As he read his novel by the flickering warmth of the dying firelight, I gazed at him longingly. A most likely candidate for my attentions was he, aged from a multitude of unique experiences into the reclusive hulk of what once was. Beset by memories, and beyond the ability to procreate, he would soon cross over into my world of timeless freedom that he had barely glimpsed in dreams but dismissed as childlike fantasy. Yet deep within his loins, the seeds of life still churned with unfulfilled release beneath the lifeless organ of their deliverance. As my hunger grew, I wondered if he was one of the now numerous males that had their life delivering cords surgically mutilated in a barbaric attempt to prevent reproduction. Good seed was becoming more difficult to find and harder still to feed on.
My first memories were of the life that was brutally torn from me within a few short months of its creation along with the womb in which it rested. It was deemed my life should be committed to pleasuring the Inn's clientele rather than breeding to repay my Father's gambling indebtedness. The remainder of my short life was spent mostly on my back hosting a multitude of various unwashed genitals in my now mangled recesses. They would pound me, flood me, and collapse atop me with spent passions and empty wallets. Somehow, despite the revulsion, I found pleasure in giving pleasure, and learned to focus on my client's deepest unmet desires to quickly fulfill their needs and encourage their return. On one particular August evening, I was introduced and seduced by a most charming traveler whose real nature became apparent once I disrobed and exposed my charms to his lustful eyes. Years of anger and frustration, undoubtedly tainted by ale, emerged and I was pummeled into oblivion with nary a chance to defend myself.
