The Woman and the Well

Note: This is my small entry in the

Tales of Leinyere Story Event

. I hope you like it. Please ensure you check out the other entries in this series as we grow the expansive sex-filled world of leinyere.

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"When the Winds of Windscour surge and swell, beware the song of the woman and the well."

A tale the elves of Grennskogur know well. Though many disbelieve. For its a memory, of a story, of a half-remembered dream. Told by drunken bards who've struck out at the local tavern. Or the old madams at the oldest brothels who love to tease the new girls.

Everyone knows anyone who's claimed to hear it, was either mad or asleep. Though that offers little comfort for those that do believe.

For supposedly it's only in that half-remembered moment between wakefulness and sleep, pulsing with a gluttonous desire you can't quite meet. At the start of the desert, at the end of the trees. That's where supposedly you hear her song on the breeze.

She may have been a Queen, a witch, or a priest. A cities authority who found divine ecstasy on her knees.

Oh it was said she was the purest embodiment of gluttony. With tastes that could never truly be sated, only abated for a time, till a new craving came and she travelled the desert kingdoms to be fed.

This woman had a taste you see not for wine, or sweet meat. But for all those sticky juices that we exude during sex. Cum of course from both cunts and cocks. Also, rivers of drool from himbos and gagged sluts. Pools of piss squeezed out in pleasure and pain. Blood brought to bear by reckless passion and the most loving blades. It was said she would seek out raiding parties of orcs in the nude, just so she could sample the sweat from the exertions of their weeklong abuse of her small but willing holes. It is said that even they eventually grew to fear her. For her passions would outstrip even their most virile, leaving them weak and addled for months after.

But the glutton that she was there was no care for place or tact. No honour or respect or impulse control of any sort. She would lay as with the rulers of kingdoms dead, as with the monsters that occasionally journey up from the ocean deep. So long as they could provide her with sweat, spittle or seed.

Rutting in an endless mindless cacophony with no aim save the sweet liquids her victims would provide. In time she forgot her name, in time she discarded her mind. Becoming nothing but a beast of depravity.

Until one day she committed an act so foul that Kitara herself put a blight on her town. They could no longer taste. Their tongue gave no flavour but ash. Their hands could hold but no longer feel the warmth or tightness of the embrace. They could no longer smell a brothel's heady scent of sex, nor hear the pleasured cries on a married couple's wedding night. And all the pleasure to be had from kisses, and strokes and rutting and riding and fucking and sucking. Was stripped away. Their minds were trapped in bodies that were alive but could no longer experience the joys of living. The town despaired and seeking retribution they looked to punish the cause of this calamity. So, the woman was cast out. Abandoned in the deepest reaches of the desert. To walk bare among the dunes in agony and regret till she collapsed from exhaustion into unfeeling death.

The woman wandered for 3 days and 2 nights. She cried out to the heavens, not in repentance or guilt. Not in despair for the horrors she had unleashed on her people. For what did she care about them. She shed tears that she could not taste the tang of a dick down her throat or a pussy on her lips.

She prayed and begged and pleaded to any god that would listen. To give her back the joys of being showered in cum. The sun and the sky had nothing for her but scorching heat. The ground below burned and cut at her feet, at night cold winds sapped all life leaving her nothing but a shell. But on the 3rd night something answered, and she came across a well.

A well of cum, sweet jizz, and spunk. Filled with the piss of perverts, and the drool of sluts. A bottomless hole in the back end of this land where countless depraved actors had spilled their seed. But like her, or maybe it was her, the well was hungry. It sang to her of its gifts and of its needs. After only one sip she heartily agreed, for it lifted her curse and gave her everlasting ecstasy.

But what price did the well call for in return?

Was the town ever spared from the blight of the curse?

Or did the woman come back to revenge herself on those who wronged her so?

The answers to these questions only the Gods know.

What we do know is that eventually there came a tale the bards of the desert began to tell.

"When the Winds of Windscour surge and swell, beware the song of the woman and the well."

Its lyrics have been lost, or erased, or destroyed. Those who remember have all but passed from this world to the next. Or maybe they're simply words that haven't been written yet.

Still, it has been whispered, moaned, and with delicious agony cried that the song will sing to the hunger inside. You'll be engulfed with a warmth, that turns to a blaze. Your lips will grow cracked; your throat bone dry. And in the pit of your stomach just above your groin, a creeping need will fill you.

The coolest water will not sate you, nor the richest wine, nor most succulent fruit. Everything tastes of ashes instead of sweetness or salt, everything is just shy of what you need. But what you need you can't quite say. A familiar melody you know but for the life of you can't name. Growing ever more insistent its lodged in your brain. You can't drown it in liquor or smother it in pleasure and no prayer for salvation is ever answered. It only looms larger as the days pass. Reaching into every nook and cranny of your mind. Expanding till there's nothing else but weeping tears, screaming need and pain. Most would go mad; some would choose death. But a pitiful few are cursed or blessed with a strange revelation.

It always varies, whether by telling or by person it is not clear. Whether it brings forth what was hidden, or takes the place of what's been stolen, we cannot say.

It is however always depraved. Drenched in the darker aspects of Aersus and Cuvehr's play. It is enough to say that once they know they can be sated, they are not the same. These poor children are forever changed.

All compassion, empathy, and respect fade. Unabashed selfishness and cruelty remain. Beholden only in their needs being met, with no care for boundaries or consent. Soon they smile and whisper with mysterious grins. Humming a strange tune only they seem to hear on the winds.

Until one night they vanish. Fading from memory as simply mad women and men. Never to be seen or heard from again. But not whisked away from their beds in a moment. Rather they journey on a pilgrimage to the deepest heart of the desert. Where the source of the song of gluttony lies. Where a woman once mortal, let her mortality die. Under a moon, full, pale and white. Surrounded by bones with rutting bodies beside.

"So, when the Winds of Windscour surge and swell, beware the song of the woman and her well."