AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the current book I’m working on. It’s a bit of a historical satire/romance/erotica called “The Scandalous Tale of Agnes Biggenbotten”. Since there is really no erotica in the following excerpt my usual warning will not be placed here.
Lower East Drearie
The sleepy hamlet was nestled within the rolling green hills and shallow cool valleys of a countryside best described as a patchwork of quilt-like farms and pastures all ringed with three rail fences of good craftsmanship. Sparsely dotting the landscape were thick groves of trees appearing much like random stray tufts of hair jutting out an old man’s ears. Most folks in Lower East Drearie went about their days (and nights) secure in the notion that they provided much of the vegetables and meat for miles in every direction. It was a humble little place. As timeless and quaint as ever a village you saw no matter what the country you traveled in.
The small community saw little hardship, mostly due to the vast distance between it and the capital city of Farthing. Rumors, running into town like barking dogs, occasionally yapped about miserable or golden times in other places but in Lower East Drearie not much had changed, even during the terrible Balzac-Effingham Wars fought only three decades hence. Most of the villagers went about their tasks with a good humor lighting their faces. It was a peaceful existence finding nothing wanting or needing with this populace. After toiling in the fields or slopping the pigs most of the men-folk eventually wandered into Horseweed’s Tavern to partake of its strong ale and bitter stouts. Some of them, a number that would’ve shocked and scandalized their wives, also came in to stare at the village’s oddity. A maid named Agnes Biggenbotten.
Now Agnes, in all fairness, was a vapid creature of long, curling golden mane and possessing a rather ample—um—well to be blunt a hefty, rolling backside. Wasp-waisted, and apple-sized in the bosom she went about her job of serving the inn’s patrons, as her mother had done before her, with hot food and warm ale. Moving amid their leering faces with her wide hips, despite never experiencing childbirth, she all but skipped in her toiling. Plunking down foaming mugs and sliding upon the tables steaming plates of hot food she was oblivious to it all. Agnes, as anyone even the most thickly skulled of people could see was in absolute ignorance of her fame. But heads would turn and eyes would gaze over while her rear would go swaying back to the bar to fetch up the next order. Possessing a grace in contradiction to her well rounded size she never bumped into tables nor spilled any of that which she was porting.
If Agnes’ overly plump derriere wasn’t enough of a burden to carry in life she was also graced with a name most easily converted into a vulgar description. If men the world over were rapidly ensnared by such a hypnotic sight, women were quickly made insanely jealous of the cause of all the commotion. Snickering behind her back (no pun intended) were the wiser and catty women of Lower East Drearie. Her nickname, if you haven’t guessed it, was Agnes Big-Bottom, A. Big-Bottom or during cases of rapid whispered conversations just Big-Bottom.
But back to that warm tavern’s image before I digress. It wasn’t uncommon to see men of all ages lick their lips in a nervous manner when she bent over to pick up the forks and knives they would deliberately drop to gain a better view of what was causing such tightness in their breeches. Of course they would go home to be verbally thrashed by their envious spouses but the cost, most decided was worth the price of admission.
Agnes was alone in the world since her mother’s untimely death during her thirteenth year and having never met her sire. She would testify to having no beau wooing her. Laboring at the Horseweeds for the past six seasons she went about her business with a smile and good cheer. Her eyes, like sparkling sapphires were as dense as she was, thus she couldn’t see that the offers were clearly there.
There needs to be a break in this tale, one that is quite important. You see it was long held to be true that women of smaller and more slender proportions were thought to be quite sickly. Those of the female gender whose bodies bore more meat upon them were thought healthier. Agnes, with her rotund rear was thought by the villagers and occasional traveler to very healthy indeed. Now back to our story.
Now typically in stories such as Agnes’ there is one who cannot contain the—um—dignity of merely witnessing Agnes’ most prominent feature and would find himself spurred to greater lengths. And as unfortunately typical he was a powerful figure in the small community, His Honor the Mayor. Dubious Finch, named quite regrettably by his parents was as wide as he was tall. Bald and having two sets of chins he would nail his piggy eyes to Agnes’ bottom where it would stay firmly fastened during his entire visit to the Horseweed’s Tavern. Unsatisfied with only dropping forks and knives he has recently taken to snatching unsuccessfully at her skirt in hopes of spilling the maiden into his lap, thus introducing her to the firm and ready staff lying therein.
“Come over here love,” he thickly muttered, “my mug needs filling.”
“Just a second Mr. Mayor!” Agnes tittered. “I have to get a plate for Mr. Tadpole.”
Sashaying her way past the fumbled fingered fat man she dodged his latest clumsy attempt to yank her into his lap and deposited her payload onto a table nearby. With a quick snatch of her hand she plucked the empty Mayor’s empty tankard out of his hand, spun out of reach and went back to the bar. Horseweed, Horace Horseweed to be precise, took the mug from her hand and stuffed it under a barrel and began twisting the tap.
“You’re a fine woman Agnes,” the barkeep rasped. “But you need to be wary of His Honor for the bloke is up to no good.”
“Mayor Finch is a nice man,” she replied.
“Maybe—maybe not. But he doesn’t have your best interests in mind. Be careful Agnes or no good will come from it.”
Retrieving the froth filled tankard from Horseweed’s hand the plump bottomed girl swirled in place and moved toward the community leader.
“Ah now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” Dubious remarked. Agnes, of course entirely missed the double meaning.
“That’s your sixth one tonight Mr. Mayor,” she chastised lightly. “You should take a break and have a bit of something to eat.”
“Oh I plan to Agnes my dear.”
“What’ll it be? We have a nice mutton stew made with fresh potatoes and herbs…”
“Yes Your Honor?”
“Have you given thought to what you’ll do for the rest of your life?”
“Oh not me!” she exclaimed with a giggle. “I’m happy here.”
“But the world is so wonderful and there are many things you could do and see if you only left this inn.”
“What me travel abroad?”
“Why ever not?”
“For the life of me I can’t think of why I’d need to do that. I’m quite content to serve the good people of Lower East Drearie here at the pub, just like my Mom.”
“I have been out there,” Dubious leered. “You couldn’t imagine the startling sights, tasty treats and wonderful sounds awaiting you just beyond the horizon. I could show you, I have the means and the time to do so.”
“But who will serve the people that come here? And the village needs you to govern over it!”
Slumping in defeat and watching her waltz away the pudgy official conceded the battle but girded his loins to win the war.