The tourism clerk frowns at the spread of posters I've set before her, box squeaking dangerously under her feet.

"I figured a bit of a head-nod to the prevailing, ah, attractions might be in order," I offer brightly, tapping an illustration of rolling valleys and rustic cottages with the words VISIT THE CONTINENT'S MOST FERTILE FIELDS beaming happily above.

I smile, the very picture of salesman-like innocence. "It's all about attracting agricultural business."

Truth be told, the contract hadn't been easy thus far. I'd immediately taken the bait, of course, the mysterious stranger that had looked suspiciously like two halflings stacked atop each other in a cloak leading the way back to the cozy rural hamlet. The first night had been all sorts of vague, more cloaked figures sternly proclaiming that this was a sane and chaste town, thank you very much, and they would quite appreciate having someone make the place fade off the map a little. They'd even become the subject of poets and bards writing all sorts of scandalously untrue tales! Intervention, clearly, was required.

For that brief, shining moment, it had seemed like an easy job, and I'd drifted happily to sleep, visions of quick gold in a lovely pastoral setting flitting through my dreams.

Then had come the pitter-patter of determined feet, and a frantic, candlelit attempt to ward off the barmaid, the barmaid's sister, and the chimney sweep, muffled curses and tangled sheets presaging my dramatic escape out the window. With a solid two out of three attempts at filling up my hosts avoided, I had begun to get the inkling that this might be, perhaps, a little more difficult than I had originally anticipated. The mayor had sternly disabused me of any notions of ease, and, with the village's tourism clerk - a remarkably restrained lass, all things considered - by my side, I'd set out on the long and ardous quest of reducing the flow of visitors to the town.

A polite cough shakes me from my reverie, and I bow graciously, flipping over another poster.

"Maybe a straightforward approach, in time for seasonal events?"

Gray-painted rows of cottages stare out from the poster, stone-faced halflings with curiously cubic pumpkins at their feet assailing the viewer. THERE IS NOTHING INTERESTING HAPPENING AT THE HARVEST FESTIVAL hangs above their heads.

Another frown.

"Something on the lighter side?" I offer. This time, it's just a lavishly-rendered oil painting of an outhouse situated well apart from a cottage, capped with a cheery BE RESPONSIBLE - AT LEAST DON'T DO IT INSIDE.

"The alternative was just 'consider doing it up the bum, at least, please.'"

With a thump and a bounce that makes me swallow hard, my co-conspirator hops down from the box, meticulously picking up each poster in turn and stacking them neatly off to the side. I can't help but feel a sense of unease creeping up my spine at the way she glances up before carefully nudging quills and brushes into a safe, neat, responsible order well away from the center of the conveniently waist-height table.

I sigh heavily at the implication, unable to stop a smile from teasing at the corner of my lips. It is about tea-time, after all, and I suppose I've got a vested interest in keeping my employers happy. It's only the third time this week, even; surely this counts as responsible enough, posters be damned.

As my hands take her playfully by the hips, almost moving on their own, something tells me that I'm going to be working hard on this campaign for a long, long time…

—

Just another return to one of my favorite themes, this time a cheerful frolic set against a beautiful bucolic backdrop.

Kinks for this one: Size differences, playful roughness, breeding/impregnation, oral sex in both directions despite the obvious difficulties of sixty-nining in this scenario, affection, humor

(A certain someone knows exactly who and what inspired this silly ramble.)