# The Innkeeper's Daughter (~BBW, ~~WG)



## crazyjoe (Jan 4, 2015)

It was on a clear autumn day in the fifteen-hundred-and-thirty-second year of Christ our Lord, that I first passed through the pleasant eastern village and spent the night in the local inn. Traveling I was in my fathers trade caravan, from west to east and back again, in the shipment of spices and fine mercantile things.

This was the autumn of my eighteenth year, and I was a strapping young lad eager to impress, taking in the world for all of its glory. I noticed immediately, of course, the innkeepers young daughter, who appeared to be only a few years my senior, and the source of a beauty so pure, that her father, the innkeeper, was sure to keep a watchful eye, suspicious of any transgressors on his daughters innocence. Her hair was a shiny auburn, like the turning leaves of the valley. She kept it in a fine braid over her shoulder, as is the custom in their part. Her eyes, like the grassy shore of the nearby lake, were a deep shady green. They sparkled in the light of the fire that dominated the central room of the simple country inn. 

As the sky darkened that night, we arranged our bed things around the cozy hearth. My father occupied the innkeeper with a display of some fine household wares, and his daughter poured us all generous draughts of sweet summer wine. It tasted of the tangy berries of the region that were plentiful on thorny bushes in the lowland springtime. I could not help but hold my eyes on this beautiful girl, and I took good note of her splendid features. She was not tall, standing at least a head shorter than myself, but her frame was petite and sprightly, her limbs elegantly fine and slender. She reminded me of a woodland fairy from the old tales, so bright was her face with hubris and hospitality. The night wearing on, she continued to pour, for herself as well, and we all had a merry time around the fire, grateful for its warmth as the night grew cold, warning of a bitter winter ahead. 

Good fortune would have it that we came upon this fair village at such a time, as the harvest was just past. The larder was full of fine food in preparation for the harsh months ahead. God had smiled upon their fields this year, and there was no need to think of conserving the stock. The larders were of plenty. We started with the salted meats and jellied fish. The biscuit bread was hearty, made with oats and sweetened with honey from the bees of the lavender field. I sat next to the fair daughter, as our fathers became increasingly drunk, locked in rambling, back thumping discussion, and breaking into slurred song on occasion. I noticed to my surprise that this fine maiden was outmatching us all in consumption of the rich fare. It was more than a single time that I had to prevent her from falling back off her seat in one of her frequent bouts of child-like laughter. So fine was her banter, that she often had us all in laughter. I was further surprised when she produced a lute and hushed the room, beginning to play a song that was clear work of divine influence. It was as if under a spell, that as her slender fingers plucked the final chords of the song, we all found ourselves drifting into a serene and dreamless sleep, not awaking until morning.

I awoke to the sound of one of our footmen banging on the front door. It would seem that even my trusty hound, the usual reveille of our early morning departures, had been spellbound by the fair maidens lute. The sun was high in the sky before we made our way westward out of the village limits and homeward into the vast countryside. It was then four blessedly fruitful years before I passed through the village of the innkeepers daughter once more, this time in the humid months of summer. Much had changed. I now had a young son back home, not yet of two years, having made a wife of the daughter of my citys second most profitable tailor. My father considered it a good match, and so did I to an extent, though I found her to be quite plain, she was very young then, and I think simple. Solace I found in the excursions that my father and I would still make during most months of the year, penetrating the outer layer of the near east to buy up the finest exotics that our capital could obtain. It brought me further solace to find, as we crested over the top of one of the hills that made up the valley in which the village was nestled like a splendid pearl, that it seemed to have experienced no change at all. The yellow flickering light from the inns windows shone out to us, as the pleasant smell of a wood stove beckoned us forward to the innkeepers service. I was soon to find, as I stepped foot through the threshold of the inns low building, that I was wrong about my notion of no change having come upon the valley in my lengthy absence. As my eyes were quick to seek out her countenance in the inns interior, I noticed immediately that the beauty had blossomed. The figure that had been waifish was now pleasantly full and positively lustful. I looked on jealously from my plate of ham and potatoes and flagon of hopped ale as she entertained a party of Turkmen, who had produced a nargile pipe. Deep wafts of sweet smoke tempted my nostrils as it hovered in delicate tendrils around her lustrous head. The pipe bowl was loaded with molasses shag, seasoned with the juices of pomegranates from the eastern deserts. I was pleased to observe as she playfully plucked the strange beaker-like cap from the head of one of the Turks, and proceeded to place it upon her own and dance in a twirling fashion that lifted her skirts and revealed the tanned regions of her sultry legs, which appeared plump and healthy. It was apparent that her simple bodice was straining to contain the features of her ample torso. Her breast was revealed in a tart-like fashion, but none could be so cold hearted as to judge poorly on this beautiful creature, who was surely an angel sent down from god in heaven.

The heady smoke of the nargile had filled the room, and breathing of its air was beginning to make me feel drowsy, as pleasant ghostly sensations wandered down my spine. My ears had never dined on so lordly a feast, as the Turkmen and my fair innkeepers daughter had begun to play in orchestra. It seemed as though the great room had filled with our gang of footmen and the Turkish slaves without my notice, but all were silent as the coals of the hearth cast a dull glow on the swarthy faces in the crowd, and the fair maidens voice filled the room with a tender melody. The slinking advance of the Turkish oud mingled tantalizingly with the sweet music of the lute, as the innkeepers daughter sang lyrics of the coming of the fall, in the tongue of the local tribesmen. Once again, I found my eyelids grow heavy under the heavenly witchcraft of her angel song, and to sleep I was dreaming hazily of this innkeepers daughter bathing in the clear water of a forest spring.



Seasons passed and it seemed quickly that four more years had come and gone, under the grace of our heavenly father. Misfortune would have it that the most recent two years were plagued with dark happenings. As I had settled into life in the city, raising my son at my home, and managing shipments abroad through my messengers, I felt as Job, being tested by the lord. Our fair southern port was laid siege by the Ottoman horde. It seemed as though time passed in a fog of their foul intoxicating nargile smoke. The very thought of their presence in the inn that distant night brought a churn to my stomach. Their sloops blockaded our harbor, and harassed any traders who dared attempt entry. The streets became clogged with refuse. The wells were fouled with carcasses, the work of spies among us. As the months passed, disease ran rampant, and I found myself with a pregnant wife stricken by fever. Before nine months had passed, my wife and unborn daughter were sealed within the family crypt. The loss chilled my heart, and I did weep for them. My son Giani was nearing 10 years of age, precocious in both mind and body. He would now be my apprentice. We escaped in the night through a drain, and wrangled up what caravan we could from the farmers in the outskirts with our gold.

I was used to life on the road, after years working as a merchant under my father. Now, getting on in his years, I took the helm, and directed our rag-tag company through the mountains, with the cruel specter of winter quick upon our heels. We travelled only at night, as by day the roads were frequented by Janissary divisions moving to the sea. For weeks, our pace was one of exhaustion. I felt dearly for my poor father. Years on the road had not been kind, and he appeared frail atop his pony, bundled in a woolen blanket. Though, he would not complain. It seemed as though a dream led me down the familiar road to the heavenly village of my past. Half asleep upon the saddle, I thought I could see my beautiful innkeepers daughter beckoning me forward from the yonder hill. 

It became apparent from our camp upon the hilltop overlooking the village of the valley that much had changed during the four years since I last had visited. For one, the trees had been razed for about 200 paces around the perimeter of the village. A portion of the lumber had been used in the erection of ramparts and battlements that now fortified the village, some more had been spent in the channeling of the lake, whose once placid blue water was now brown with river currents. Two imposing gates stood to the north and south, manned by sinister looking German mercenaries. From what my scout was able to gather by infiltrating the village, it would seem that the local count had been usurped by his bastard son who had been exiled three years prior. Abroad, he had gained the favor of Arab pirates in the Mediterranean by promising them the lay of the land if they would help him to remove his father. Now the bastard had stewardship of the county, but the land was truly no mans and ruled by the force of roving outlaw gangs.

I pondered deeply upon what action I was to take upon this new development, but soon my hand was forced as the full gale of winter was upon us and our provisions were growing more meager by the hour. Believing the cover of darkness to be to my advantage, I moved upon the village at midnight, dressed in my blackest suit, a short blade on my side. The guard was light at this hour, and I scaled the battlements easily in silence. At first I knew not which way to proceed, confronted with the presence of so many buildings that I had not seen before. I went down an alley to my right and peeked into a window of the nearest house. Exposed in the dim light of a tallow candle, I could see many women and children, asleep about straw and linens on the floor. As I made my way through the alley and into the village square, I recognized the familiar, inn. It had undergone, some minor renovations it would seem, but part of the upper floor was burned and gone. Silently, I snuck up aside the inn, noticing its lights were brightly illuminated. Coming closer, I was joyful to recognize the sweet music of the fair maidens lute, my innkeepers daughter was near once more. Soon enough, I had crept up to the window and my gaze befell a frightful scene. The innkeepers daughter was atop a newly constructed stage, sitting upon a crude seat, clutching her lute and singing through fearful tears. The audience surrounding her was composed of Germans and Arabs, their beady eyes black with sinful lust. It would seem the last four years had weighed heavily upon her, as her figure was now ripe as a citrus in the spring. She wore a dress of fine green fabric, with a billowing skirt. It was an expensive dress, but threadbare, and clearly fitting better when it had been acquired sometime prior. Her cheeks were red and wet with tears, cherubic in their new fullness. The whalebone corset she wore was apparent through her garment and caused her chest and stomach to billow unnaturally. 

Fighting sleep, I waited as the night wore on. The sun was threatening to glimpse over the horizon by the time the brutes carousing began to wane. My fair innkeepers daughter was their wench, slave to their toasting, endlessly tasked in filling their glasses with oily white liquor and stinking brown ale. Her face was flushed and streaked with tears. It was a shame to see so plump and pleasant a face in fits of anguish and fear. She hurried to and fro, a pitcher in each hand, like a festival girl, only there was nothing willing or celebratory about her performance. Passing a table of scoundrels, busy about a game of hearts, one rogue snatched his filthy paw at the hem of her dress, ripping it and revealing her splendid legs to the audience. They had no right to gaze upon them, how full they were with rosy flesh, rising in a convex arc to the just visible cheeks of her rear. Like downy pillows they were! I felt much guilt for taking such delight in observing her revealed, as my poor innkeepers daughter certainly took no pleasure in the circumstance. Her face was that of a soul in deepest distress, and when I saw a dusky desert dog, clad in a filthy crimson coat lead her down a dim hallway out of view, I knew I could lie still no longer.

Quickly, I was away, in pursuit of the pair. They made their way out back towards the barn, the bandit leading with my sweet innkeepers daughter helplessly in tow. From a missing board in the old barns westward wall, I looked on half-frozen in horror, as the reeking rogue began to tear the clothes from the tearful maiden. Her pale flesh shown brightly in the shafts of moonlight let in through the patchwork roof, bosom surging forward into the cold night air, as she was relieved of her confining brown bodice. In fear, her ample thighs quivered, while she attempted in vain to maintain modesty, hands reaching to conceal her breast, and sex, although her womanly parts were already partially covered by the bottom curve of her plump stomach. It was when the devilish bastard began to fondle her lewdly with his beastly hands that I knew I could remain in the shadows no longer. Drawing my dagger from my side, I made my way up the barns wall and through the roof into the hayloft, planning my attack from above. After a brief prayer and a moment to gather my courage, I plunged from the loft, blade in hand, upon the would-be-raper, catching him by complete surprise in his pre-occupied state. My weapon pushed easily between the bastards ribs and he let out a gurgling sound as blood began to pour from his mouth. I had dealt a mortal blow in an ambush attack, but in a fight on fair ground, I would have stood no chance against this beast. He stood over 4 hands higher than I, and his frame rippled with muscle. Though he was surely killed, he had a last fit of rage within his ruined body, as he turned to face me, eyes filled with blood and rage. I stepped back, struck dumb with fear, and could do nothing as he drew from his belt and slashed across my body with a wicked pirates blade. Blood streamed down my front from the grievous wound, as my eyes turned to my sweet innkeepers daughter, witness to this brutal scene in frozen shock. It was this fair sight, of her beautiful form, soft as a white cloud in the blue summer sky, that I last saw before all around me fell into pitch darkness, and I knew nothing more.

<PART 2: THE ANGEL, EVELYN>

Hours seemed to pass before I was able to react to what had unfolded before me. When I finally snapped to, taking a moment to wipe the tears from my eyes, I knew time was short before, some more scoundrels would be on the way to search out their missing friend. Exhaling deeply, I brought myself clumsily to my feet. With much difficulty, I managed to drag, the stinking pirates corpse out behind the barn and into the muck of the pigpen, laying straw about to cover the gory mess in the center of the barn floor. The hungry swine would make quick work of this precious morsel. After, I was immediately to the side of the poor, handsome, young merchant. He was suffering badly from his wound, and I knew if I did not soon have it in a poultice he would be short for this world. Looking around, I spied my fathers old wheelbarrow in the corner. Scooping my dashing saviour gently into its trough, I blew out the lamp, before wheeling him in attempted covert back to the relative safety of the inn. Our foul guests were asleep by that hour.

The chamber above the great dining room was now occupied by two stricken men for whom, I felt deep and tender affection. The longest occupant was my father, struck down by fever nine months back, and growing weaker each day. The foul disease was burning him to nothing from the inside out. He did little those days, but let out a faint cough round about each hour. The new tenant was the gallant young merchant, who had fallen into a fitful sleep, as the bitter wound down his chest and stomach worked to sap the life from his earthly vessel. In the looking glass across from the bay window, I examined my countenance. I remember being affronted by my haggard appearance. My hair was all a tousle. I had scarcely chance to gather it in the two nights since the fateful incident; so busy I was in my nursely duties. There were bags under my eyes from hours of sleep avoided in service to my godly work. My cheeks were puffy, and I noticed my chin growing ever softer of late. A Grubby blouse strained over my expansive chest and portly tummy. My skirts bunched up over my protruding rear. The recent months had been trying, but one thing they had not been was lean. We had always had plenty of food. The village lands were fertile and even if we were charged at the moment with feeding a band of rogues against our will, the vast stores could provide tenfold. I always ate deeply in trying times finding guilty solace in the sin of gluttony. I hoped the Lord would forgive in my circumstance. 

Weeks passed, as my gallant merchant lay in fitful fever from his wound, so large I thought it might never heal. He would often not awake for days, coming to only in a half-mad state, confused and calling only for water. I gave him all the strongest tincture that we had in the stores, to help lessen his pain. I still knew not how he came to be here, arriving alone to save me on a bitter winter night, but I could get no answers from him in his poorly way. I could understand very little of his native tongue, but in sleep, I often heard him cry out for his father and son. It tore at my heart, to see the tears stream down his clammy face, knowing nothing of their fate. 
It seemed then that God had blessed us with an exceedingly cold winter, one that drove the horde of bandits out of our once peaceful village to seek warmer pillaging grounds in the south. They foolishly believed me, when I told of how they had exhausted our stores and we had nothing left to provide for them. In fact, the shepherds had moved the herd one by one each night to a secret manger in the forest for safekeeping from the brutes. Having had early warning of their approach in the fall, father and I had been clever in burying a lords bounty of provisions a graves depth under the earthen floor of the inn. Had I not been wearing my bulky sheepskin coat when telling it, I think the pirates would have seen through my trickery, for beneath the coat was surely not the body of a girl who had been skipping meals and tightening her belt for a winter of hunger and want.

The sun rose on the eve of the New Year, causing the snow-covered rooftops of the village center to sparkle and glisten. I was sitting upon a stool, tending to a pot of hearty broth, when I heard a timid knock upon the door. Few visited the Inn during the winter season, so it was with surprise, that I rose to answer. Behind the door was a handsome young man in a splendid green cloak. He introduced himself as Enzo, and made it clear to me that he was cousin to my brave merchant, whose name I found to be Fernando, asking anxiously whether I knew of his poor cousins fate, who had gone missing on his way through this village more than two months before. I quickly brought him to Fernandos bedside and they came immediately into a tearful embrace. Fernando had improved significantly, and although he still spent most time resting in bed, he could now walk on his own and his wound had had stopped leaking. Enzo told of how relieved and overjoyed, his father and boy would be for his safety and health.

After Fernando and I exchanged our deepest thanks and said a short prayer together, he and Enzo were off, back to Italy. I did not, however, allow him to leave without first placing a tender kiss upon his forehead. Father died on New Years day, a little past noon, slipping away silently, forever. I was now alone with the Inn, and although most would consider such a charge too great for a womans task, I found that work kept my mind from my fathers death and loneliness. More so even, I found comfort in the delicious winter food of the kitchen. The cooking woman knew I was in poor spirits and made sure to make heaping portions of all my favorite fare all through the week. There were meat pies, and cheese soup, roast hen, and fish stew. I ended each day with sugared berries in bread pudding, enough for two. Nightly I played my lute in the hall, as guests listened from their seats, but my songs were not for them, but for Fernando.


<PART 3: FERNANDOS RETURN>

When I arrived in the city with Enzo, I was much pleased to find it once again free from occupiers. A northern fleet had repelled the invaders during my absence and the bay was still littered with a few blackened wrecks. Soon reaching full recovery, all that remained to remind me of my brush with death was a craggy scar down my torso, from left shoulder to right hip. It was so pleasing to see my father and son, safe and comfortable in our family home and we all gave thanks to the Lord for our remarkable good fortune. Before long though, the irresistible call of the road came upon me, as I knew it would, and I took up my caravan into the east once more.

One year and some months later, after traveling what seemed the entirety of the known world, I returned again to a familiar place. This time the village was that of my youth, its picturesque allure had returned. The flickering windows of the inn brought back pleasant old memories as a delicious scent of roast lamb wafted from within. I approached the door and took a deep breath before opening it in anticipation of gazing upon my love again after so long. Once inside, my eyes moved about the cozy room, searching for my hearts desire. I saw all sorts: Britons, Germans, and even a Moor, but nowhere could I spy my Evelyn. 

My heart sank, as my mind raced, but then I heard a mighty applause from every patron alike. There she was entering the room, lute in hand. She must have been near twice the girl than she had been a year previous. A pretty blue dress of fine cloth barely covered her expansive curvature, so strained it was around the seams. She had clearly abandoned the pretention of a corset, most likely by necessity, and thus her flesh spilled generously both fore and aft, as she took her place quite riskily atop a rather delicate seeming stool. I looked knowingly about the room, and sure enough, there was the village carpenter looking quite pissed, his eyes agleam, receiving pats on the back and hollers from all his fellows. 

With impressive suddenness, the din of the crowded hall grew silent. She had begun. The melody was fine, with a spirited chorus that excited the listeners, but I sensed a melancholy in the lyrics that I grew assured of as the night wore on. My sweet Evelyns thirst for drink had certainly not abated in my absence, but had surely increased tenfold. Rounds and rounds were poured for her from the bottomless cellar, her tankard never down a fourth, but her cheeks only grew rosier and her song more gay. I understood in her ways a deep lonesome, an empty heart wanting only to be filled, and I cursed myself for spending so long away, in ignorant reprisal of this poor delicate creature. This feeling burned in my gut as I nursed my small cup of spirits, one of the few still stirring in the hall, many asleep in their chairs, or fallen passed upon the straw-strewn floor. When she began what was clear to be her final tune, her eyes turned to me, to make clear that I could still fill the hole in her heart.


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## LilPasha (Jan 6, 2015)

Best story in years! Please continue, you are clearly very talented!


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## crazyjoe (Jan 9, 2015)

The gods and muses of myth were certainly among us in our carnal passion that night. Evelyn rode me like a fiery stallion, her abundant form pressing heavily upon my member from above. She bounced to and fro, everything ashake. I held her wide hips from behind, grabbing a handful of flesh in each hand, and thrust forcefully into her full rear cheeks, my, how they had grown. She let out a girlish squeal with each of my advances, her fat belly swaying beneath her, just grazing the bed linens. It was so pleasant a feeling to be between her thighs, now like ten-year oaks, covered in dimples. 

Evelyn told me I was the first one to know her, and that I could inspect the sheets in the morning for to prove it. I told her that I would decline that offer, but that she was mine now, if she would be my wife. A tender smile and tears of joy slid across her wide countenance, and under the covers we embraced to share a long kiss, me fondling the folds of her much fattened form. 
In the morning, Evelyn gathered what few belongings she would need in the city. I would make sure that she be fully outfitted upon out arrival in Florence, nothing, but the finest for my dear fiancé. We left promptly by midday. The Inn would stay in the care of a dear cousin of Evelyn, whose wife and children would be happy to manage so lovely a home. 

As I gazed at her from across the carriage, I noticed that she filled over her half of the seat, and a maid I had brought along for her entertainment, looked rather squished as she held her hand of cards. Evelyn held a crystal glass of white Tuscan wine in her pudgy hand, liable to finish the whole bottle, and giggled as she won at the game of hearts. 
*
<END>*


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## The Id (Jan 10, 2015)

Damn. This is well done.


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## crazyjoe (Jan 10, 2015)

^Thank you. In a way, that means a lot coming from you. I've been a fan of your stories for a long time, myself.


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## The Id (Jan 16, 2015)

I'm flattered! Though I'm not as prolific these days, it pleases me to see that there are other great writers carrying the torch.


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## Mr. Jigglesworth (Sep 27, 2020)

Love this story, very well written and I love the time period too.


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