Option A: Accept his first offer — give him a blowjob in exchange for the ride to Maker's Spit and the pub job introduction.

I held his gaze, the dry wind brushing my face, the memory of the gatekeeper’s rough use still raw in my throat. But this man’s offer was different—cleaner, almost businesslike—and the thought of Maker’s Spit, of a pub instead of a garbage pit, settled into my chest like a door opening.

“I will take the first offer,” I said.

A slow smile spread across his weathered face. He swung down from the camel with practiced ease, landing in a soft puff of dust. Up close he smelled of leather, sun-baked wool, and the faint musk of the animal behind him. He was taller than the gatekeeper, leaner, his hands rough with calluses as he reached for my waist and guided me toward the shaded side of the camel where the wooden carrier blocked the empty horizon from view.

“Kneel here,” he said, voice low and steady.

The ground was warmer than the cell had been, still holding the sun’s heat through the thin fabric of my skirt. I lowered myself slowly, the dust soft beneath my knees, and looked up at him as he unlaced the front of his trousers. His cock emerged already half-hard, darker than the gatekeeper’s, thicker at the base, the skin velvety and dusted with dark hair that trailed down from his navel. The scent was stronger here—male and musky, layered with the dry spice of the road.

I wrapped my fingers around him and felt him stiffen further against my palm, the pulse beating steady and warm. I leaned in and dragged my tongue from base to tip, tasting salt and skin, the texture of him smooth and yielding under the wet slide. He exhaled sharply, his hand coming to rest lightly on my head—not gripping, not forcing, just there.

I took him into my mouth slowly, hollowing my cheeks, swirling my tongue around the ridge beneath the head. He groaned, a deep rumble in his chest, and his hips shifted forward in a gentle rhythm. I found a pace that pleased us both—deep enough that my lips met my fingers at the base, then sliding back to tease the tip with quick flicks of my tongue before taking him in again. The musk filled my senses, and this time there was no panic, no brutality—only the wet heat of my mouth and the low, appreciative sounds he made above me.

His other hand moved to my shoulder, squeezing once, then drifted lower to cup my breast through the soft fabric of my shirt. His thumb found my nipple, already tight from the cool air and the arousal humming low in my belly, and rubbed in slow circles that sent sparks down to my core. I moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch in my mouth, and I felt my own wetness slick between my thighs, a familiar heat building in response to the act.

“Gods, you’re eager,” he murmured, his voice thick.

I doubled my efforts, sucking harder, my hand twisting at the base in time with the bob of my head. His breathing grew ragged, his fingers tightening in my hair—not to force, but to anchor himself. I could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his thighs trembled beneath my free hand where I braced against him.

When he came it was with a low, guttural groan, his seed flooding my mouth in thick, hot pulses. The taste was bitter-salt, overwhelming, and I swallowed around him as he shuddered, his hand cradling the back of my head now with something almost like tenderness. He stayed there for a long moment, his cock pulsing softly between my lips, before easing back with a shaky exhale.

I sat back on my heels, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb, my lips swollen and tingling, my throat aching only faintly this time. The arousal still thrummed between my legs, a low, unfulfilled heat that made me press my thighs together as I rose.

He tucked himself away and offered me his hand. I took it, steadying myself against the camel’s warm flank.

“Maker’s Spit,” he said, nodding toward the carrier. “Climb up. You’ve earned the better seat.”

I pulled myself onto the flat wooden platform, my skirt pooling around me, the bags settling at my side. He swung up to the front seat and snapped the reins. The camel lurched forward, and we moved along the rough track, the wall shrinking behind us, the dusty world opening ahead.

We rode in silence for a time, the sun lowering toward the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of amber and violet. At last a structure appeared in the distance—a low building of rusted metal and reclaimed timber, its windows glowing with warm lamplight, a painted sign above the door showing a crude image of a dripping still.

Maker’s Spit.

The camel knelt, and the man helped me down. He led me inside, the air thick with the smell of fermented grain and cooking meat, the low murmur of voices. Heads turned as we entered, eyes assessing me—the clean shirt, the long skirt, my lips still slightly swollen from the road.

“This one’s for Maeve,” my rider announced to a broad-shouldered woman behind the bar. “She’s got a mouth that works miracles and she’s looking for honest wages. Give her the apron, not the shovel.”

Maeve looked me up and down with eyes the color of smoked glass. She was solid and imposing, her forearms corded with muscle beneath rolled sleeves, her dark hair tied back in a severe knot. She grunted and jerked her chin toward a narrow door behind the bar.

“My office. Now.”

I set my bag on the floor beside the bar and followed her through the low doorway into a cramped room that smelled of ledgers and lamp oil. A scarred desk, a single chair, walls papered with old maps and tally sheets. She shut the door behind us, sealing away the noise of the pub.

“Strip,” she said. Flat. Matter-of-fact.

I blinked. “Why?”

She leaned against the desk, arms crossed over her chest, her gaze roaming over me with an appraiser’s cold hunger. “Because I need to check where you fit first. I don’t hire blind.”

The air in the small room felt suddenly warmer. I hesitated only a moment, then set my bag on the floor. My fingers found the ties of the shirt, working the buttons one by one, exposing the skin-colored bra beneath. I slipped the shirt off, then reached behind to unhook the bra. My breasts settled free, the cool air tightening my nipples into firm peaks. I pushed the skirt down over my hips, letting it pool at my boots, then stepped out of the panties last. I stood naked before her, the lamplight painting my skin in warm gold.

She pushed off the desk and circled me like a wolf assessing prey. Then her hand shot out—she grabbed my shoulder, spun me around roughly, and shoved me forward until my palms hit the desk. The wood was cold against my bare breasts.

A sharp crack split the air as her palm connected with my ass. I gasped, the sting blooming hot across my flesh. She spanked me again, harder, watching the flesh quiver. Then her hand slid between my thighs from behind, rough fingers probing without ceremony. She found my slit, already wet from the road and the lingering arousal I hadn’t satisfied. She dragged a thick finger through my folds, circled my clit once, then pushed two fingers inside me with a firm, testing stroke. I moaned despite myself, my hips bucking against the intrusion.

She withdrew and stepped back.

“You got a good body,” she stated, wiping her fingers on her trousers. She returned to lean against the desk, facing me, her eyes roaming freely over my exposed breasts, the curve of my hips, the flushed heat between my legs. “So here’s how it is.”

She held up three fingers, ticking them down one by one.

“First, cook. Kitchen. Hard work, hot work, no one sees you, no, but you earn flat wage—three cap coins a day, same as the rider promised—and your hands blister. You clean kitchen after the night shift leaves, and you can sleep in the kitchen.”

“Second, waiter. You serve drinks. But you’re hot, and the patrons here are hungry. You’ll be groped, and spanked, anything more the house will interfere. You get three cap coins, On a good night, you might pocket up to Sixty metal hooks, but the house takes most of what you earn . ” She paused, letting that sink in.

“Third, night waitress. You work the late crowd, the drunk crowd. You wear only the apron—nothing else. They’ll stare, they’ll touch, they will grope. Sadly House do not interferes the late crowds, so your safety is your responsibility but they tip for the privilege. The tips are good. On a busy night, up to sixteen metal clips.” Her eyes gleamed.
“You are new so let me help you compare the finances to old world, Hooks are pennies, Cap coin is a dollar, but Metal Clips are like ten-dollar a pieces. You do the math.”

She crossed her arms again, her gaze settling on my face. “So. Where do you fit, Maya?”

I stood naked in the lamplight, the sting of her palm still radiating across my ass, her fingers’ ghost still lingering inside me, and weighed the three paths she had laid bare.