Look for work and a room.

The first business at hand, Zalah decided, was to try to secure suitable lodgings for her stay in Tharros. And her purse being slightly depleted at present, she felt also that she would need to get some money to pay for her rooming. Walking out of the docks, Zalah perused her options.

She was travelling light, and had spent all the accumulation of earnings she had recently made on her sword. It was a fine blade, made by Trigorin the steelsmith, the talented but reclusive armourer in the northlands. Zalah had found his smithy in a small coven in a mountain range by way of paths that were seldom trodden. The grumpy man was surprised by Zalah’s request, and had tried to get her to leave by saying that he only nowadays took commissions from royalty, the wealthiest of nobility, or those that could afford the exorbitant prices that he demanded. Saying nothing, Zalah had simply undone the strings to the thin leather top that she was wearing now and let it fall to the ground. That seemed to seal the deal. Two days later, she was on her way with her new sword, free of charge, save for a blowjob that had made lightening strike Trigorin between the eyes and his pupils revolve like windmills in a gale. Zalah had asked the steelsmith to stir a little silver into the mix of metal, so that it would be more than capable of despatching enemies normally resistant to more run-of-the-mill edged weapons.

Currently, hands on hips, she was perusing which direction to take at the crossroads of Spitshafte Lane and Hog Street. She made quite a picture, with her lustrous blonde locks tumbling down her back and around her gorgeous face, her massive, heaving tits protruding out in front of her, threatening to burst through the confines of her leather top. A minuscule black g-string was all that adorned her lower body, the spaghetti thin straps slung up over her hips, and she was poised in her thigh-high black leather boots with thin, high heels, the constant use of which she had trained assiduously with to make her more nimble in battle, making her look almost like she was dancing while striking -blows.

“You there,” she said, addressing a thin merchant who was gawping at the vision in front of him, “do something useful and tell me where in town this is.”

“H-h-hog street leads to the swine market miss,” the merchant stammered, hardly able to believe that a woman as beautiful as Zalah had deigned to talk to him, “Spitshafte Lane is… well, without wishing to offend you, my lady, it’s the whorehouse quarter.”

“Thanks,” said Zalah, winking at the man, and promptly making off purposefully down Spitshafte Lane. The merchant watched the muscles in her gorgeous buttocks ripple as she went. Then, after twenty paces, she turned around and called loudly back to the man causing everyone in the street to turn and look at her in surprise, “what’s the name of the best whorehouse there?”

“The ‘Pussy Parlour!’” called the dumbfounded merchant.
“I like it!” she said, blowing the man a kiss and turning round again.

Zalah knew she had arrived at Spitshafte Lane proper the moment she saw a girl on her knees vigorously sucking off a man all too conspicuously down the opening to an alleyway. The whore was close enough that Zalah could appraise the girl’s technique, and she found it to be somewhat lacking. Maybe a country girl like her could teach these sophisticated city types a thing or two after all.

Further down the road, Zalah approached the ‘Pussy Parlour.’ There seemed to be some sort of commotion going on in or around the premises. As she came closer to the frontage of the building, a man was catapulted out of one of the front windows of the whorehouse, smashing through the glass and landing in a crumpled heap on the cobbled ground outside. Another man was soon seen being hurled through the door to the establishment, landing next to the previous man, already on the Tharros street.

Thinking nothing of the personal safety, Zalah entered the premises, where an enormous man was causing havoc inside. He was dressed in a complicated arrangement of ridged leather armour that hugged his mighty frame, with a mess of hair billowing out wildly on top of his head like flames. Currently, he was smashing the heads together of the only two men in the place. A row of gorgeous women dressed in a variety of diaphanous gowns, revealing underwear, gloves, boots, heeled shoes and adorned with jewellery were hugging each other and the back wall of the room, trying to stay as far away from the berserk man as possible.

A raven-haired woman, just possibly the wrong side of thirty, was pleading with the maniac to stop the carnage, her enormous bosom heaving up with each sobbing breath she took.

“Please stop this!” she cried in desperation at the massive man, “these bouncers are expensive and so hard to find!”
“Just give me half an hour with one of your girls!” the man demanded.
“I can’t! You know I can’t!”

At this, the enormous man took up the recumbent bodies of the two me whose heads he had just stoved in and sent them both flying out of the window into the street to join their companions.

“May I ask what’s going on here?” said Zalah. “Maybe I could be of some help.”

Both of the arguing parties turned to the buxom new arrival.

“See if you think this is fair, miss,” announced the man, “My name is Galashiels. I’m a mercenary. I’ve come a long way from the mountains on Dacca’s business, missions and tasks for the good of this fair city, and I’ve come to supposedly the best whorehouse in all of the Kettle, and they won’t give me even half an hour with one of their girls.”

“Why don’t you try telling her why?” returned the busty Madame.

At this, the huge man grew sheepish. “I suppose they have a point,” he said sadly, suddenly and shy. “You see, miss, I’m one-eighth minotaur. It’s not a curse. I just had a sexually experimental grandmother on my mother’s side. Look.”

Galashiels parted and unruffled his wild, upward-skewed locks and revealed two small horns, each about the size of one of Zalah’s index fingers, placed on each side of his head. “I used to saw them off every month but it hurt too much, so I began to grow my hair to disguise it.” Apart from this, Galashiels looked human in every respect.

“We don’t mind that you’re part minotaur,” the Madame interjected swiftly. “We take all kinds here, and service them just the same. What we object to is what you’re packing inside that armour.”

“What’s she referring to?” asked Zalah of Galashiels.

As if revealing his horns was the more severe of the humiliations, Galashiels commenced unbuckling the thick carapace of the leather armour he was wearing. When he had removed the hefty garment, Zalah saw all too quickly what the trouble was.

Galashiel’s enormous penis was strapped to his body, placed firmly all the way up his abdominal muscles, with the huge head resting squarely on the huge man’s pectorals. A leather strap around the middle of the immense shaft was fastened to a large leather belt that went around the minotaur’s midriff. It was a system for keeping Galashiel’s enormous cock securely in place. Had it dangled down rather than being strapped to his body it would have come to rest in a place lower than his knees. The ridged armour of the man-minotaur served as a sort of casing to conceal the contraption from the world. But it hadn’t fooled the proprietess of the ‘Pussy Parlour.’

“It’s that that I object to,” said the Madame. “I simple won’t allow any of my girls to take that on. He’ll split them in two, and they’re even more expensive than the bouncers.”

“But it’s been so long since I had a woman!” whined Galashiels.

“Well how about this for a proposition that suits all parties,” said Zalah. “Why don’t I take this handsome young man upstairs and let him put that big cock wherever he likes in me. In return, he doesn’t smash this whole place up, and you give me room and board for a while plus a place on the books as a whore here as and when I want it. Would that be the sort of deal you’d be interested in? I know Galashiels would accept.”