For the moment being, I tire of Iron Gregarion’s company, however charming it is. I repair to my brothel, intent on investing my recent earnings in the construction of a massage parlor. But, no sooner have I entered the brothel—thick odoraments of ass and lube wafting up my nostrils—that I spot a curious figure:
Could it really, truly, verily be?
This game 
. “Oh I wonder… where in my memories are engraved these mammaries?” It’s fantastic. I love it.
Immediately, Kaywin slides in besides me; and, red in the cheek and I suspect other parts of her body, blurts out the following:
Quick notekin: a long time ago, when a greater number of people still liked words, ‘cum’ was used in such sentence construction as we see here, to indicate something or someone being this but also that. Example: “… and here is my dining room-cum-office.” Obviously it’s not a problem to use the now common ‘slash’, but in the context of a game titled Battle Brothel, and moreover when talking about a woman with stupendous breasts presently being in a brothel, writing “… the model-cum-actress-cum-singer” would have been perfect.
Moving on, as Amy Seagrave speaks:
Yes, Kaywin, please grab me by the waist.
And do slap me, but not on the shoulder.
Given it will please Kaywin immensely, and as our eyes are a-twinkle with the prospect of a fat—almost obese—payday, we promptly convince Diana to help facilitate Amy’s coming photoshoot in our fine establishment.
Holy macaroni, 5000 credits.
Windress is passably annoyed at the über-wealthy socialite come slumming it in our corner of Saint Gorfu; Kore deems Amy agreeable enough; Thassa and Hatsuo understandably wish to suffocate atween the dairy queen’s udders, a perspective to which even Jasen is not indifferent; and Zafra, ever the attentive professional, is focused on security.
As for Kaywin:
I’ll have her, I swear. I’ll be king of her hill. But if this game doesn’t let me have a threesome with Zafra and Kaywin, I’ll have to drink myself out of depression.
Amy herself is readying for the photoshoot, yet seems curiously concerned with her security; I reassure her, explaining that with Zafra at the helm, all’s well. Thus begins the photoshoot—and though I only get a glimpse of it, still it manages to be an eyeful:
The pose: ridiculous. The proportions: grotesque. My manhood: turgid.
At some point, Amy needs a break. I suggest she uses the cleaner upstairs bathroom. A moment later:
And Zafra is nowhere in sight… Tingling with presentiment, I dash upstair, post-haste; and there find Zafra questioning a man.
A bald, red-bearded dude? Not in a lifetime would I hire such a monstrosity. Looking past me he makes a brazen run for it and, with reflexes would shame a jungle cat, foils my Athletics check.
Through the window he goes and crash! lands outside in a crystalline fracas of shattered glass.
Zafra and I explain the situation. And Amy to reveal she has for some time now known that a man follows her near-every move. For now she has a photoshoot to wrap up; but she proposes we visit her at our later convenience, perhaps to help her with this stalker problem.
Ultimately, Kaywin is left giddy with glee:
Oh Kaywin… a-flutter goes my heart.
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