As you are

You shrug your shoulders. What the hell? This is a whorehouse, not a fortress. Men in these kinds of places are only looking for one thing, and its not for a good listener. The worst that could possibly happen is someone gets a little frisky and cops a feel. Maybe you'll even get some fun out of this in the process.

Adding a little extra sway in your hips, you sashay out of the armory like you own the place. Your 'disguise' works perfectly against the guards. They visibly step back when they get a glance at you, their eyes giving you a once-over, and then a twice-over when they think you're not looking. They don't even bother stopping you, and you suspect some of them wanted to pay you, just for giving them a show. On the other hand, some of the working girls you pass who're off that day glare daggers at you, noting your full breasts and perfectly toned waist. You smirk inwardly.

The main floor of the Palace is one sweaty, smoky room, cordoned off by half-high mesh partitions and silk curtains, velvet greens and reds, silhouetting men and women having sex in the false-privacy of the brothel. Their forms, contorted in obvious positions, and their sounds only serve to heighten the atmosphere. The inside of your mouth dries as you watch some of the more lewd acts playing out on the cushions and rugs. That familiar tingling in your pussy makes its presence pleasantly known to you and, stopping suddenly, you find to your shock that you're wet.

Catching your breath, you start to feel the stares of many of the room fall on you. A little shiver runs uncontrollably through your body in anticipation. All these sights and sounds, they're playing tricks with your head. It makes you imagine things, and fantasize about things you had never even seen or heard of before.

Warning bells to ring. There must be a magical enchantment placed over this room, dulling the mind and heating up the body, all to make their patrons pour gold into their coffers. You have to get out, get somewhere higher. You fight to regain control, recalling your mission. Find the medallion. Knees shaking, you unsteadily try to find the way up to the next floor, spotting a flight of stairs off to the side.

Taking step by step, you almost make it to the staircase when somebody decides to hell with subtlety, and grabs your hips. Although you don't get a look at his face, his big, meaty hands almost completely wrap around you. Immediately, you clamp your jaw shut and manage to stop a moan from escaping your lips. His hands are burning hot and sticky from dried beer and Gods know what other fluids, but you feel like a complete slut and want nothing more than for the man to bend you over and plow you like a farmer.