It may be true- you might be the sort of lass of the lower class who plies her ass, but that doesn't mean you're not a good, solid profession. The docks call to me sometimes, with the scent of the sea and the sight of the caravels coming in, and something about the sea breeze lends a jaunty swing to the sword on my hip as I step along down the cluttered wood of the wharf. The people- old Fishmonger Willem with his crusty beard and friendly smile, Freda with her baskets of fish that are fresh as anything you've ever seen, on the top layer, at least- well, they're refreshing. And you? Well, I'm not saying you're the type to prefer a load to the face over flowers, but you are. I don't need to say it, really.

And you know what? I admire that. All the ladies of the keep, well, they're... kind of staid, really. A bit creepy, even, with their dainty little minds and flowing silks from the East and tittering giggles whenever I mention that my horse has reluctantly dragged me back to the castle from some adventure or other. (I ought to smack him for that one day.) As best I can tell, they sit around listening to troubadours and mummers and not much else, waiting for their prince to come.

Their prince, meanwhile, has been coming pretty damn hard with you, and I've got to say, you're a lot more fun then they are. Sure, when I wrap my arms around you in a cheap mattress that could be straw and is probably mostly lice by now, and press my lips to yours, it doesn't have the elegant, rarefied air of a noble couple consummating their courtly love. Maybe you can't spin silk or sing songs, and I'm pretty sure you're functionally illiterate, but hey. Listen to me, here- you make a good honest living, with prices up front and a very marketable skill set. You can take it up the bum without needing seal grease, you don't use teeth, and when you blush, it's fuckin' cute.

Very ungentlemanly of me to say, perhaps, but once in a while, a man just prefers a nice slappable ass and good honest conversation without all the thee's and thou's and "it's a detestable sin in the sight of the Lord, oh no, don't you put it in there, Sir Lockwood."

Hell, you're smarter too, I'd wager- Don't think I don't notice the herbs you drink every time I put a nice thick load in your belly, or the fact that- saints above- you wash before seeing me. Good business, that, and looks an awful lot like hygiene and sexual responsibility to me.

My time's almost up? Well, here, have another crown; I know I'm rambling. It feels good to get out of the chainmail a little bit and stretch my legs, not to mention having your nice sloppy kiss in a southerly direction, and you make me smile.

I'm getting dangerously romantic, honestly; I almost said that I have a little bit of a crush on you.

Shit.

I said that out loud, didn't I? That blush, though. Mmph. That could tempt a man to sin, if he hadn't already sunk his cock in you twice before nightfall.

You may be a cum-guzzling wharf whore, but you're a charming young woman, and, well... I don't suppose you'd fancy a moonlit stroll on the dock tonight?

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