The sailor's rest was the best tavern upon the Bristol Channel because of the Irish Girl. When a man was spent from his days at sea, and when he at last came home from New England spent but for his new coin, he came to see the Irish Girl. She wore a green dress, wickedly short in the way only an Irish Girl could wear it with Gaelic symbols sewn into the plunging neckline. And it seemed for every tired sailor that stumbled into the Sailor's Rest, the Irish girl gained a fresh skip in her step. An old man played a fiddle, and the few men with life still left in them tapped their tables to the speed at which the Irish Girl's hips went back and forth from table to table.

When the Irish Girl came to your table, she drank from your cup. She slurped it until she gasped, and if you raised alarm for this filthy catholic wench stealing your ale, she would slam the cup down and scream at you she would say. "Blame the Brits!" These were fighting words for any but the men at the Sailor's Rest, men who had road cross the sea to put just enough coin on their plates for the king. True as the Irish Girl did dance the entire night away, they all had something to blame the "brits" for, whether they were one themselves or not.

And if a man brought good coin, and if he dared the Irish Girl to finish a mug faster than he could he might get a treat. The Irish Girl might pounce onto his table after tossing her empty mug into his lap to dance and tap her bare feet until every other cup flung from the surface. The Irish girl would grab her green skirts and yank them up into a wild mound as wicked as her mop of red hair, and she would kick her legs and dance around the hands of the man slamming the table about her feet to the speed of the old man's fiddle.

Now the Irish Girl was a good catholic, but she was still and Irish girl. She was crude, she was loud, and when she was drunk as the sailor's were late into the evening, she was near as bad as them. She might dance over to a favorite, she might fling her skirts over his head and dance onto him until his head was back upon the rest of his chair with a face full of Irish cunt. Drunken he could eat just enough to want more before his chair fell and the Irish Girl bounded off to swing down the aisles, throwing her hips into any man that got in her way.

Some said that to have the Irish Girl steal your drink was to have good sailing. Some knew better that to have a drink of the Irish Girl was the true grace of the sea. And if you stayed late enough in the night at the Sailor's Rest then you might miss the Irish Girl's smile, but you'd not miss the sounds she'd make upstairs doing her Irish dance.

Quick little setup set somewhere in... I dunno, the 1600s? Who doesn't love ferocious little redheads and rooms full of horny sailors who haven't seen a woman in months? I always like the idea of a sort of pseudo free use where the woman is surrounded and yet still in control by playing every man in the room. Who doesn't also love a tease and a bit of drunken taunting?

Anyway, I don't know exactly where this prompt might go. Maybe we could play it some lusty privateer takes the Irish Girl for himself? Maybe the Irish Girl has a secret lover among the crowd whom she lures upstairs for a wicked and quick fuck. Or maybe it's inspired you some other way? If nothing else I hope it was a fun little read. Go ahead and read some of my other prompts if you want more, or hit me up with a fresh idea and we can see where things go!