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This story is submitted as part of the “Pastiches of Oggbashan” Story Event. It is loosely inspired by, if not in any meaningful way related to the plot or characters of, Oggbashan’s story “Whorehouse Chapel.” It is meant as a tribute to Oggbashan, one of Literotica’s most prolific and versatile authors and one of its most thoughtful and civilized souls.
Ogg crested the hill and looked ahead. The trail forked at a signpost on the summit. To the right it meandered east along the ridge of the hill. Ogg didn’t want that way. He looked left. There, the muddy trail he had followed for many miles wound its way downslope to his destination — the Hangout.
“It’s not much to look at, is it?”
The words came from Ogg’s companion Pilo, a puffin, perched on Ogg’s shoulder.
“No, it’s not,” said Ogg. “And I reckon we may find trouble there. But we must go, even so. Tamara is there. We can’t leave her in that place.”
Ogg squared his shoulders and set his jaw against the hot, steady wind that buffeted his face. It was late afternoon, and the scene below basked in an amber glow from sunlight slanting down from the west. The Hangout was a wild and unpredictable town, a rude and ramshackle jumble of houses, huts, and bars. It was known throughout the Land of Literotica as a place of short temper, unrestrained depravity, and around-the-clock drunkenness.
But, most of all, the Hangout was known for the gang that controlled it: The Authors. No one knew where they came from, or who they were, but they had descended on the Hangout and taken it over two decades earlier, giving names for themselves that everyone knew were not authentic but that no one dared question. They wrote stories — degenerate stories — and they ruled the Hangout without mercy or morals.
Satisfied with his reconnaissance, Ogg walked down the hill toward the dubious village. A raven circled and croaked overhead.
“Are you sure we need to do this?” asked Pilo, his feathers ruffled and his orange beak snapping.
“I’m sure,” said Ogg. “Tamara is my muse. Or, I guess, she was my muse. Then she left. She left for a long time. But I had to find her. I still have to find her.”
“How do you know she’s here?” Pilo asked.
“A little bird told me.”
“I think I’d know something about that.” Pilo flapped his wings in disapproval.
“I don’t tell you everything,” Ogg replied. “Though, God help me, you’re the nosiest bird I’ve ever known.”
Pilo, offended, said nothing for a few minutes as Ogg plodded down the hill. The only sounds were the whoosh of the wind and the squelch of Ogg’s boots in the trail, thick with mud from a recent thunderstorm. At last, Pilo broke the silence.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why is Tamara so important to you? Why do we have to risk everything to come to this cesspool?”
“I told you,” Ogg said. “She was my muse. I met her several years ago. Before you and I met. She was a tavern wench, serving me flagons of ale at a slovenly beer house at the end of the street in a dirty, no-account town. I found out she was a whore, too. When she wasn’t serving beer, she was serving tavern customers in a different way in a room upstairs. She confided to me. She wanted to get away. I paid for her time, but we didn’t do any . . . you know. We talked all night. I had to pay extra. But it was worth it.”
“Wait a minute,” Pilo interjected. “Are you saying you paid for a whole night, and you didn’t get any action?”
“Yes,” said Ogg. “That’s what I’m saying. Though, I must admit, I was tempted. She was beautiful. She had the most exquisite, shapely ass I’ve ever seen. She bent over when she was getting me a drink. I saw the way her skirt, brown and threadbare, molded her behind. I was smitten. I’ve never forgotten it.”
“Hold on,” said Pilo. “You say she had the most beautiful ass, but you didn’t actually see it? It was covered. How could you know it was beautiful?”
“I could tell. I’m telling you, Pilo, the sight of it hit me like a hammer. I wanted her. Dear lord, I wanted her. But there was something else about her. I knew right away she was a muse for me. I felt stories surfacing just at the sight of her. So, I had to talk to her. I sat at my table drinking and thinking for hours until her shift was done. Then we went upstairs to her room, I paid for her time, and we talked. We talked for hours. She told me about her life. I was enchanted.”
“And of course, that ass –” Pilo said.
“Yes, there was that. I had several opportunities during our time together to stare at her bottom. She caught me once or twice, and she smiled. Eventually, after hours of conversation, she fell asleep, her head against my chest. I slept too.
“When dawn came, I awoke, and I told her I had to leave. I said I’d like to see her again, but I had to leave town that day and didn’t know when I could return. She drew close to me, and she kissed me, so softly her lips were like flower petals on mine.
“‘I’ll save myself for you, Ogg,’ she said. I didn’t know what she meant, because she was . . . well . . . a whore. pendik escort I didn’t get to ask her to explain, because there was a knock at the door. It was the bar owner, letting me know my time was up. I left. Our night together was over.”
“I hope you got a good story out of it,” said Pilo.
“I did. I enjoyed it. ‘Whorehouse Chapel.’ It’s hard to explain it, but one of the characters is a whore named Tamara. And there’s a chapel that’s haunted by the ghosts of sex-hungry nuns.”
“You always did have a twisted imagination,” said Pilo.
“You’re right about that,” said Ogg. “I went back to that town as soon as I could, but by the time I had she had gone. I vowed, then and there, that I would find her before I died, no matter what. It took me a long time to find out she’d come to the Hangout. I’ve never forgotten Tamara. She’s haunted my mind the way those nuns haunted the chapel in my story. And I’ve heard she’s in trouble — held against her will in this place. I expect there may be danger.”
The muddy trail flattened at the base of the hill. A sign greeted them: “The Hangout. Read the Rules. Watch Yourself.” Pilo shuddered and shook his head.
“Great,” Pilo said. “We’re going to die in this town because you’ve got an ass fetish.”
“I don’t think we’re going to die,” said Ogg. “But if we do, it won’t be because of that. It will be because we’re trying to do something right. And as for that ass — if you’d seen it, you’d agree with me that it’s worth the risk. Are you with me?”
Pilo threw up his wings.
“What else am I going to do?” he said. “I’m a puffin in the middle of this godforsaken, land-locked waste. I’m not likely to last a day without your company. You’re the only insurance I’ve got. Let’s go. But please tell me why we are doing this.”
“It’s the civilized thing to do,” Ogg said, without slowing.
“The civilized thing to do. To rescue a whore from a shithole like the Hangout.” Pilo flapped his wings. “That’s what you’re telling me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Ogg said.
So, they went.
It didn’t take them long to find the center of the village: a wide, dirty street lined on either side by unkempt and ugly buildings. The largest, looming before them, was a bar. Sounds of raucous revelry came from within. A disheveled man lay drunk and snoring at the side of the entrance door. A prominent sign over the door proclaimed the bar’s name: “The Red H.”
“That doesn’t look like a place worth entering,” said Pilo.
“From what I hear, this is the place to be,” said Ogg. “We’re as likely to find out about Tamara’s whereabouts here as anywhere else. Let’s go.”
Pilo rolled his eyes skyward.
“Don’t listen to me. I’m just a puffin.”
Ogg climbed the steps to the bar’s entrance and opened the door. Inside, the light was dim, and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust so he could see clearly. Patrons of every size, shape, and color packed the barroom floor. Most of them had an unsavory air. The din was deafening. Two unshaven men arm-wrestled at a small table to the left, a crowd of spectators shouting encouragement and waving bills around them. To the right, a lissome redhead danced on top of a table and pulled her shirt down and off one shoulder, promising to show more to the beer-swilling, whistling mob below her. Everywhere Ogg looked, beer was being chugged and spilled. Anything could happen here, he thought.
He knew he’d come to the right place. Someone here would know where Tamara was. He was sure of it.
Ogg pushed his way through the inebriated horde to the bar counter. It wasn’t easy. The crowd was dense and drunk and mostly unresponsive, although he received numerous glances from patrons looking unkindly at the stranger with a bird on his shoulder.
He made his way to the counter. After a few moments he caught the bartender’s attention.
“What can I get you, mate?”
“I’ll have a pint of the house ale,” Ogg said, “and an answer to a question, if you don’t mind.”
The bartender filled a glass and pushed it across the counter to Ogg.
“What’s your question?”
“I’m looking for a young woman,” said Ogg. “Her name is Tamara.”
The bartender didn’t answer right away, giving Ogg a hard stare instead. Ogg noticed that some of the people near him stopped their conversations and looked at him in an equally hard way.
“What do you want with Tamara?” the bartender asked after a long pause.
“She’s a good friend. I’m worried about her. I need to see her.”
The bartender paused again, staring at Ogg for a long time. He grabbed the shoulder of an assistant carrying a towel and whispered something into his ear that Ogg couldn’t hear. The assistant hurried off and disappeared.
Ogg noticed that more people were looking in his direction, and none of them were looking in a friendly way. The bartender turned away from Ogg and served pints to other customers.
“Excuse me,” Ogg said, raising his voice. “Where is Tamara?”
The bartender said nothing and did not look at Ogg. To Ogg’s right, tuzla escort though, there was a murmur in the crowd, and when Ogg looked that way he noticed the people parting and leaving open space on the floor before him.
A figure emerged from a dark recess in the bar. He was tall and thick all over: thick neck, thick arms, and thick waist. His face was wide and pasty and blank, unintelligent and menacing.
“What did you say?” the pale-faced, thick man asked.
“I said, where’s Tamara?” Ogg asked.
“Who wants to know?” asked the large man.
“Well, I do,” Ogg said. “My name is Ogg. Who are you?”
The big man paused, and he looked both ways around the bar, as though to size up the support he had in the event of a fight.
“I’m Momson,” he said. “I’m the chief of the Authors. My stories are more popular than any of the others’.”
Ogg saw a flurry of movement around the thick man’s feet.
“Shit,” said Pilo. “Penguins. I hate those fuckers.”
Pilo was right. A waddle of penguins, too many to count, shuffled about the floor, surrounding Momson. Ogg knew Pilo’s dislike of penguins ran deep. It had something to do with an unpleasant incident on the Galapagos Islands, long ago. Pilo never told Ogg the full story, but he told enough to evince his loathing of the uncouth, black- and white- feathered, flightless waterfowl. The penguins squawked and glared at the newcomers.
Ogg was undeterred by the presence of the penguins. He held his gaze on Momson.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said. “I’m looking for Tamara, a friend. I heard she was here. I’d like to see her. Is she here — at this bar?”
Momson did not move, but his face twisted itself into a hostile mask.
“She’s busy,” he said. His dull eyes remained on Ogg’s. He didn’t move his feet but Ogg saw his body quiver like that of a snake about to strike. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“Well, I’d like to ask her myself about that,” said Ogg. “I think she’d like to see me.”
Ogg and Momson stood their ground and stared at each other, neither moving. The penguins swirled around Momson’s feet and squawked more loudly and menacingly at Ogg and Pilo.
“Ogg!” came a cry from an unseen part of the bar overhead. Ogg recognized the voice. It was Tamara.
“Tamara!” he yelled back.
His eyes searched the darkness for her. He didn’t see her at first. But then he did, at the top of a staircase, pushing her way past people to the first floor. She paused when she reached the bottom and stared at Ogg across the room.
“Ogg, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to get you. To take you away.”
Before Tamara could say anything, the bulk of Momson interceded between the two of them.
“She’s not going anywhere,” he said. His face was dangerous, and the penguins swirled in agitation around his feet. A few other men around Ogg drew closer. They weren’t as big as Momson, but they looked almost as scary.
Ogg was armed, and capable with weapons, but he was outnumbered, not to mention surrounded. If a fight happened, the odds weren’t good. But Ogg had other another plan. He reached swiftly under his coat. The sudden movement roused the alarm of those threatening him, and their hands went searching for their own weapons. Before anyone else could do more, however, Ogg withdrew his hand from his coat. The crowd stopped moving when it saw what his hand held.
It held a flute, of pure silver, gleaming in the dim barroom light. The flute twirled in Ogg’s fingers.
Momson’s face slackened with surprise. Nobody said anything for several seconds. The crowded bar grew quiet, its patrons waiting in silence to see what would happen. All eyes were on Momson, or on Ogg. Then Momson’s eyes crinkled and his mouth screwed itself into a mean, stupid grin.
“Are you going to play for us? You’re the entertainment, is that it?”
Ogg smiled back. “Something like that.”
He brought one end of the flute to his mouth and puckered his lips. His eyes scanned the crowd and they twinkled. The crowd obviously didn’t know what to make of this stranger with a bird on his shoulder and a flute in his hands.
At first, the notes came soft and low, barely audible even in the quiet room. But after playing a short, slow introduction, Ogg moved into the main theme of his song, the sound of his flute soon filling the bar at a higher volume and faster tempo. Ogg’s music had a baroque air, the notes flowing from his slender instrument with measured grace and mathematical precision. Ogg stood perfectly still, adding no flourishes or dramatic gestures to his performance.
Out of the corner of his eye Ogg saw Pilo looking around at the crowd, his beak open in wonder. Nobody moved. The crowd stood transfixed. Ogg noticed Momson’s pale, heavy face wrinkled in annoyance.
“Wait, what are you –” Momson started to say, raising his hand. But he stopped, and his hand fell to his side. Momson stood stupidly, staring at Ogg, motionless, and he listened without resistance to Ogg’s flute-playing.
Ogg kartal escort played on, the notes from the flute bouncing sweetly around the barroom, the melody rising and falling like a caper across gentle hills. His playing had its effect. The barroom crowd stood all around him with glazed eyes and slack jaws. It was time. Ogg looked across the crowd, to Tamara. She, too, stood with glassy eyes, but Ogg caught her gaze and winked. She shook her head. For her alone, the spell was broken. Ogg nodded to her but kept playing. Tamara drew back into the crowd, out of sight, but a minute later she reappeared, a satchel in her hand. Tamara pushed through the still crowd until she stood next to Ogg.
Ogg turned around, to the door, and slowly walked toward it, gently shouldering bodies out of the way where necessary. Nobody hindered him. Tamara followed, her hand on his shoulder. Ogg kept playing until he reached the door. He turned back to the barroom mob and took the flute from his mouth.
“You won’t need Tamara anymore,” he said to the unresponsive throng. “Don’t look for her.”
He played again and finished his song with a flourish of clear, decisive notes. Then Ogg and Tamara walked out the door.
“What just happened?” Tamara asked.
“A trick I picked up a while ago,” Ogg said. “I don’t use it too often, but this seemed like the right time. Sometimes it’s better to tame the beast than to slay it.”
“Are they going to come after us?” she asked.
“No. I told them not too. They’ll forget all about us. But I suggest we leave, even so. If we stay here, we may give them new ideas. There’s no need for that.”
Ogg led her back to the trail whence he and Pilo had come. The sun hung low in the sky, near the horizon. The shadows were long and dark. The hot wind had abated to a warm breeze.
They trudged back up the muddy trail until they reached the summit of the hill once more, marked by the signpost they’d seen before. They stopped to take in the view. Ogg looked at Tamara. She was as beautiful and shapely as he remembered, and her eyes sparkled at him.
“I think we’re safe here,” Ogg said. He looked back, toward the Hangout. The squalid town faded in the deepening gloom that obscured the valley floor below. There was no sign of anyone on the trail coming after them.
Tamara hugged Ogg.
“Thank you, Ogg!” she cried. “I can’t believe you came for me. That place was awful. Those Authors. You can’t imagine the depraved things they –“
Ogg raised his hand to cut her off.
“You don’t need to tell me, or to think about that now. You’re free of them. I’ll take you away. You can be my muse again.”
“Your muse?” she said, eyebrows raised.
“It’s a long story, but you inspired me, Tamara. I couldn’t forget about you. I’ve thought about you, ever since. Every day. I –” He stopped and stared without speaking for a moment. “I think I love you, Tamara.”
“Oh, Ogg,” she said. She put her arms around him again and kissed him, and he kissed her back. The sun lay very close to the horizon now, but it still bathed them in warmth and a golden glow. Tamara’s body felt good in Ogg’s arms. At last, they broke their embrace and looked into each other’s eyes.
“How can I repay you?” she asked.
“You don’t have to. Getting you back is reward enough.”
She said nothing for a moment, but her eyes gleamed and the corners of her lips turned up in a coy smile.
“That’s sweet of you, but I have something in mind.”
“What is it?” Ogg asked.
“I saved myself for you. Like I said I would.”
“Whatever can you mean, my dear? I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Her body against his, Tamara began turning around. She craned her neck to maintain her gaze into Ogg’s eyes while she could until her body turned so far that she could crane her neck no more. Ogg felt her hip against him, rotating, until her pert, round backside was pressed against his groin. She pushed back. Ogg felt something stir, and he groaned.
“I saved myself for you, Ogg,” she said again, this time in a breathy whisper. Ogg felt the warm breeze kiss his face, and somewhere an insect buzzed. The breeze embraced them both in a scent mixed of fresh grass and wildflowers.
Understanding dawned over Ogg.
“You mean –“
“Yes,” she said. “I may be a whore, but I set my limits. Many men have had me. But they haven’t had all of me.” She ground her bottom against him again, and Ogg knew now that she could feel his hardness.
A voice squawked to Ogg’s side.
“Don’t mind me,” said Pilo. He jumped off Ogg’s shoulder, to the ground. “I’ll give you two some time to get reacquainted. I’ll go watch the sunset.”
The grumpy puffin hopped away through the grass on the hilltop, until he was out of sight.
Tamara kept grinding her ass against Ogg’s hardening cock. It moved in slow circles against him, until it stopped and began moving in the opposite direction. Ogg’s hands gripped her hips, his thumbs pointing down and inward and pushing against the cheeks of her ass through her brown dress. The fabric of her dress was thin, and it was easy to feel her body under it. He began to knead her ass through the thin cotton with his thumbs. The feel of her flesh beneath the dress was pure bliss.
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