Seamstress-Surgeon [Sailor TG Breast Growth]

The convoy limped into Port Bath on ragged sails. A storm had savaged them on the crossing from England, sinking many ships. Those that survived had been terribly storm-tossed, men injured as cargo broke free within the hold, splintering bone and crushing limbs.

Gideon stood stiffly on the docks for his consignment, praying that the fragile vials of tinctures and reagents had remained intact. If so, there'd be even more deaths from this disaster with the settlement's medical supplies so scant.

To his annoyance, a crowd of gawkers was also gathering. Accidents at sea meant injuries, and injuries meant a trip to the seamstress-surgeon. With perverse fascination, the settlers watched the wounded sailors being helped down the gangplank. The men stood awkwardly, timidly pulling their ragged, loose-fitting uniforms tighter around their altered bodies.

"The seamstress can stitch a bosom but not a pair of pants?" Gideon muttered aloud.

Beside him, Aggie, the tavern mistress, let out a low laugh. "Some pretty looking ones today. Put a burlap sack on that one and you'd never know the difference."

"I'd know," Gideon stated primly, eyes fixed on his cargo.

The seamen huddled together, glancing nervously at the crowd as the Half-Wife Market began. Times were hard, and for a seaman too injured to work, they would often be lethal. They were stranded on the wrong side of the ocean in a hostile land, unable to pay their way back to their families in England. It was therefore considered the duty of any upstanding man of Bath with a room to spare to take in these vulnerable, lost souls, providing food and shelter in exchange for domestic service, and they would be granted all the legal protections of a true wife. Most men in Bath had a half-wife or two. It was part of the common good.

But there were few takers that day. Normally, half-wives came in dribs or drabs. The convoy had brought over a dozen, overwhelming the already stretched resources of the town. Men shook their heads and turned away.

"I've already got my hands full with my current one," the blacksmith scoffed. "Keeps me up every hour of the night, the lustful little tart. No, thank you."

As the town's goodwill faded, even the seamstress-surgeon herself descended from the ship, sleeves rolled up and surgical tools in hand, though whether it was out of concern for the seamen or had simply taken the lack of interest as a personal affront to her craft, it was hard to tell. She could finish up the work on their faces, she offered, make them pretty as a picture. You want broader hips? Fuller buttocks? She could take the meat from their arms to flesh those out if desired.

Aggie squinted at Gideon. "I hear the apothecary is doing well," she said slyly.

"Very well," he replied curtly, waiting for his supplies.

"A flourishing business and no wife? Not even a whole one, let alone a half. Selfish, that is. Where's your community spirit?" she tutted.

Before he could respond, Aggie stepped forward, cupping her hands and shouting over the crowd.

“He’ll take two over here!” she called. “And that blonde slut, while you’re at it!”

Gideon turned, eyes wide. “Aggie!”

“What? There's winter coming. We can't have you freezing to death in a cold bed," she smiled. "You're welcome.