A Night at the Dancing Dog Inn Ch. 01

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A curvy barmaid seduces a tall, Amazonian woman.
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Part 1 of the 3 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 06/22/2016
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"I'm tellin' you, mate, you're gonna love this place. The owner, this woman called Dima, she makes a stew like you've never tasted before, serves it up with bread that's got honey baked right in, so it's all sweet. They got real dwarven beer and ale, not that imitation shit that these northerners usually like, and fruitwines all the way from... What's it called? Vala Shala? Vena Shanu? The place where the trees grow all blue. Oh, and the barmaids! There's this one, right, she's got hips like nothing I ain't ever seen! I think she's from..."

Richard's mind was starting to wander. It was far too cold, and this town was far too bright, for him to follow Stanwick's yammering. The North had an unhealthy obsession with winter. It was a shit season, in Richard's opinion, and it was even worse here than it was where he'd grown up. Here, winter lasted nearly half the year, and there was no summer to speak of- just a few months where it just barely too warm to snow, so it rained every other day instead. And yet the northerners celebrated midwinter. It was the coldest, most miserable time of the year, and they threw a damned party!

He was following Stanwick through the streets of Þikbaum, which was a small town by his reckoning, yet it was still one of the largest settlements in the north, and everywhere they went, the streets were packed with people despite the knee-high snow and bitter cold. Here there were stalls where men and women poured boiling maple sap on snow to make taffy, which they passed out to laughing children and their parents. There there was a group of men making a towering figure out of snow- probably one of their heathen gods. Every building, be it house or shop or tavern, was covered in strands of tinsel and garlands of holly, and there were ornaments made of ice in the shape of stars and snowflakes over every window, glittering in the orange light of the sunset.

"So I say to her, I say 'You're a pretty young thing, but I got a wife back home, see? So I can't be frittering about with no northern ladies.' And she laughs and says 'Is that what you call it? Frittering about?' I say 'No ma'am, but there ain't no polite words for it in this northern tongue, or if there is I don't know 'em.' Then she laughs again and- hey, look! There it is, just around the corner there."

Richard followed Stanwick's pointing finger to a squat, wooden two-story building that abutted a street corner. Hanging by the door there was a wooden sign that bore a shaggy dog dancing furiously on its hind legs in fading paint. Someone had nailed a garland that had been bent roughly into the shape of a pointed hat to the dog's head.

There had to be at least a hundred people packed into the inn's common room, which took up the entire lower floor, but Richard and Stanwick managed to grab seats at a corner table near one of the shuttered windows from a couple who were leaving just as they arrived. It was warm in here, just a bit too much for comfort, even once they had removed their heavy fur coats, but the air was heavy with the scent of cooking meat, fish, fresh bread, and spice, and dense with laughter and the sound of dozens of different conversations going on at once.

There was a long bar along the far wall, and behind it there were two people- a middle-aged woman in a headscarf and a tall, thin young man, both of whom were busy pouring drinks while they conversed and laughed with the patrons. "That's Dima there, and her son," Stanwick said when he noticed Richard looking at them. "Looks like she ain't cooking tonight, but she told me it's her two daughters down there in the kitchen, and they're just as good as their mum."

Opposite the wall, near where the two of them were sitting, there were two staircases. One went down, and from this one every once in awhile a beautiful young woman would emerge, wearing a low-cut dress made of red wool and white fur and carrying platters of steaming stew, meat, and bread to a table. The other went up to a small corner balcony, where a man sat with a mug of beer at a small wooden table. He was wearing a suit of white mail, despite the heat, and talking with a dark-skinned woman with green eyes.

"Welcome to the Dancing Dog! Can I get you gentlemen anything to eat?" Richard jumped. He hadn't heard the barmaid approach their table over the din of the common room, and now that he saw her he found himself tongue-tied. She was very beautiful, with a pixie face, long blonde hair done up in a braid, and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose, but that's not why he was rendered wordless.

Most of the barmaids that he saw emerging from the kitchen and dashing about with food were wearing identical dresses which showed off their breasts and shoulders but left everything below that completely covered all the way down to the hems of their long, billowing skirts. Not this one. From the chest up her dress was the same as all the others, but below that she had made some modifications. The sides of it had slits cut in them all the way up to her waist, and her hips- her magnificent, extraordinary hips- were so wide that they flared out past the fabric, which tapered down to only a few inches wide at its lower hem, by her ankles. Underneath the dress she wore a pair of stockings that went up to the middle of her thick thighs, and they were so stretched by them that they were nearly sheer at the top.

"Hullo, Ferri!" said Stanwick.

"My lady!" cried Richard. He stood so sharply that he knocked his chair over, but he ignored it, dropping into a deep bow. "My companion and I are most definitely hungry, but first might I ask your name?"

"Goodness, Stanwick, you've brought me a charmer!" The barmaid laughed and put her hand on her hip, cocking it to the side in a practiced way. It was the sort of movement specifically designed to be barely noticeable, yet devastating to men at the same time. This woman was a huntress, of that Richard was certain, but she was about to discover that her prey had claws.

"Er... She's called Ferri, mate. I just said it. You gonna pick that up?"

Richard put his foot on the edge of the chair and kicked, flipping it upright without using his hands, then sat back down on it in one smooth motion. The barmaid's eyebrows went up, and he knew that he had impressed her. "Ferri it is then. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman," he crooned. He saw the corner of her lip twitch upward. "I'm afraid that this is the first time that I've visited your fine establishment, so I don't know which of your dishes would delight me the most. Please, just bring us what you think is best. If it tastes half as good as you look then I will count it as the greatest meal I have ever eaten!"

The barmaid was smiling openly now. Why, this was going to be easy! "We've got stew, bread, and mutton. I'll bring you a little of each. Something to wash it down?"

"Ale!" cried Stanwick. "Dwarven ale!"

"Your finest fruit wine," said Richard. "A distinguished drink for an exacting gentleman."

"Of course. Only the best for a gentleman," she said with a giggle. She turned to leave, and Richard had to fight very hard to keep himself from gaping. She didn't seem to be wearing anything under the dress aside from her stockings, and as she swayed her hips seductively with each step the back of the dress swung in time, revealing tantalizing glimpses of her very bare, plump, jiggling bottom.

As soon as she was out of earshot Richard immediately rounded on Stanwick. "Gods above, man, why didn't you tell me this... this divine creature worked here?"

"Mate, I was talking about her practically the whole walk here! Ain't my fault you never listen to me."

Richard waved his hand dismissively. "You were prattling on about the food, or somesuch nonsense. You can't expect me to pay attention to you all the time. Now listen, she knew you by name, so clearly you have something of a rapport with this fine young lady. Do you think I could have her in my bed by the night's end?"

"Well... Maybe, but-"

"Nevermind, don't answer that. Of course I can! You just watch me work, and don't say anything stupid in front of her. Pay attention and you might even learn a thing or two about courting women."

"Rich, I'm married..."

"So am I. That doesn't mean we can't have a little fun while we're away, does it?"

Stanwick's face went red. "I would never be unfaithful to my wife!"

"Well, of course you wouldn't."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Think nothing of it, my henpecked friend. Just don't try anything with Ferri when you change your mind. She will be mine before we leave here tonight, I guarantee it."

"Gods, you're-"

"Here she comes! Shut up, just watch the master at work."

Ferri returned balancing a tray with their drinks on her ridiculously voluptuous hip. "Here we are! Dwarven ale for Stanwick, and Shalian wine for the gentleman."

The wine was more blue than purple, and when Richard took a sip he discovered that it was so overwhelmingly sweet that he had to fight to keep a straight face. "Ah, excellent! The finest wine I've ever tasted!"

"I'm glad it's distinguished enough for you, sir," said Ferri. She was wearing a flirtatious grin, and, goodness, did her eyes just flit down to his trousers just now?

Not to be outdone, Richard matched her grin with all the charm he could muster. He knew just how to win a woman with his smile- he'd practiced it in the mirror more times than he could count. "Oh, please, don't call me sir. I'm called Richard, but I'd like it if you would call me Rich."

"Is that so? Well, if you're Rich then it shouldn't be hard for you to leave a nice, big tip for me, hmm?" Ferri stroked his chin playfully, then turned and wiggled her huge behind at him, just a little bit. Just enough to be noticeable. It was a subtle but unmistakable invitation, one that made his trousers suddenly tighter. "Just sit tight, and we'll have your food out in no time."

As she walked away, Richard let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair. "Well now! That was unexpected. It's almost a shame. I was quite looking forward to charming her, but it seems it won't be necessary."

"What are you talking about, Rich?"

""Oh, you poor fool," Richard chuckled. "You didn't even realize, did you? Of course, someone as... wholesome as you, it probably went right over your head."

"What did?"

Richard leaned in close and whispered. "Stanwick, she's a whore."

His brow scrunched up and his mouth opened- the expression of a simpleton deep in thought. "She did keep flirtin' with me even after I told her I was married... Blimey, I think you might be right."

"Of course I'm right. It's not something a man such as yourself would notice, but to someone of my cunning, it's as plain as day."

"But, she didn't say nothin' to me about tipping though. Why would she tell you that and not me, if she was a whore?"

"She probably realized that she would get no money out of a scrupulous man such as yourself, so she didn't try."

"Seems to me she ain't very good at whorin' if she gives up that easy, innit?"

"Oh, on the contrary. I think she has probably made a habit of not being pushy. They treat whores differently here in the north than back home, you know. They have to be subtle here. Discrete. No, what you just saw was an invitation, Stanwick, plain as day, and I intend to take her up on it."

The food didn't take long. After just a few minutes Ferri came back with a tray with two bowls of stew, a half-loaf of bread, mutton, and some cheese. As she set them on the table she leaned forward far more than was strictly necessary, and her breasts looked almost as if they would spill right out of her dress. She wasn't the the most buxom of the barmaids that were running about- that honor belonged to the redhead by the bar with tits the size of sweetmelons- but if it were a contest she could have made an easy second place. With those and her magnificent hips, she was easily the sexiest woman that Richard had met in this frozen hellhole of a town.

In the end Ferri's breasts, sadly, did not fall out of her dress. "Here we are," she said. "That'll be two crowns for the lot, or a silver mark if you've got southern money."

Richard gave her his most disarming smile and counted ten crowns out of his bag, placing them on the table one-by-one and watching Ferri's eyes grow wider with each clink of metal on wood.

"Goodness! Well, you sure do live up to your name, Rich." Ferri swept the coins up and slipped them into her cleavage. "Your generosity is greatly appreciated. If there's anything else I can get for you two just wave me over, okay?"

She turned to leave, but Richard grabbed her by the wrist. "Actually, I think there is." Her pulled her in close, which seemed to surprise her, and spoke quietly. "Perhaps most of your, ah... clients, prefer to wait until after they have finished eating, but I'm afraid I'm a rather impatient man, and we both know what the real main course is tonight." It was rather forward and a bit uncouth, but you didn't need to charm whores. That was the whole point, wasn't it?

Ferri pulled her arm away. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now, don't play coy. Do you have a room upstairs?"

"Uh, Rich? I think you might have gotten it all wrong, mate," said Stanwick.

"All of our rooms are taken for the night. If you need a place to stay-"

"You know what I need."

Ferri's tone was no longer quite so flirtatious, and the cheerful smile had deserted her. "No, I'm afraid I don't, sir. Now if you don't mind, I have other patrons to attend to." She made to leave again, and Richard grabbed her. This time he was not as gentle. She yelped and nearly lost her balance as he pulled her backwards.

"Whoa! Rich, what're you-"

"Listen here, slut," Richard said to her. "For eight crowns I could have a different whore in my bed every night for the next week. I've been extraordinarily generous to you, and for that think that you owe me something."

"Let me go!"

"Rich, let her go!"

Ferri tried to yank her arm out of his grip, but he was too strong. "I'll fuck you out in the alley if I have to. I don't mind. But I will get what I paid for."

Ferri looked desperately at the stairs leading up. The man in white mail was halfway down them, his eyes locked on the two of them. Richard noticed for the first time that he had a sword on his belt. His hand was on it.

"You should do what this woman says," came a voice from behind him.

"What in the-" Before Richard could even turn to see who was speaking, he felt a powerful grip on his wrist.

"Blimey!" cried Stanwick, and suddenly Richard's arm was an explosion of white-hot pain. There was a horrible cracking noise, and he felt it bend in a direction it was not supposed to go, then back again.

"Augh!" Richard screamed and fell backwards in his chair, clutching his arm. Standing above him was a mountain of fur. She had a woman's voice, but Richard had never seen a woman so tall, and she looked to be quite burly under all the animal skins she was wearing. Her eyes were the color of ice.

The main in white mail had stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He looked as surprised as Richard felt, as did Stanwick and Ferri. "You will not touch her again, understand?"

Richard was speechless. All he could do was gape up at the giant woman.

"You understand?" she repeated. "Swear to me you will not touch her, or I will break the other one so you cannot touch her."

"I swear!" cried Richard, his voice cracking. "I swear it! I won't touch her!"

"Good," said the woman. She looked up at the man in white mail. "You! You protect this place, yes? You watch over the women from your high place?" She pointed up to the balcony.

"Aye," said the man. "Dima has me look after the barmaids."

"Then look after them. Make sure this man keeps his promise."

And then she left. Ferri, Stanwick, Richard, the man in mail, and indeed, most of the common room were all silent as she calmly walked out the front door. Just like that, she was gone.

--

The Dancing Dog could get raucously loud during the day, and especially in the evening, when the common room was full, but around midnight or so, after all of the patrons had either left or retired to their rooms it was utterly quiet, but for the sound of the wind rattling the windows.

It was Ferri's favorite time of night. The common room was empty, save for herself. All of the cleaning had been done, Dima and her children had gone to bed, the other barmaids had gone home, and Ferri was at the bar, counting out her personal profits for the night. Between the eight crowns that Stanwick's overly entitled friend had donated her and the smaller coins from her other tips she had made nearly an entire sovereign tonight!

Perhaps now she would be able to afford a dress that actually fit her. The dress that Dima was making all of the barmaids wear for the Midwinter Festival fit Ferri fine around the chest and arms, but her hips were far too wide for the bottom half. She'd managed to squeeze herself into it by cutting and hemming two slits down the sides, but it showed off a bit more of her behind and her legs than she had intended. Of course, that was probably a big part of why her tips were so good tonight... Perhaps she could cut slits in some of her other dresses too?

There was a loud bang and a burst of cold air, and Ferri jumped in surprise.

"Xwache! Damn this wind!" The winter gales had blown the door open so forcefully that it struck the wall, and in the doorway was a mountain of furs that could only be one person.

"It's you!" Ferri cried.

The woman closed the door behind her and stomped over to the bar, tracking snow the whole way. "You are remembering me then? This is good." She doffed her thick coat, tossing it on a barstool before dropping herself on another with a loud grunt. She was dark of skin and hair, and underneath the coat she was wearing a simple tunic of hide that left her arms completely bare.

"You walked out before I could thank you earlier."

The woman shrugged. "No thanks was needed. I heard this man talking to you. He was not so quiet as he thought. Where I come from, he would be killed for talking to a woman in this way."

"I reckon women are maybe a little different where you come from, stranger," said Ferri, looking up at her. Even when they were both sitting, the dark-skinned woman was still taller than her by a head. She looked strong too- her arms were thick with powerful muscle. "Yorick would have stepped in if you hadn't, but he's a Chrysanthemum Knight. Their lot don't fight unless they have to. He'd have gotten him off of me, but you really put the fear in him. He won't be coming back here, I think. Not after breaking his arm like that."

"It was nothing."

"Not to me it wasn't. We get men like that in here a lot. They think that if they tip us big we'll just open our legs for them. When we don't, most just sulk and skulk away, but a few of them get it in their heads that because they gave us a gift, we owe them something in return. Sometimes it gets ugly. That's why Dima hired Yorick to look out for us, but unless they pull a sword or hit one of us he just gives them a stern talking to, and they usually come back." Ferri reached over the bar and put her hand on the woman's forearm. "So, truly, thank you... Er. What is your name?"

"I am called Vasha." She was staring at Ferri's hand with a strange expression. Finally, after a long moment of silence she said, "I should have broken his other arm."

"I don't think you needed to. Breaking the one might not have even been necessary, truthfully. Just seeing you might have done the trick. Yorick's dashing in his armor, but he's not intimidating. You look like you could wrestle a bear and win, and I mean that as no insult."