For about seven or eight years the little tavern had been kept by a man and his wife, with two servants, --a chambermaid named Trinette, and a hostler...called Pecaud. This small staff was quite equal to all the requirements, for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had revolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the cart and the stagecoach. And, as though to add to the daily misery which this prosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate inn-keeper, whose utter ruin it was fast. She stood up to assess the damage as best she could and noted with disgust that she still had streaks of dirt all over her upper thighs and backside. Damn. She was just about to give up when a thin strip of cloth landed in her hand. She grabbed at it and noted it was a piece of black t-shirt material, and it was sweat dampened. A warm chuckle behind her wiped her head around and the site dropped her jaw and fuzzed her brain. A tanned stomach, washboard hard and ripped like her panties wanted. More

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