Sex Addict in Flea Bottom (SI)

Thomas waited, the rag tied tightly over his head, blending him into the shadows of the alley. The Goldcloak stumbled down the narrow street, his steps uneven from too much drink. Thomas followed, staying close enough to watch but far enough that no one would notice. He'd waited for this moment—waited until the bastard was alone, weaving his way into the dark, piss-stained alleys where there were no witnesses.

Rain had started to fall, soaking through Thomas's cloak, but he didn't care. The Goldcloak turned into an empty side street, and Thomas knew it was time.

He moved fast, grabbing a handful of mud from the slick ground and shoving it between two chunks of bread he had stuffed in his pocket. The rain made the mud heavier, more viscous, perfect for what came next. He slipped up behind the Goldcloak, who barely had time to grunt before Thomas wrapped his arm around the man's neck, pulling him into a tight chokehold.

The Goldcloak struggled, kicking and flailing, but Thomas held firm. He could feel the man's pulse under his arm, the life ebbing away as the fight left him. It wasn't long before the Goldcloak slumped, unconscious, falling into the mud.

"Piece of shit," Thomas muttered, letting the man fall to the ground in a heap.

Without wasting any time, Thomas grabbed the mud sandwich he'd made and forced it into the Goldcloak's slack mouth, pushing it in deep until the man's mouth was full of the gritty sludge. Then, with quick hands, Thomas pulled out a needle from his pocket, threading it with the ragged string he'd torn from the cloth. The needle went in clumsily, the rough stitch pulling the man's lips together in jagged lines.

He worked fast, knowing the man could wake up at any moment. When the Goldcloak stirred, a quick chokehold and a well-placed kick to the head knocked him back out. Thomas finished the job, his fingers working with brutal efficiency. By the time he was done, the Goldcloak's mouth was sewn shut with a crude stitch, the mud still oozing between his swollen lips.

Satisfied, Thomas stripped the armor from the Goldcloak's body, piece by piece. He hesitated for a second, glancing down at the heavy plates in his hands. Hiding them in the cellar seemed too risky, but then he remembered the enchanted pouch strapped to his waist—the one that could hold far more than it seemed.

"Let's see if this works," Thomas muttered, pushing the armor into the pouch, half-expecting it to fail.

To his amazement, it worked. The armor disappeared into the small bag as if it weighed nothing. He grinned, tugging the pouch closed and tossing one last look at the unconscious man before heading back to the tavern.

When he returned, the rain had gotten heavier, pounding against the roof in a steady rhythm. Lyra was already in bed, the soft glow of a lantern casting warm light over her bare skin. She lay there, her arms open, waiting for him with a sleepy smile on her face.

"Come here," she whispered, her voice low and inviting.

Thomas didn't need to be asked twice. He stripped off his wet clothes, tossing them in a pile before sliding into bed beside her. Her body was warm against his, her hands already exploring his chest, down to his waist. He let out a soft groan as her fingers trailed lower, her touch familiar yet still exciting after all these months.

"You're soaked," she murmured, running her fingers through his damp hair. "Raining that bad out there?"

"Yeah," Thomas said, his voice thick with exhaustion and arousal. "But I'm here now." He kissed her, deep and slow, his hands roaming over her body, pulling her closer.

She responded eagerly, her body pressing against his, her breath hitching as he slid inside her. They moved together, slowly at first, savoring the closeness. The warmth of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure—it all wrapped around him, making the world outside feel far away. For two hours they stayed like that, exploring each other, their bodies finding the rhythm that only came from knowing each other so well.

By the end, Thomas was spent, his arms wrapped around her as she lay on top of him, her body still trembling from their lovemaking. He fell asleep like that, with her resting against his chest, his cock still inside her, the rain outside lulling him into a deep sleep.

The sound of rain pounding on the roof woke Thomas the next morning. The storm was worse than ever, the wind howling against the windows. He groaned, rolling out of bed, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him. He knew the rain meant bad news for the tavern. No one would come out in this storm, not with the mud outside turning the streets into a river of filth.

"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his face.

Lyra stirred beside him, her hair a mess, her eyes still half-closed. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"It's raining like hell. No one's gonna show up today," Thomas said, already dreading the thought of an empty tavern.

She sat up, stretching her arms above her head, her bare skin gleaming in the soft light of morning. "Maybe they will. People need their drinks, even in the rain."

Thomas snorted, not convinced. "They'd have to wade through knee-deep mud to get here."

She smiled, sliding closer to him, her hand resting on his thigh. "Maybe we could stay in bed a little longer, then. No harm in that."

He wanted to, gods, he wanted to, but the tavern needed work. "Tempting," he said, kissing her forehead. "But I've got to clean up downstairs. This place still needs to run, rain or not."

Lyra pouted but let him go, watching as he dressed and headed down to the main room.

The tavern was quiet, the sound of the storm filling the empty space. Thomas set to work cleaning, grabbing a bucket of water from the bath and hauling it into the dining hall. He worked slowly, scrubbing the floor, but with the storm raging outside, it felt pointless. No one was coming. Not today.

The wind picked up, slamming the shutters so hard that the windows rattled in their frames. Thomas cursed under his breath, rushing over to lock them tight. The sound of the storm was deafening, the wind howling like a beast outside.

And that's when an idea hit him.

With a smirk, Thomas grabbed the mop and moved the lighter items out of the dining hall. Chairs, tables, anything small enough to get tossed by the wind. Then, he walked over to the door, throwing it open wide.

The storm did the rest.

The wind swept through the tavern, carrying the water with it, washing the dirt from the floor in one clean swoop. Thomas stood by the door, watching as the rain did the work for him. When the worst of the water had passed through, he shut the door and grabbed the mop, pushing the remaining puddles outside.

By the time he finished, the floor was spotless, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. "Genius," he muttered to himself, grabbing some eggs from the kitchen and frying them up for breakfast.

He was halfway through his meal when a loud crash shook the building, the force of it nearly knocking him out of his chair. Thomas jumped to his feet, running to the door just as the rain started pouring again. Outside, through the heavy sheets of rain, he could see it—a boat, smashed to pieces, its hull embedded in the side of the tavern.

"Mother of fuck…" he muttered, running out into the rain.

The boat had clearly broken loose from wherever it was moored, carried by the storm until it crashed into his tavern. The front of the hull had punched through the wall, splintering the wood, sending debris everywhere.

Thomas ran back inside, soaking wet, his heart pounding in his chest. Marla and Lyra were standing in the counter room with her daughters, staring in disbelief at the giant hole in the wall.

"What the hell are we gonna do?" Marla asked, her voice tight with worry.

Thomas stood there, staring at the damage. The hole was massive, big enough that half the boat's hull was sticking into the room. He felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, the stress, the frustration building up inside until he couldn't hold it in anymore.

"I don't fucking know," he muttered, collapsing into a chair, burying his face in his hands.

Lyra knelt beside him, her hand on his shoulder, her voice soft. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

But Thomas wasn't sure this time. The storm had done more than damage his tavern—it had damaged his spirit. He sat there for what felt like hours, his mind racing, unable to think of a way out of this mess.

By the time the rain finally stopped, Thomas stepped outside to assess the damage. The boat had done a number on the wall, but the rest of the tavern seemed intact. The structure was still sound, but the hole in the wall was a problem. A big one.

As he stood there, staring at the wreckage, one of the neighboring tavern owners sauntered over, his face twisted in fake concern.

"Damn shame about your place," the man said, shaking his head. "Guess no one's coming by until you fix that up, huh? Shame. People'll forget all about your little place by the time it's fixed."

Thomas clenched his fists, biting back the anger. The smug bastard wasn't wrong, but hearing it out loud made it sting even worse.

Later in the day, the boat's owner finally showed up, a fat, happy man with a smug grin on his face. "Good to see the boat's still intact," he said, looking at the wreckage as if he were admiring his own handiwork.

Thomas's eyes narrowed. "Your boat smashed into my fucking tavern. You're paying for the damage."

The man shrugged, his smile never fading. "Fixing your wall would cost more than the boat's worth. You can keep it."

"Keep it? Are you fucking kidding me?"

The man just waved him off, turning and walking away like it was nothing. "I'm doing you a favor," he called over his shoulder. "That boat's worth more than your tavern!"

Thomas stood there, fuming. He kicked the boat, hard. It didn't budge. He kicked it again, frustration boiling over. Still, nothing. And then, in the middle of his fury, an idea sparked.

That evening, Thomas rounded up a few strongmen he knew, calling in favors and promising drinks. Together, they heaved the boat, lifting it out of the tavern's wall and carrying it across the street. Thomas directed them, positioning the hull just right, angling it so that it stretched across the river.

Once it was in place, he called over the carpenters from the other side of the river, telling them his plan. They worked quickly, building a sturdy base on the far bank and connecting it to the boat's hull. It took time, and Thomas emptied most of his coin into their hands, but by the time the moon was high in the sky, the boat was secured—a bridge connecting the two sides of the river.

Thomas grinned as the strongmen let go, the boat holding firm. He instructed the carpenters to cut a path through the hull, turning it into an entrance that led straight into his tavern. A new way for people to cross the river without going around.

When it was done, he paid the men for their work, wiping his brow. The last of his money had gone into this, but it was worth it. He hired a few criers to spread the word: there was a new entrance to River Row, and anyone could use it if they stopped for a drink at his tavern. Otherwise, they'd have to pay a toll.

That night, people began trickling in, curious about the new bridge. By the time the sun had set, the tavern was full, more customers than he'd had in weeks. Some paid the toll, others stayed for drinks, but by the end of the night, Thomas was counting more coin than he knew what to do with.

Marla leaned against the bar, watching the bustling crowd with a smile. "You might actually be a genius," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

Thomas smirked, pouring himself a drink. "I told you. Never had a bad idea."

But even as he celebrated the success of the night, he knew it wouldn't last. The Goldcloaks would come soon enough, looking to tear down his bridge.

And when they did, Thomas would be ready.

1 chapter ahead for free below. 1 Chapter will always be ahead on the pinned post linking to another page. If you want more you can pay $4.50/month for 9 chapters ahead on the story and a few NSFW pictures but one chapter will always be ahead in the P@treon page.

https://[email protected]/swattywriter