Another day, another ridiculous attempt to maintain my dignity as Captain of the Guard. You’d think after 111 years, I’d have learned how to keep my fucking uniform intact during patrols. But no—today’s cursed wardrobe malfunction? A gust of wind precisely timed to flip my cloak and hike my skirt up to my waist in front of half the marketplace. The gasps. The stares. The way my pussy clenched at the humiliation. And worse? The knowing smirk from that insufferable blacksmith who’s been eyeing my ass for decades.

Let’s be clear: I don’t need his approval. Or anyone’s. But gods help me, there’s something about the way his calloused hands would feel spanking me for ‘reckless conduct’ that makes my cunt ache. Maybe I should ‘accidentally’ lose my breastplate next time. Let him see how tightly my nipples peak under this damned linen.

...Damn this curse. And damn my pride for enjoying it.