Tavern Tales: The Fiddler's Pride

The fiddler flashed the pretty woman a smile as she strolled up, but she did not immediately help. She watched the woman struggle with the vegetables. Her rear was pointed in the fiddler's direction, and the fiddler rather enjoyed the view of the jiggling behind.

The church bell rang from a little ways out, signaling that the time for worship fast approached, and the streets began to fill with people. Only then did the fiddler move to help. There was a pang of guilt in her chest, but it was nothing compared to the pride of knowing her good deed would be witnessed by the whole town. She picked up a few vegetables and spent most of her efforts flirting with the girl.

"You're quite a lass," said that woman, with a laugh, "and you deserve a reward befitting the kindness you bring to me. Let me see that pretty instrument of yours."

Now, the fiddler was reluctant, but she could not resist those beautiful violet eyes. Something in them compelled her to hand the fiddle over, even as the lass continued to smile at her. And she realized she could no longer move at all. She continued to stare into those eyes, lost within their depths of sharp amethyst and roiling sunrise.

"I love this fiddle more than anything," she heard herself saying. it felt like it was being drawn out of her. She realized then that she was wet. "It has always made people love me to hear my music. I have been hated all my life. Why should they not love me? Why should I not deserve love, she who brings such joy to this godsforsaken town?"

The young woman smirked.

"Then by the depths of your eyes so bright blue, for your selfishness," the violet-eyed witch cooed, "and because it is clearly what you want to do, you will take what you want—and lose it all, too."

The fiddler made her way to the church, each step reminding her of her own breathless arousal. There was a hollowness in her stomach, now, but there was also a wetness in her pussy that filled her with excitement for what was to come. The sunrise vanished beneath the steeple as she approached and entered the cathedral.

Oh, the whole town was there, readying to honor their noble god. But the fiddler was their goddess now. She smiled at them and drew out the fiddle, stepping up to the dais. She smiled at the priest, who smiled back at her, looking uncertain. The priest was a woman in her forties, comely for her age.

The fiddler looked out upon the congregation. No children were present. Where had they gone? Would they not be able to witness this moment of worship?

No matter. The fiddler began to play. At her back, the colored glass shone with the light of the rising sun, filling her with power.

As her bow danced across the strings, the priestess fell to the floor with a hoarse moan. As her bow leaped and sang, the men and women in the pews collapsed against each other, rubbing, moaning, stripping each other of wrappings in mere seconds. As her bow stabbed at empty air with the ferocity of ... well, you know ... the arousal within her body climbed and climbed, even as orgasm after orgasm was claimed within her lusty congregation.

The fiddler finished her song, but the music did not leave. The music was everywhere now. She cast the fiddle aside and descended upon the priestess, who alone was resisting the rising tides of lust. She forced the priestess out of her sweaty robes and called two of the choir singers—two handsome men whose naked forms glistened with sweat—and had them take the priestess together. The priestess begged for mercy, but the fiddler planned to make her beg for saltier things.

She watched as the priestess was grabbed and held between the two men, fucked in the ass and pussy with equal fervor. She watched as the look in the priestess's eyes changed from horror to rapture. She watched as the holy symbol of the god fell from the priestess's trembling fingers, as the priestess grabbed one of the men by the shoulders and started to squeal for more, started to buck back against her captors.

The fiddler felt nothing but joy. She had won the priestess, and now she truly was their goddess. As the priestess crawled forward and began to pull down the fiddler's skirt and lick her needy, tingling pussy, the fiddler knew that she was loved more than any mortal could ever be loved. She did not feel the tongue. She did not feel the man advancing on her, did not feel him pounding his cock between her cheeks and into her rear. She did not feel the lips, the tongues on her neck and face, the men and women drinking from her nipples. She was above all of that. She only felt love. Only felt ... rapture.

And then, like a lamp's wick being raised back into flame, the feelings came roaring back. The fiddler screamed. She struggled, both mentally and physically, but the pleasure rushed too suddenly, too fast, too wonderful to bear. She came to a squealing orgasm and fell to her knees. The crowds swarmed over her. A man thrust his cock between her lips, and she whined and sucked hungrily. She felt the tongues at her breasts, the shaft in her ass, the mouth on her cunt.

She gasped and screamed like a wanton whore.

In her mind's eye, the would-be goddess saw the three women standing in the archway of the church. The old crone. The middle-aged woman on the horse. And the sweet young woman who had dropped her vegetables. They smiled at her and shook their heads, their eyes devoid of pity or regard.

She was no god.

She was not loved.

She was only wanted.

But that, she thought, as she submitted to the hordes of lust-crazed villagers pounding her every orifice, licking and kissing and sucking her every inch of bare skin, was enough.

The three women took the fiddle and bow and left, leading the children of the village behind them. None would ever visit this town again. It would be stricken from the maps. It would be all-but-forgotten. And sailors would swear by their unwillingness to ever stop by the cove known as Fiddler's Folly.

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"Now, that's a load of pigspill!" Errol snorted and spat onto the floor. "That ain't the reason they ignore Fiddler's Folly!"

"Excuse me?" Misty turned to the crusty old lumberer. His whiskers were wet and foamy from the ale he'd been nursing. She remembered spending a childhood walking past this tavern late at night, always avoiding the crude character. She frowned at him. "Um, Errol, the sailors themselves told me this. It's n-not made up." Oh, damn. Here it came again.

"Is so!"

"I-it is n-not. Th-the—" She stopped and took a deep breath. The stutter. It hadn't surfaced in years.

Errol clearly took this as an opening to continue. "Nah, it's not. My old grandmum was a sailor. She attested it was the smugglers that kept 'em away from that town." He grinned. "Sprite smugglers. Real friendly bunch, of course—hangin' out around sprites but not bein' allowed to fuck 'em puts a sailor in the mood for just about anyone or anything, and those are dead, mermaid-free waters, so there ain't much other than other sailors available. Fiddler's Folly was their meeting place. Real nice hive of sex. Good business for whores and hustlers. 'Course..." He scowled. "'Course, that was before the Chosen took over the Deep West, where the chief sprite markets came from. Turned them smugglers nasty."

"Did it." Urg's voice was toneless, a cue for Errol to shut up.

Errol shrugged, of course missing the hint. "You'd be nasty, too, if you had those fucks guardin' the border, fillin' your tunnels under the wall with acid an' worse things. They don't like smugglers. According to my grandmum, the smugglers went militant. Set up their own little pleasure castles in Fiddler's Folly. Kill anyone who comes near for fear they're Chosen agents."

"W-wow. How interesting." Misty was pretty sure Errol had just made half of that up, since she was also pretty sure Urg had told her once that Errol came from two long and proud lines of lumberers and prostitutes. "Okay. W-well, I d-don't know if it's true or n-not, but that's my story." She turned to the librarian, not trusting herself to say more.

Emekis sniffed. "An intriguing tale, I suppose. Human sailors do have their...folklore."

Horasen grinned. "Oh, c'mon. That was a cool little yarn. You think you can do better?"

Emekis gave a catlike smile, pushing her spectacles up her nose. She fixed Horasen with a look that could shatter a thermometer. "I most certainly do."

TO BE CONTINUED

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Note: Thanks for reading, and feedback is welcome! Additionally, I had a little idea to make this series interesting—if anyone wants to share prompts for future Tavern Tales, I'll happily write them! That could include suggesting a real-world fairy tale to "adapt", suggesting a title and letting me interpret the details, or even just citing a fantastical creature you'd like to see explored. Basically, I'd love to see readers' ideas!