Unfortunately, at this very moment, thoughts of King Augustus, inclement weather and the current political tensions with France do little to distract me from the lustful young male who has mounted me. As he thrusts his member into my cunny with increasing abandon, he utters a series of primal grunts. He looks attractive enough, I must admit. His chest is smooth and muscled and a cherub’s halo of golden curls bounces across his forehead. His eyes are closed and I try to remember their color. Blue. Or brown. Green? Considering how my occupation fills me with distaste and shame, I try very hard not to make eye contact with the long line of men who step in and out of my bed. Looking into the eyes is like delving into the soul, and I do not wish these men to see the despondence that lives within me. In addition, I do not want to glimpse the carnal desires that dwell in their hearts. It is more than enough to see those desires reflected in their ever-erect members. A lengthy sigh escapes me, and I hope he confuses this sign of irritation for passion.
