The Virgin Waitress (1)
Bue, the great southern city a day's ride from Rosens. It was the kingdom's premier directly ruled territory at the southern edge, split north-south by the Vurn Mountains. Hugging the massive freshwater Leman Lake—owned by the royal family, with horizons visible from its shores—Bue was famous for its lake's bounty of fish and aquatic resources. Through trade with neighboring estates and territories, it had amassed considerable wealth. And since it lay on the route to Fribourg, the gateway to the kingdom's northern reaches, it had swiftly grown into a major metropolis.
If Rosens was the rest stop midway along the passage linking the kingdom's southern and northern ends, then Bue was the tollbooth at the entrance. Of course, there were plenty of ways to reach the north without passing through Bue or Rosens, but none shorter than the Bue-Rosens-Fribourg path. Moreover, the detours wound through powerful duchies and marquisates, interspersed with baronies and petty lordships little better than bandit dens—making the journey a nightmare for merchants.
That's why several caravans had once banded together to brave the Rosens route, only to be repeatedly mauled by golluks, after which traffic dried up completely. Better to pay taxes passing through estates than lose your entire fortune—and your life. I'd cleared out the golluks without much trouble myself, but honestly, unless you had a legion of heavily armored soldiers, stumbling into dozens of them in those narrow canyons was a death sentence. No wonder even mercenaries turned down escort jobs for caravans heading through Rosens.
We arrived in Bue around midnight. The guards at the city gates halted me to check my identity. When I showed them my papers, they apologized for the hassle and quickly waved me through.
The late-night streets were deserted. Taverns and inns still glowed with lantern light, raucous voices spilling from within, but most roads lay silent, homes dark. It was too late to job-hunt today; better to crash at an inn and handle that tomorrow.
Continuing along the road, a sizable inn came into view. "Horizon's Mist," read the romantic signboard. Two three-story gabled buildings joined together, lamps hung outside even at this hour to welcome guests.
"Here." As I dismounted and raised a hand, a small boy—likely the errand lad—scurried over.
"Hay and grain feed for him." I slipped him a low-grade silver coin, and he bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the ground before leading my horse to the stables.
Inside the hall, the air assaulted my nose with the sharp scent of frying fish, fitting for a city famed for its catch. A handful of patrons sat eating. But every plate held nothing but fried fish. A single-item menu, but it must taste damn good. Some places build their rep on one specialty dish.
My stomach was growling fiercely, so I decided to eat first. I took an empty table, and a pretty waitress approached for my order. Her top plunged deep, exposing most of her ample cleavage, cinched tight at the waist in an outfit that screamed exposure. Her skirt was so short a wrong move might flash her underwear.
"Just the fried stuff... nothing else, right?"
She smiled in confirmation.
"And any rooms available?"
"A room to rest in, or to sleep overnight?"
Rest...? Hmm.
"Overnight."
"What kind of guest room?"
"The best you've got."
Since I was in a new inn, I figured I'd check out the top room's quality.
"Then eat here and wait just a bit. We're full up, so as soon as a room frees, I'll show you."
"Sure... and a brandy."
She flashed a captivating smile and headed to the kitchen. Soon, my food and drink arrived: a wooden plate with a huge fried fillet, half a lemon slice, and three cherry tomatoes. That was it.
"What fish is this?"
"Uh... not sure? Probably perch or catfish...?"
She looked flustered by the sudden question. Seemed they just deep-fried whatever swam by.
I sliced into it with my knife. Stale oil and that muddy river-fish tang hit hard. They were charging money for this?
I drowned the taste with a swig of brandy—and regretted it instantly. Watered to hell... What kind of cheap crooks were these?
As I scowled, the man at the next table spoke up.
"From that face, first time here, eh?"
"Yeah. Unbelievable... crowds for this slop?"
He sipped his brandy and grinned.
"Nobody comes for the food."
"Then what? Fancy rooms?"
"Pff... you'll find out soon enough."
He leered, eyeing the passing waitresses. I got the picture. Brothel-inn combo.
But why bother with the inn front? Prostitution wasn't illegal; just run it straight. Risked fines from crackdowns, though. In ten years traveling, I'd never seen a place mixing lodging and whoring.
Too lazy to hunt another spot this late. I tried the fried fish a few more times, but my appetite wouldn't budge. Leaving barely touched plate and glass, I stood—and the man asked,
"Not finishing? Mind if I have it?"
"Go ahead."
He chuckled slyly, pulling the plate and glass his way. Just as I waved for a waitress to guide me to my room, a commotion erupted from the stairwell.
A young-looking woman bolted down the stairs.
"You bitch! Get back here!"
A burly man chased, snatching her wrist.
"Leaving a customer? Where the hell you going!"
"I don't wanna!"
"How long you gonna pull this shit!"
She bit his wrist. He yelped, releasing her, and she dashed across the hall and out the door.
"You fucking whore!"
The man cursed, pursuing her.
I stared blankly as the table man cackled.
* * * * *
The waitress guided me upstairs to the guest rooms. Her short skirt flashed her ass the whole way—embarrassingly so. On the floor, she pointed to a door.
"Rest well."
She vanished downstairs without another word.
The floor was a long hallway lined with doors crammed close together on both sides. Narrow gaps meant no soundproofing and tiny rooms.
Mine was cramped as hell: just a lone bed, no other furniture. The candle—cheap tallow, probably—cast dim light. Not a hobo shelter... without the bed, it'd pass for a cell.
I hung my cloak and sat on the bed. Musty stench hit me. Damn crooks didn't even wash the sheets properly.
Maybe scout another place? Then odd noises started. Listening close, it sounded like someone sick, groaning. Ear to the wall amplified it: man and woman moaning, seeping through the thin plaster.
Fuck this... I had to bail. I just wanted quiet sleep.
A knock at the door.
"Who is it?"
No answer, but the door opened anyway. A waitress stood there—the same young one who'd fled after clashing with the man. And behind her loomed the burly brute.
"Inside! Run once more, and I'll really kill you...!"
He hissed in her ear, shoved her in, and slammed the door.
What the hell?
She clasped her hands, standing still, staring at me. Pale-skinned, youthful beauty. Long blonde hair braided to her waist, big innocent eyes. Her uniform was as revealing as the others: milky-white, huge breasts straining the fabric. Short skirt over thighs clad in white stockings up to the tops, garters, healthy plumpness.
I gawked, clueless. She approached slowly.
"Do you... like it rough...?"
"Huh?"
"I'm new, so I'm clumsy... please be understanding..."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Anger bubbled. Ruined dinner, "best room" a shithole, now this nonsense? Hadn't called for a whore—why shove her in? Rip-off attempt?
"Anyway, since you're here, let me ask: this really your best room?"
She looked more confused than me.
"Uh... didn't you ask for the best room?"
"I did."
"First time at our inn?"
"Yes."
Understanding dawned on her face. She hesitated, then spoke.
"Sir... the 'best room' doesn't mean the room... it means me..."
"Oh?"
"I'm... the best room..."
I burst out laughing at the absurdity.
"Haha... not the time for jokes."
"It's no joke. 'Best room' is code here..."
"For what?"
Her face twisted in disgust and sorrow as she lifted her short skirt slightly. White panties peeked out.
"The virgin waitress..."
