Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)The wee cracks of a balmy summers’ dawn were just starting to light up Sinasvilles’ horizon. Thus meant that the leather, armour clad form of Roland the bard was the singular one occupying the empty streets while he hummed to himself. The bard barely took notice of the broken tiles of homesteads and dipping-roofed thatched cottages that dominated the side streets. Simply continuing along the road as stray flutters of candle light revealed the pondering look of delight upon his ruggedly handsome face. The bard’s thoughts were swirling around the reward he received for his most recent quest, so recent in fact that the proof still matted his flaccid cock. Sure the small fishing village of Breawater had only rewarded him for slaying the pack of wolves with a mere small pouch of gold now jangling on his hip.
Roland however was delighting more in the buxom, long haired lass that had offered up the secret reward of warming his temporary mattress with her luscious hour glass figure. Even now he could still envision the way her ample bosom threatened to spill out the top of her dress and the taste of her petals as they blossomed around his skilled tongue. He had even loved the way her soft skin looked dotted in sexual perspiration while she slept. That was the last glance of her he took before slipping away like a thief in the last rays of dusk, ferrying himself across the wide Tulanga river before starting his brisk trek to Sinasville.
This however was not the first time that the stubble faced Roland chose not to look a gift horse in the mouth, instead rightly choosing to indulge in the gift for quite some time. The most memorable gift however came from two radiant beauties in the city of Haldiberg, simply for clearing out a miniscule imp infestation. For who could ever forget ending an evening sitting bare assed on a duke’s throne, the supple ass cheeks of the man’s wife slapping against your crotch. With every downward thrust her constricting anal walls vigorously milking every ounce of cum from the long shaft of his veiny dick.
Never one to be entirely idle the bard’s rough palms had cupped the handfuls of flesh that was the duchess perky breasts, his fingers tugging and pinching the noble lady’s dark nipples. All while the duchess’s own copper haired lady in waiting was lapping eagerly at Roland’s sweaty cum covered nut sac and the duchess’s overflowing pussy when in reach. So caught up in the debauchery the lady in waiting’s own trembling fingers were delving deep and manically into the soiled mess that was her own puffy cunt.
The other strangely amazing part of the warm evening was that not even once before or after the bard had lined the duchess’s asshole did the duke come to investigate. Not a single person arrived while the lady in waiting climaxed overtly and loudly, her quivering pussy soaking the bard’s almost arm thick cock. Not even a trace of humanly presence was observed while the stiff bard unceremoniously mounted the dribbling pussy of the Duke’s wife from behind. The fact that the noble lady’s pussy was almost sheath tight did have Roland wondering if the pathetic Duke had a penis the size of a scrawny. He however quickly lost that thought when he watched the duchess begin rimming the anal ring of the copper haired servant girl occupying the simplistic throne.
It was with filthy carnal memories still at the forefront of his mind that he whispered a quick thank you, directed happily at his two mentors. The very same ones that had made such taboo delights possible. The first being his very own father, the man had imparted to him the ins and outs of hunting efficiently and wielding a blade with deadly precision. Thus allowing him to protect himself and gain favour with others while earning coin. It was however his second mentor that had instructed him in the invigorating muscle and taboo hustle of pleasure making.
The near famous bard Yvonne had taken a sixteen year old Roland under her soft wing upon hearing his skills at twang away on a lute. Over two years she had tutored him and entrusted in him various emotional melodies. It was however upon his eighteenth that she had introduced him to the touch of a woman and after that instructing him in things he would never have dream't of attempting. During these taboo lessons she had parted on him ways to make the most of his natural charisma and sexual talents before sending him on his way. Her final words still ever present in the back of his mind, “It’s a bard’s duty to bring joy to all, no matter the form my young student. So go forth and bring joy to some sad women” she had whispered on his nineteenth celebration.
With those parting words he had packed his backpack, sheathed a trusty broadsword upon his back before setting out. So with dark armour that hugged his lean an athletic body, a lute in hand and a cock shuddering in anticipation he marched forth to slay and entertain for coin and carnal exploits. Since that very moment he had known the touch of many a woman, young and old, skinny and curvaceous. Each time he had left them drained, breathless and lost in bliss at the delights most men would not even know to try. Then as quickly as they had experienced their first orgasm, he would depart from their sleeping forms to sneak off into the darkness of the night.
It would also seem that the lady of luck herself had an abundance of admiration for the rapscallion of a bard. Not even twelve hours after collecting on the wolf bounty another lucrative one falls into his lap taking the shape of an overgrown dire bat. All Roland had done was take advantage of the situation, while the poor Sinasville guard at the northern gates held the beast’s attention. The bard had arrived in the nick of time to swing his lofty bastard sword across the path of the dire creature’s neck. While the bat pinned the trembling guard against the planks of the small bridge, opening its ugly teeth filled maw. The steel blade had bitten deep into the tough flesh just below the base of the blood suckers skull, momentum flinging the quickly dying beast across the small bank of the moat.
Only the small sign shaped as a tankard, the words ‘The Pensive Cat’ halted the bard’s advance along the road. The building looked out of place with its’ maintained tiled roof and large chimney still huffing out smoke. A couple of lamps were still burning inside the rock walled inn, filtering through gaps in the ornamental swinging door, illuminating the mud stained cobbles at the threshold. Hissing alerted Roland to the striped feline to the right of the entry way before it bolted into the nearby alley mouth. With a shrug the lucky bard hefted the damp and filth sac housing the dire bats severed head, over the studded shoulder pad on his right side.
Pushing the squeaky door aside the aroma of stale alcohol, smoke and mildew, just like any other tavern or inn he happened to visit. Due to the early hour the local nitwits, harlots and drunken fishermen were absent. There was however a petty merchant pinching the succulent backside of the lass balancing mead, roast meat and beans. “Welcome to my modest hearth” a gruff voice rumbled to draw Roland’s attention from the serving girl in distress and towards the man behind the counter. The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his faded apron as the bard approached.
Roland however was delighting more in the buxom, long haired lass that had offered up the secret reward of warming his temporary mattress with her luscious hour glass figure. Even now he could still envision the way her ample bosom threatened to spill out the top of her dress and the taste of her petals as they blossomed around his skilled tongue. He had even loved the way her soft skin looked dotted in sexual perspiration while she slept. That was the last glance of her he took before slipping away like a thief in the last rays of dusk, ferrying himself across the wide Tulanga river before starting his brisk trek to Sinasville.
This however was not the first time that the stubble faced Roland chose not to look a gift horse in the mouth, instead rightly choosing to indulge in the gift for quite some time. The most memorable gift however came from two radiant beauties in the city of Haldiberg, simply for clearing out a miniscule imp infestation. For who could ever forget ending an evening sitting bare assed on a duke’s throne, the supple ass cheeks of the man’s wife slapping against your crotch. With every downward thrust her constricting anal walls vigorously milking every ounce of cum from the long shaft of his veiny dick.
Never one to be entirely idle the bard’s rough palms had cupped the handfuls of flesh that was the duchess perky breasts, his fingers tugging and pinching the noble lady’s dark nipples. All while the duchess’s own copper haired lady in waiting was lapping eagerly at Roland’s sweaty cum covered nut sac and the duchess’s overflowing pussy when in reach. So caught up in the debauchery the lady in waiting’s own trembling fingers were delving deep and manically into the soiled mess that was her own puffy cunt.
The other strangely amazing part of the warm evening was that not even once before or after the bard had lined the duchess’s asshole did the duke come to investigate. Not a single person arrived while the lady in waiting climaxed overtly and loudly, her quivering pussy soaking the bard’s almost arm thick cock. Not even a trace of humanly presence was observed while the stiff bard unceremoniously mounted the dribbling pussy of the Duke’s wife from behind. The fact that the noble lady’s pussy was almost sheath tight did have Roland wondering if the pathetic Duke had a penis the size of a scrawny. He however quickly lost that thought when he watched the duchess begin rimming the anal ring of the copper haired servant girl occupying the simplistic throne.
It was with filthy carnal memories still at the forefront of his mind that he whispered a quick thank you, directed happily at his two mentors. The very same ones that had made such taboo delights possible. The first being his very own father, the man had imparted to him the ins and outs of hunting efficiently and wielding a blade with deadly precision. Thus allowing him to protect himself and gain favour with others while earning coin. It was however his second mentor that had instructed him in the invigorating muscle and taboo hustle of pleasure making.
The near famous bard Yvonne had taken a sixteen year old Roland under her soft wing upon hearing his skills at twang away on a lute. Over two years she had tutored him and entrusted in him various emotional melodies. It was however upon his eighteenth that she had introduced him to the touch of a woman and after that instructing him in things he would never have dream't of attempting. During these taboo lessons she had parted on him ways to make the most of his natural charisma and sexual talents before sending him on his way. Her final words still ever present in the back of his mind, “It’s a bard’s duty to bring joy to all, no matter the form my young student. So go forth and bring joy to some sad women” she had whispered on his nineteenth celebration.
With those parting words he had packed his backpack, sheathed a trusty broadsword upon his back before setting out. So with dark armour that hugged his lean an athletic body, a lute in hand and a cock shuddering in anticipation he marched forth to slay and entertain for coin and carnal exploits. Since that very moment he had known the touch of many a woman, young and old, skinny and curvaceous. Each time he had left them drained, breathless and lost in bliss at the delights most men would not even know to try. Then as quickly as they had experienced their first orgasm, he would depart from their sleeping forms to sneak off into the darkness of the night.
It would also seem that the lady of luck herself had an abundance of admiration for the rapscallion of a bard. Not even twelve hours after collecting on the wolf bounty another lucrative one falls into his lap taking the shape of an overgrown dire bat. All Roland had done was take advantage of the situation, while the poor Sinasville guard at the northern gates held the beast’s attention. The bard had arrived in the nick of time to swing his lofty bastard sword across the path of the dire creature’s neck. While the bat pinned the trembling guard against the planks of the small bridge, opening its ugly teeth filled maw. The steel blade had bitten deep into the tough flesh just below the base of the blood suckers skull, momentum flinging the quickly dying beast across the small bank of the moat.
Only the small sign shaped as a tankard, the words ‘The Pensive Cat’ halted the bard’s advance along the road. The building looked out of place with its’ maintained tiled roof and large chimney still huffing out smoke. A couple of lamps were still burning inside the rock walled inn, filtering through gaps in the ornamental swinging door, illuminating the mud stained cobbles at the threshold. Hissing alerted Roland to the striped feline to the right of the entry way before it bolted into the nearby alley mouth. With a shrug the lucky bard hefted the damp and filth sac housing the dire bats severed head, over the studded shoulder pad on his right side.
Pushing the squeaky door aside the aroma of stale alcohol, smoke and mildew, just like any other tavern or inn he happened to visit. Due to the early hour the local nitwits, harlots and drunken fishermen were absent. There was however a petty merchant pinching the succulent backside of the lass balancing mead, roast meat and beans. “Welcome to my modest hearth” a gruff voice rumbled to draw Roland’s attention from the serving girl in distress and towards the man behind the counter. The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his faded apron as the bard approached.
