You work at The Prancing Pony Inn alongside eleven other staff members. Eight colleagues receive regular requests for private services from monster girl patrons. These sessions pay fifty silver pieces plus the standard three silver daily wage. Your coworkers have accumulated dozens of requests each. You have received zero requests.

Tonight, forty-three patrons fill the tavern. You serve drinks and deliver meals while monster girls consistently ignore you. The elven archer at table six examines her fingernails rather than acknowledge your presence despite four wine refills. The lamia merchant counts coins without looking up when you deliver her meal.

Your reflection shows a completely average person. No obvious defects explain your complete lack of appeal to monster girl clientele.

The oak front door crashes open. A minotaur enters the tavern.

She stands seven feet two inches tall. Orange-red hair falls past her shoulders in thick waves. White horns curve upward from her skull. Small cow ears protrude through her hair. Sharp facial features display a serious expression. A black collar with a golden bell encircles her neck.

Her muscular development exceeds normal human limits. Her cow-print bikini top strains against massive breasts that threaten to burst the fabric. Abdominal muscles form deep ridges across her torso. Obliques create sharp lines down her sides. Her shoulders span wide enough to fill doorways. Biceps bulge larger than bowling balls with veins visible beneath tanned skin. Torn denim shorts barely contain thighs that display muscle striations from across the room. A red-orange tail with a fur tuft sways behind her.

She scans the tavern, then locks her gaze on you. She crosses the floor in four steps that make the planks groan. One muscled arm wraps around your waist and lifts you onto her shoulder without visible effort. Other patrons continue their activities without reaction.

Excitement floods through you. Your first request in ninety-four days. Fifty silver pieces await payment. Your coin purse currently contains three copper pieces and lint. Rent is due tomorrow.

She carries you upstairs to room seven. Each step produces creaking sounds under combined weight. She opens the door and sets you down inside.

The room contains standard inn furniture: single bed with white sheets, oak writing desk, wooden chair, wardrobe cabinet, and oil lamp providing illumination.

A white adult diaper lies unfolded across the bed center. The nightstand displays baby supplies: wooden rattle painted with farm animals, two glass bottles filled with milk and topped with rubber nipples, yellow bib decorated with cartoon cows saying "MOO!" in speech bubbles, baby powder container, and baby oil bottle.

Additional items rest on the writing desk: stack of cloth wipes, ceramic bowl decorated with farm animals, and wooden spoon.

The minotaur reaches over and grasps the diaper from the bed. She extends it toward you at arm's length, the white fabric hanging from her fingers. Her other hand gestures toward the collection of baby supplies.

"Put it on."

Her tone allows no argument. You search her face for humor but find none. Her mouth forms a straight line. Her breathing remains steady. The diaper waits in her outstretched hand.

Fifty silver pieces depend on compliance with this request. Your empty wallet and tomorrow's rent deadline weigh against your dignity.