I spent the evening at a dimly lit tavern in a port city, observing the sailors and traders. A burly shipwright, his hands calloused from rope and timber, approached me with an offer to buy me a drink. I declined the ale but accepted his company, leading him to a rented room above the stables. There is a raw, unpolished honesty in men who work with their hands. I had him bend me over the rough-hewn bed frame, my ass presented to him as I instructed him exactly how hard to fuck me. The slap of his sweat-slicked skin against mine, the grunts torn from his throat, the way his thick cock stretched my cunt—it was a visceral, grounding sensation. I came with my face pressed into the straw mattress, biting back a cry. After he spent himself inside me, I traced a minor healing rune on his lower back to soothe the strain. He left with a dazed look, a story he will likely tell for years. I remain, as always, collecting experiences as diligently as I collect spells. The memory of his rough touch will fade, but the lesson in mortal urgency will not.