Pay a visit to the inn

Your mind wanders to the thought of finding some hung stud inside the Wayward Lass, some big, muscular man to throw you down and fuck you silly or some brute who will use your mouth or your ass. That's what you need, you decide. You sashay through the time-worn wooden door and into the firelit main hall of the inn. A roaring hearth casts moving orange light and warmth over several tables and a crooked bartop. Some bedrolls and traveling packs have been laid beside the hearth. This would be the common area where travelers with few coins would lay their heads.

There are stairs climbing to the second floor and what must be the private beds. There is a door to a back room, probably a kitchen, and another door that you would guess leads to a cellar of some sort.

You stop just inside the door, your hips cocked to one side and your hands resting on them as you survey the crowd. Every man and woman is staring at you with amazement and lust. You wet your lips and smile, wiggling your hips from side to side as you stide sensuously up to the bar. As you reach the filthy bar you lean your elbows down and lean forward with a naughty smile on your face, giving the doughy innskeep a fine look at your huge breasts piled together. Meanwhile, your anticing ass is thrust out at all the men in the room. You look at the innskeep, he is balding and bearded with a barrel chest and big, fat midsection. He is too stunned to even smile. His mouth hangs open and his eyes bug out as he stares at you.

"Welcome to the Wayward Lass," he finally sputters. "Whatever, ah, anything you want. Anything. On the house."

"How about a nice, warm cup of mulled wine," you say and he immediately fills a tin cup with the sweet, warm wine. You smile and sip the fruity brew, taking in the other folk gathered at the inn. There is a middle-aged blonde woman dressed in the peasant costume of a tavern wench, her thick bust a canyon beckoning from beneath her plain face. Her wide hips and plump ass are well-served by the way she walks to and fro with trays of ale and steaming platters of food.

There are a number of patrons, all of them staring at you or chatting about your incredible figure. There is a great, muscular mountain of a man, dark-skinned and smiling. He is sitting alone, a huge axe leaned against the wall beside him. He is looking at you with obvious lust.

There are three travelers, grimy, dangerous, playing a game of cards.

There is a mysterious man alone in the corner, draped in heavy velvet robes, his face hidden from view.

Lastly you see that there is a fine young lass, the miraculous offspring of a pairing between the innskeep and the stout barmaid. She is ravishingly beautiful with pale red hair and flushed cheeks. She wears a cook's apron stained with grease that nevertheless accentuates her slim, but womanly body. She only appears rarely, rushing out to deliver drinks to her father or with a forgotten order of food for her mother.

You consider which lucky man (or men) or woman (or women) will get to have you for the night. Will it be the patrons or the workers at the Wayward Lass who garner your attention?