Sex Addict in Flea Bottom (SI)

The night clung to the tavern like a second skin, thick with the smells of spilled ale, smoke, and the lingering sweat of too many bodies packed too closely together. Thomas sat alone at the corner table, his drink untouched, his mind heavy with a gnawing restlessness that never seemed to fade. The tavern was quieter now, the last of the patrons gone, leaving behind only the echoes of their rowdy voices and the faint scrape of chairs against the wooden floor.

Thomas leaned back, his eyes drifting to the stairwell that led to the private rooms above. Marla would be curled up in her bed by now, already asleep after he'd spent half the evening tiring her out. She'd clung to him, needy and eager, her body warm and pliant under his hands. But she was spent, and Lyra had been no different. Her singing had pulled every ounce of energy from her; she'd barely made it to bed, her voice hoarse and her body exhausted from the sudden adoration of the crowd. He knew better than to wake her. 

That left Sera. He found her sprawled across the bed in her dimly lit room, her eyes half-lidded with a familiar mix of boredom and anticipation. Her lips twisted into a crooked smile as she watched him from beneath the sheets, her body barely covered, the thin fabric clinging to her curves.

"You're back," she said, her voice thick and sultry, as if she'd been expecting him all along. She stretched, her limbs lazy and feline, the shift of her thin frame revealing the sharp edges of her hips and collarbones. "But you know the drill, Thomas. If you want me tonight, we play by my rules. It's a vomit day."

Thomas's mouth twisted in distaste, his shoulders stiffening. He shook his head, a heavy sigh escaping him. "Not tonight, Sera. Not in the mood."

She rolled her eyes, tossing the sheet aside with a casual flick of her wrist, exposing herself without shame. "Then don't waste my time," she snapped, her tone biting. "I'm not just here for your quick release. If you can't stomach it, go find someone who will."

Her words were a sharp dismissal, one he'd heard before, and he turned on his heel, the door slamming shut behind him as he stepped back into the cold, unforgiving night. The chill bit at his skin, seeping through his clothes as he wandered aimlessly, his thoughts churning. Each time he indulged, the need grew stronger, clawing at him with a hunger that felt insatiable. He wondered if he'd ever find enough—if there would ever be a moment where the craving wouldn't burn in his veins like a constant, unrelenting fire.

The brothel stood at the edge of Flea Bottom, a looming structure that promised warmth and comfort behind its closed doors. Thomas pushed through the entrance, the heavy wood creaking as the warm, perfumed air enveloped him. The scent of incense mingled with the softer, sweeter smells of powder and skin, and the soft murmur of laughter drifted from the rooms beyond. Women lounged on plush sofas, their bodies draped in silks and velvets, each one more inviting than the last. 

He moved with purpose, his gaze sharp as he sought out the matron—a large, imposing figure who watched over her establishment with a hawk's keen eye. She stood behind a heavy desk, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood, each click a reminder of the deals she made and the secrets she kept.

Thomas approached her, his voice low but firm. "I'm not here for a single night. I'll pay upfront. Six silvers for nine months. Any girl, any time, no questions."

The matron's eyes glittered with interest, her mouth curving into a smile that spoke of opportunity. She sized him up, weighing the offer, before nodding slowly. "An open arrangement," she mused, tapping her nails against the coins as they spilled onto the desk. "You don't want the usual, do you?"

Thomas nodded, his expression hard, and she tucked the silver away with a swift, practiced motion. "Choose wisely," she said, her voice thick with a mix of warning and invitation. "They'll give you what you want, but remember, nothing's ever truly free."

Thomas stalked through the hall, his steps quick and purposeful. The air grew warmer, filled with the low hum of conversation and the occasional sharp cry of pleasure from behind closed doors. He passed the drawn curtains, his eyes scanning the women sprawled in various states of undress—some laughing, others resting, their bodies soft and full, unmarred by the sharp edges of starvation that defined so many in Flea Bottom.

He found what he was looking for: three women with wide hips and heavy chests, their eyes bright and their smiles practiced but genuine enough. They were well-fed, curves spilling over corsets and lace, their skin smooth and clean, the kind of women who thrived here rather than merely survived. Thomas reached for them, his hands greedy and insistent, and they followed him eagerly, their laughter trailing behind as he led them to a private room.

The door closed with a heavy thud, sealing them in a world of muted light and whispered promises. Thomas stripped them of their clothes with rough, hurried movements, his hands roaming over soft flesh as they giggled and gasped, their bodies responding to his touch. He took them one by one, his pace unrelenting, each thrust met with eager moans as he moved from woman to woman, his mouth and hands never still.

Their cries filled the room, mingling with the wet, rhythmic sounds of their bodies meeting again and again. Thomas gripped their thighs, their breasts, their hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he took his pleasure without restraint. The women twisted beneath him, their bodies pliant and welcoming, and he pushed them to the edge, pulling pleasure from them in sharp, urgent bursts until they were spent, their limbs tangled and trembling.

When he was finished, Thomas rose, his breath heavy, and left the room without a word, the satisfaction tinged with the creeping awareness that no matter how many times he fed his addiction, it would never be enough.

He returned to the tavern at two in the morning, his steps heavy as he crossed the quiet, empty space. The water tank, large and cumbersome, waited in the corner, and Thomas dragged it into the bath, the slosh of water echoing through the silence. He roused Marla and Sera from their beds, their sleepy complaints fading as he stripped them down, his hands rough and insistent.

They climbed into the warm water, their bodies slick and glistening as Thomas scrubbed them clean, his touch lingering on their curves as they took turns with him, their hands and mouths working him with practiced skill. Marla laughed softly, her breath hitching as she watched Sera sink down on him, the rhythmic motion of her hips stirring the water in gentle waves.

Thomas leaned back, his head resting against the cool edge of the tank as he lost himself in the sensation, the wet, slippery warmth of their bodies keeping him grounded. He let them use him, taking turns as he moved between them, his breath ragged and his mind fogged with pleasure. When they were done, he dried them off, his touch lingering as he sent them back to their rooms.

He slipped into Lyra's room next, finding her sprawled beneath the sheets, her breathing soft and steady in the darkness. Thomas bent over her, pressing his lips to her forehead, his kiss lingering for a moment before his hand moved lower, slipping under the thin fabric. His fingers brushed against her thigh, tracing gentle patterns until she stirred, her eyes fluttering open as a sleepy smile tugged at her lips.

Thomas eased his fingers inside her, slow and careful, the slick warmth of her drawing him in. Lyra gasped softly, her hips shifting in response, her eyes half-lidded as she met his gaze. He moved with a steady, rhythmic motion, his touch deliberate as he coaxed soft moans from her, each sound a reminder of the nights they'd shared, the promises made in whispers. He withdrew gently, leaving her to rest, and kissed her once more before heading back downstairs.

---

Morning light filtered through the tavern's windows, the faint glow casting long shadows as Thomas moved about the kitchen. The family he'd hired trickled in one by one, their eyes still heavy with sleep but ready to work. Thomas greeted each of them, his voice low but warm as he guided them through the tasks of the day. The daughters, eager but clumsy, watched his every move, their hands fumbling as they chopped vegetables and stirred pots. 

Thomas corrected them with patient hands, his fingers guiding theirs, showing them how to hold the knife steady, how to keep the heat just right. Their giggles filled the space, bright and innocent, as they followed his lead, the soft clatter of pots and pans punctuating their small mistakes. Thomas felt something unfamiliar in their presence—a strange, paternal pride as he watched them learn, their faces lighting up with each new skill mastered.

The father, always watching from the corner, never spoke much. His eyes followed Thomas's every move, his gaze hardening whenever his daughters laughed too freely, their smiles lingering a moment too long. Thomas noticed the man's disapproving looks, the silent judgment that lingered like a shadow in the kitchen, but he brushed it aside, focusing instead on the food as the tavern filled with more patrons than ever before.

The rush was relentless, the tavern alive with the cl

amor of voices and the smell of fresh bread and stews. Flea Bottom's residents poured in, drawn by the promise of something better, something more than the usual slop that filled their bellies. The kitchen roared to life, steam rising as Thomas and the family worked tirelessly, bowls flying off the counter as fast as they could be filled. 

Thomas moved quickly, his hands never still as he ladled stew, barked orders, and corrected mistakes, the rhythm of work drowning out the noise of his restless thoughts. The line snaked out the door, men and women clutching empty bowls, waiting impatiently for their turn. The rush pushed them all to their limits, each of them sweating and struggling, but they pulled through, the satisfaction of a hard day's work settling over them like a warm blanket.

When the last of the customers had gone, Thomas counted out extra coins, slipping them into each hand with a nod of thanks. He cornered the father, his voice quiet but firm. "You've been watching me all day," Thomas said, his gaze unyielding. "Got something you need to say?"

The man's expression tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I don't like the way you act around my girls," he said, his voice edged with bitterness. "I see what you do with the barmaid, with the singer. I don't want my daughters ending up like them."

Thomas held the man's gaze, his own eyes darkening but his voice calm. "I've got my demons, but I don't let them rule me. Your daughters are like my own, and I've no intention of crossing that line. I teach them to cook, to work, to stand on their own. What I do with the women in my life is separate. It's not about them."

The father's shoulders slumped slightly, the tension easing but not fully gone. "Just keep it that way," he said gruffly, turning away. Thomas watched him go, the weight of his own choices heavy on his shoulders. The more he indulged, the more he felt the pull—the insatiable hunger that lurked just beneath the surface. But today, with the family's laughter still ringing in his ears and the tavern buzzing with life, he held the line. At least, for now.

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