and just about anyone you didn't want to piss off. Hitting him head-on would be suicide. He had guards strong enough to go toe-to-toe with both of us.
I stood by the window in our rented room, staring out at the blank white city. Snow draped everything in a thick silence.
After days of watching his schedule and movements, we'd finally found one weak spot.
A brothel.
The plan was simple in theory—poison him, slip the ring off, and vanish. But the tricky part wasn't getting in or even getting out. It was the two minutes.
The poison we had took exactly that long to work—two minutes from swallow to shutdown. That ruled out slipping it into a drink behind the bar and hoping a random whore served it to him. Malek took his time in a private room with a girl while his men waited outside, none of them the kind to miss the signs of a dying boss.
That meant one thing: someone had to be in the room with him when he drank it.
Serena came up with the plan.
I hated it.
"Babe, do I look good?" her voice chimed behind me.
I turned around—and my breath caught in my throat.
Serena stood there like a living sin. Her black hair spilled down her back, smooth as silk. Her eyes, sharp and impossibly blue, could cut diamonds. She wore blood-red veils clinging to her curves, sheer enough to betray everything beneath. Golden pins held the fabric in place, jingling gently as she moved. Her breasts bounced with easy confidence, nipples brushing softly against the see-through wrap.
A delicate gold chain circled her hips, framing the sway of her ass like a ribbon on a present. A short skirt—if it could be called that—hung from it, barely covering her thighs. Thin red panties showed clearly underneath. Her lips were hidden behind a gauzy veil, but her eyes did all the teasing.
She looked like a goddess dressed for sin.
"You… you look…" The words got stuck in my throat.
"Like a desert slut?" she said, turning to check herself in the mirror.
"No—babe, you look breathtaking."
"Do I?" she asked, one brow raised.
"Yeah. Really."
She stepped closer, eyes gleaming. "So… you're saying I don't look like a slut?" she said playfully. "Because I need to look like one for this to work."
I hesitated. "You'll… blend in easily."
"So I do look like a slut."
"…"
I had no answer for that one.
She laughed and gave me a wink. "Relax, babe. I'm just messing with you." She leaned in, voice softer. "I know I look like a whore. I'm supposed to."
Then she stepped closer—and pulled up her skirt as she crouched down in front of me.
Her red panties hugged her perfectly. And in the middle, a neat slit had been cut through the fabric—revealing her soft, glistening pink pussy beneath, shameless and exposed, just waiting to be used.
She looked up at me with a smirk.
"Just wanted to show you the finishing touch."
"What the hell?" I blinked, stunned. "Why are you wearing that?"
Serena shrugged, adjusting the thin red veil draped over her chest. "It's the only exotic set the brothel owner had in my size."
"Seriously? You're not uncomfortable?"
She turned toward the mirror, giving herself a lazy once-over. "Darling, they were already going to see my tits anyways. So, if someone sneaks a peek at my cunt too, well... they better enjoy the show."
I groaned. "I don't like this. The whole plan—it feels off. Not worth it."
She faced me, arms crossed beneath her veiled boobs. "What's really bothering you? The idea of your wife dressed like a prostitute in a brothel? Or that the plan might blow up in our faces?"
"Both," I muttered.
She stepped closer, her voice softening. "It's a one time thing. In and out. I'm not fucking Malek—I just have to get close enough to slip him the poison and take the ring. Think of the payout, babe. It's worth it." A resolute expression appeared on her face.
I didn't have a counterargument. Her mind was made up, and that look on her face—stubborn and adorable—made my heart clench a little.
"Fine," I sighed. "Let's go."
She grabbed a long coat from the chair and slipped it over her outfit, the hem falling just below her knees. It hid her slutty outfit very well.
I turned to get mine, mumbling, "Let me grab my coat too. It's freezing out th—"
"Wait," she cut in, eyes flicking down. A slow grin spread across her lips. "Do you have a hard-on right now?"
I froze. "Embarrassing," I muttered, already shifting awkwardly.
"No, no, wait," she said, sauntering over. "You're really gonna pass up the chance to fuck your slutty wife dressed like this? You might never see me in something this whorish again."
"We're already behind schedule—" I started, but my voice lacked conviction.
"Oh, come on," she purred, climbing onto the bed and bending over with a grin. She pulled up her coat, flashing her red panties—the slit cut clean, her glistening pink cunt peeking out with zero shame. "Just a quickie."
And just like that, I gave in.
I shoved down my pants, stepped behind her, and let instinct take over.