บท 3: Chapter Three: Cooking in the Gutter
Thomas dragged himself through Flea Bottom's tangled streets, the early morning haze thick with the stench of waste and rotting food. The day stretched ahead like a grim procession, and if he wanted to keep his belly full, he needed work. The meager coins left in his enchanted pouch would only go so far if he kept burning through them on base pleasures. He needed more, and he found his answer in a dingy cookhouse crammed between a brothel and a tannery, the walls blackened from years of neglect.
Inside, the heat was stifling, the air heavy with smoke and the pungent smell of boiling meat. A massive iron pot dominated the room, steam rolling off the surface of the murky broth inside. The head cook, a grizzled man with a missing eye and a perpetual scowl, stirred it lazily, splashing the greasy liquid up the sides. It was the infamous bowl of brown, the only dish the cook seemed capable of making, and it smelled like something scraped off the underside of a butcher's block. Bits of meat floated in the pot—dark, stringy, and unidentifiable. Thomas's stomach churned as he eyed the slop.
"Grab a ladle and get to work," the cook growled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "It don't stir itself."
Thomas did as he was told, gripping the ladle and forcing himself not to gag as he stirred the concoction. The mystery meat bobbed and sank, little bits of fat and gristle swirling in the brown sludge. It was nothing like the kitchens he knew in his past life, where even the simplest dish was crafted with care. Here, it was chaos, no seasoning but salt and sweat, no care for the source of the meat—dog, cat, rat, or worse. It was all the same here. Thomas wrinkled his nose, trying to suppress the memories of better meals.
He watched the cook slap a chunk of stale bread into a bowl and ladle the slop on top, the brown liquid soaking into the bread, turning it into a soggy, unappetizing mess. Each serving was dished out with the same careless splash, and Thomas knew he couldn't stomach it for much longer. When the cook wasn't looking, Thomas dug through the pitiful array of herbs and spices tucked into a corner. He snatched a bit of garlic, some peppercorns, and what he prayed was salt, grinding them between his fingers and sprinkling them into the pot. The cook shot him a sideways glare but didn't stop him.
"Won't make a difference," the cook muttered, spitting into the fire. "Meat's meat."
But Thomas pressed on, adding whatever he could scrounge, tasting as he went, trying to coax even a hint of flavor from the foul broth. It was barely an improvement—a slight edge of sharpness that cut through the grease—but it was something. A small rebellion against the bleakness of Flea Bottom's cuisine.
The hours dragged by, each bowl of brown ladled with a resigned sigh, each customer barely lifting their eyes from the floor as they slurped down the meal that was all they could afford. Thomas lost himself in the rhythm of it, the repetitive motions dulling his mind. He was wiping down the counter when the cook's gruff voice cut through the clatter of the room.
"Yer done," the cook's boss sneered, a burly man with arms thick as tree trunks and a permanent sneer etched into his face. He pointed a stubby finger at the cook, then jabbed it at Thomas. "You. Take over. I've had enough of this lazy sack of shit."
The cook stared, slack-jawed, as the boss tossed him out onto the street without ceremony. Thomas, though shocked, felt a thrill of satisfaction ripple through him. A promotion meant something more, a chance to make something his own, even in this miserable pit. But it came with no real reward—just a pittance more than before, barely worth the sweat and effort. Still, it was his.
As the day faded into evening, Thomas made his way back home, the shadows of the alleyways swallowing him. The aches of the day were replaced by a different kind of need, one that burned low in his gut and made his pants tighten uncomfortably. His thoughts drifted back to the woman—his woman now, if he could make it so. The gods hadn't freed him from his addiction, and it gnawed at him, fierce and unyielding. He cursed them under his breath, hating the pull that dragged him back into the filth over and over again.
He found her in the same spot as before, bent over with her dress hiked up, legs spread for a scrawny man who grunted above her. The man's thrusts were weak and sloppy, more of a desperate fumbling than anything resembling pleasure. He let out a feeble gasp, his body jerking in a quick, final spasm before he pulled away, tucking himself back into his breeches with trembling hands. He tossed her a coin, barely sparing her a glance before stumbling off into the night.
Thomas stepped forward, and the woman turned to face him, wiping her mouth with a dirty rag. "Back again?" she asked, her voice flat. She looked as tired as he felt, eyes rimmed with red, the faintest traces of tears streaking the grime on her cheeks.
"How much do you earn in a day?" Thomas asked, his voice edged with something that surprised even him—concern, perhaps, or just curiosity.
"Two knuts on a good day," she said, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. "Sometimes five if the bastards are generous."
Thomas considered his options, feeling the weight of the enchanted pouch at his side. "You'll stay at my place," he said, his tone brokering no argument. "You'll be there when I need you, and I'll pay you three knuts a day—more if you clean the place up."
She looked at him, eyes narrowing, calculating the offer. It was better than what she got now, better than the gutter and the random scraps tossed her way by men who didn't care to see her as anything more than a hole to fuck. "Five if I clean?"
"Three for the fucking, two more if you keep the place from looking like this shithole," Thomas confirmed, his gaze not wavering. She nodded, a slow, resigned motion, and he took her by the arm, pulling her along with him through the twisting alleys to the small, ramshackle house that was his new home.
Once inside, he barely gave her time to catch her breath. The door slammed shut, the cramped space swallowing them both. Thomas pushed her against the wall, the wood groaning under the sudden impact. His hands roamed her body, feeling the grime on her skin, the roughness of her dress as he yanked it up around her waist. She didn't resist, didn't protest, just parted her legs and braced herself as he shoved his trousers down.
Thomas grabbed her hips, forcing her back against him, his cock already hard and aching as he lined up and thrust into her. She gasped, her body jolting from the sudden invasion, but there was no softness in it, no care for anything beyond the raw, primal need that drove him. The smell of sweat, sex, and dirt filled the room, the wet sounds of their bodies colliding echoing off the walls.
He pounded into her, rough and relentless, her back arching, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the wall. Each thrust drove her forward, her cheek smearing against the wood, the sounds of flesh meeting flesh rhythmic and unyielding. She moaned, low and breathy, not from pleasure but from the sheer force of his movements. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her skin, pulling her back onto his cock with each brutal snap of his hips.
The filthy room seemed to close in around them, the stench of the alley still clinging to her, adding to the visceral, degrading heat of the moment. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back, mingling with the grime that coated his shirt, his mind a haze of lust and frustration. She took it all, her body pliant and willing, her gasps mixing with the slap of their skin.
Thomas grunted, driving in deeper, feeling the tightening coil of his release building fast. He didn't slow, didn't hold back, his thrusts growing erratic, each one a desperate plunge towards the edge. When he finally came, he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her up with a guttural groan. He stayed there, panting, his head resting against her shoulder as the tension bled out of him.
She sagged against the wall, her body trembling, cum trickling down her thighs, dirty and used. Thomas pulled back, tucking himself away, his breath still ragged. She turned, wiping the sweat from her brow, her face flushed but devoid of any real emotion.
"You got your coin's worth," she muttered, reaching for the small, dirty rag she used to clean herself. Thomas just nodded, watching her without a word. The gods had cursed him, but they'd also given him just enough to get by, enough to find his own twisted path in this cruel, unforgiving world. And as long as he had his vices, he'd keep walking it, one day at a time.
The first light of dawn filtered through the cracks in the shutters, cutting thin lines across Thomas's face as he stirred. Beside him, the woman lay curled up, her naked body half-covered by a thin, ragged blanket. The air was still, filled with the faint smells of sweat, old sex, and the mildew that clung stubbornly to the walls. Thomas sat up, feeling the grime of the previous day still clinging to his skin.
He glanced at the woman, her tangled hair strewn across her face, dirt still marking her pale skin. She barely stirred, only letting out a faint, tired breath as he moved. Thomas grabbed a bucket of water from the corner, the liquid murky but cleaner than anything else in Flea Bottom. He dipped a rag in and began to scrub her down, the water running in dirty streaks along her body. She shivered under his touch, eyes fluttering open, but she didn't protest—just watched him with a resigned acceptance as he cleaned the sweat, grime, and leftover traces of last night's filth from her skin.
"From now on, you stay in here," Thomas told her, his voice firm but lacking cruelty. He ran the rag over her shoulders, down her back, making sure to get the spots that had collected the most dirt. "You don't wear anything. No clothes, nothing. You're mine in this place, you get that?"
She nodded, her eyes never leaving his, though they held no light. It was all just another transaction, another role she was expected to play in this twisted life. Thomas tossed the rag aside, letting it fall into the bucket, then ran his hand down her thigh, appreciating the softness of her freshly cleaned skin.
He pushed her back onto the thin mattress, spreading her legs wide. He climbed between her thighs, his cock already stiff, twitching with the same insistent need that woke him every morning. He gripped her hips, positioning himself at her entrance and thrust in without warning, sinking deep inside her. She let out a soft gasp, her body jolting from the sudden intrusion, but she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer.
Thomas set a relentless pace, each thrust hard and deep, the old mattress creaking under the force of their movements. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he drove into her again and again, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. The wet, slick sounds of their bodies meeting filled the room, each thrust sending a shiver up her spine. She moaned softly, her voice muffled by the pillow as Thomas fucked her with a hunger that seemed endless, his cock pounding into her over and over until he spilled inside her, filling her with a guttural groan.
Thomas pulled out, his cock still throbbing, and left her panting on the bed, cum leaking from between her legs as she lay sprawled, used but uncaring. He wiped himself down with the last of the water, dressing quickly before heading out. The cookhouse awaited, and he had work to do.
The air in the kitchen was thick and heavy, the smell of boiling broth and charred meat hanging in the air like a greasy fog. Thomas moved quickly, ignoring the cook's leering glance as he approached the cauldron of the day's meat. Today, he was determined to make something more than the sludge they called the bowl of brown. He pulled out a few cuts, examining each one carefully—the texture, the color, the faint scent that clung to them. His fingers ran over strips of meat with a practiced touch, years of past life training guiding him even now.
Without hesitation, he sliced off a small piece and brought it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, the raw flesh tough and unyielding between his teeth. He recognized most of the meats: a bit of goat, a sliver of rat, and the unmistakable texture of human muscle that made him wince as he swallowed. It was repulsive, but this was Flea Bottom, where survival meant embracing the unacceptable. Thomas spat the last piece out, clearing his throat as he moved to separate the cuts by texture and quality, doing what he could with the pitiful assortment.
He worked quickly, boiling the tougher cuts separately, adding what little seasoning he had salvaged. Each pot simmered with a different blend of herbs and salt, each one a slight improvement on the singular slop they served every day. He moved with purpose, stirring, tasting, adjusting, until he had created a series of stews, each distinct, each a far cry from the usual foul broth.
The door swung open, and the barmaid lumbered in, her ample figure squeezed into a stained bodice that barely contained her generous cleavage. She eyed him, frowning as she watched his careful preparations. "What's takin' you so damn long?" she barked, her voice grating. "Patrons are gettin' handsy, and it's all your fault."
Thomas didn't look up, focused on his work. "Few more minutes," he said, the ladle swirling through the rich, simmering liquid. He could feel her glaring at his back, impatient and annoyed, but he didn't let it rush him.
"Minutes? They're gettin' antsy, an' when they get antsy, they get grabby. You wanna come out an' deal with their greasy paws yourself?"
Thomas finally turned, meeting her eyes. "Give me this, and I promise you won't have to worry about that again." She huffed, crossing her arms under her bust, but she didn't argue, stepping back to watch him finish.
Thomas ladled out the stews, arranging them in a line, each one distinct. "No more just bowl of brown," he said, gesturing to each pot in turn. "We got goat, pig, rat… and that one," he pointed to the smallest pot, "keep that aside. It's… human. If they start buying the others, maybe we can phase it out."
The barmaid peered into each pot, her frown slowly melting into a look of begrudging approval. She dipped a ladle in, tasting each one with a smacking of her lips. "Well, ain't that somethin'. Smells better than what we been servin', at least."
She served the patrons, her tray loaded with the different bowls, each priced according to the meat. The response was immediate—people sniffed, tasted, and nodded in appreciation, tossing more coins on the bar than usual. By the end of the day, the barmaid was beaming, her apron heavy with extra tips.
She pulled Thomas aside, her earlier annoyance replaced with a rare smile. "You did good, boy. Real good. I… sorry for barkin' at ya earlier. You earned this place somethin' extra today." Thomas nodded, accepting her praise without much reaction, watching as she bustled out of the kitchen, her broad hips swaying with each step.
Thomas stayed behind, scrubbing the counters and sweeping the filth-streaked floor. He worked until his muscles ached, cleaning the prep stations thoroughly before finally calling it a night. The walk home was quiet, the chill of the evening creeping into his bones, but he felt a strange sense of satisfaction knowing he had turned this corner of Flea Bottom into something just a little less revolting.
When he reached his door, it creaked open before he could knock, and there she was—naked, just as he had told her to be, her eyes downcast but aware, waiting. Without a word, he grabbed her by the waist, lifting her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around him instinctively as he carried her inside. He kissed her hard, pressing her against the wall, his tongue pushing past her lips, tasting the salt of her skin.
Thomas spun her around, pinning her against the rough wood, their bodies pressed tight. He squeezed her ass, lifting her up higher, her back arching as he buried his face in her neck, biting down gently as she let out a soft, startled gasp. The sound drove him wild, and he carried her to the bed, dropping her onto the thin mattress with a thud before climbing on top of her, not wasting a second.
She spread her legs, her body welcoming him, and he thrust in, quick and hard, filling her in one swift motion. She moaned, her hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he set a relentless pace, driving into her with a steady, urgent rhythm. The bed creaked under them, each thrust sending jolts through her body, her cries muffled by his mouth as he kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring hers.
Thomas rocked against her, his cock sliding in and out, her walls tightening around him with each thrust. The wet, rhythmic slaps of their bodies colliding echoed in the small room, a raw, primal beat that filled the space. She whimpered beneath him, her hips moving in time with his, meeting every thrust with a desperate, needful grind.
He grunted, feeling the tightness in his gut building, his grip on her thighs tightening as he drove deeper, faster. She arched up, her back bowing, her breath hitching as he pounded into her, their bodies slick with sweat, the sheets sticking to their skin. Thomas could feel his release approaching, the pulsing heat coiling tighter with every movement until he finally let go, spilling himself inside her with a rough, satisfied groan.
They lay there, tangled together, her breath warm against his chest as she settled back into his arms. Thomas pulled her close, feeling the exhaustion of the day seep into his bones, but he was content, his mind quiet for the first time in a long.
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