A Whole Lotta Rosie

Boobs. The county had a generous assortment. Two for every fair maid in fact (in one case three, but that’s another story). They came in all shapes and sizes. Well okay, not all shapes. No one had square boobs. And granted, not all sizes. No one had boobs the size of beer barrels.

Nevertheless, no boobs were more generous than those of Rosie, the landlady of Rosie’s Rest, a tavern in the lowlands of the western reaches.

Being at the foot of the snow-capped western range, the tavern’s massive stone hearth always housed a roaring fire to keep the elements at bay. Travelers in these parts knew a jug of ale would cost more than the usual five pieces of silver. To quench their thirst at Rosie’s, they’d also need to cough up a piece of wood for the fire.

Rosie held court in her humble establishment every night from dusk until the witching hour. Her aforementioned boobs spilling from the top of her beer stained bodice.

Arrivals would stack their wood on the pile inside the door. Nods and grunts of approval would greet a hefty log of pine. A mere handful of twigs and tinder would elicit grumbles and groans. But the newcomer would still be served. Should they arrive with no wood at all, however, they’d be sent back into the night on a cold quest for fuel.

With this etiquette satisfied, clientele enjoyed more than a jug of strong ale, the warmth of the fire and hearty banter. They also enjoyed the orange glow of the flames dancing over Rosie’s ample bosom, matching the russet curls of hair that fell about her shoulders and the rose-red cheeks that had christened her at birth.

If a conversation interested her, Rosie would linger in front of those customers and listen in. Her chin supported by plump fingers, each adorned with rings from long-gone lovers.

Rosie’s boobs would squash against the wet oak bar as she leaned in to hear whatever had caught her fancy. On a busy night, with raucous tales echoing throughout the tavern, she’d snuggle in nice and close. It wasn’t rare for a stray nipple to peek from it’s lacy ligature as she listened intently to the tale. It took a skilled storyteller indeed, to keep her intrigued while still enjoying the view. So the stories told to Rosie tended to be more captivating than most.

This particular night began like any other. Rosie’s bar maid, Yvette, a slip of a blonde girl, had built a roaring fire in the hearth and was busy serving bowls of steaming leek soup to the tavern’s patrons.

Seated in their usual spots at the bar were regulars, Jacob and James Hawthorne. Two brothers who earned their living escorting well-to-do folk through the mountain pass to the neighboring county. They regaled Rosie with tales of the silly city dwellers and their mishaps traversing the treacherous winding paths through the peaks.

James, the younger of the two, would do most of the telling. Occasionally he’d look to Jacob for confirmation, the more mature endorsement adding weight to any embellishments.

“… and there she stood, as bold as brass!” James enthused to Rosie, flicking a forelock of black hair from his eyes. “She was eighty if she was a day, fending off a crazed mountain cat with naught but a parasol. While her cowardly footman scarpered back down the pass, as fast as his boots could carry him. Isn’t that right Jacob?”

Jacob raised his tankard to take another long pull. “It sure is. That lady was about to be cat food!”

Rosie, with a fondness for animals, and not so much for townsfolk, leaned in closer “Yes but tell me about the mountain cat. Was it a fine beast? White like the snow? I hear those are getting harder to find now, even in the coldest months of winter,”

James took a drink of his own ale, relishing the attention, “It was for sure, all white fur standing on end and haunches twitching as it made ready to pounce. It stared down the old lady with glowing yellow eyes but then looked to me and Jacob beside her. I’m sure it thought we’d make a tastier meal!”

The story continued, with the gallant rescue of the brave old biddy from the mountain cat’s gleaming white fangs. Rosie re-filled the two adventurer’s tankards and came around the bar to help Yvette clear some soup bowls.

The first signs of trouble came when a stranger arrived, bearing no wood.

While that oversight might have been forgivable, the arrogance with which he held the door open as he surveyed the tavern’s interior was not. A biting cold wind blew in from behind him, scattering sparks from the fire over those seated nearest it.

All heads turned, faces frowning with annoyance. The stranger, largely hidden by a hooded grey cloak, stood , legs apart, in the windswept doorway. When little Yvette scurried behind him to close the door, he cuffed her with such force she tumbled to the floor, ending up at Rosie’s feet. Patrons jumped up with howls of indignation but were silenced when he raised a long-barrelled musket.

The intruder spoke gruffly into the hushed tavern. “Throw all your guns to me, now. Or the fat tart gets it and you’ll be pouring your own ale.”

Hands reaching for hips hesitated. No-one was prepared to chance their arm and risk their beloved landlady’s life. A clatter of firearms skidded across the floorboards towards the heathen’s grey boots.

“Now, I’ll be having all your silver!” he said, waving the end of the gun at Rosie, not ten feet away.

Yvette cowered underneath, among Rosie‘s petticoats that swirled in the biting draft. To her left and right the Hawthorne brothers had put their tankards back on the bar. They learned in a little closer to their host.

“Looks like we have our own mountain cat to face here boys,” Rosie said. “Actually this one lacks the grace of a cat. He’s more like a rabid dog and a none too bright one.”

“You’ll be watching your mouth, cow!” The gun toting robber shouted from under his hood. “I’ve heard about you and those magnificent tits. I figured this place would be rich pickings if the stories were true.”

“Oh the stories are true all right”, Rosie replied, “In fact, would you like to see them in all their glory?”

The hood lifted, and the gun wavered as the robber contemplated the offer. It seemed like a no brainer. Which suited him fine. “Yes, give me an eyeful and then round up that silver!” He demanded.

She obliged, tugging at the drawstring of her bodice. The overworked garment fell away, freeing the two famously fabulous bountiful breasts that sprung forth. Erect pink nipples pointed proudly in the chill mountain air. Rosie hefted both heavyweights in her hands.

“Like what you see?” She asked her dumbstruck audience.

The armed offender could only murmur in agreement. His gun wandered even more from its target as he took in the wondrous view of womanhood being seductively squeezed in front of him.

“Let him have it boys!” Rosie shouted with glee, lifting her boobs to her chin, revealing two gleaming silver pistols.

James and Jacob snatched the loaded guns from beneath each bosom, and the two brothers fired simultaneously. A bullet entered each wide eye of the man in grey. His body was blown back through the tavern door and into the cold, dark night.

Rosie blew on each of her nipples, left and right, as if to clear the gun smoke from her double barrels. The tavern erupted in jubilation as she declared, “Well, he certainly got his eyeful!”