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The Idiot and the Fornicator

A naughty medieval tale.

By Davi MaiPublished 2 months ago 7 min read

Bring forth the fornicator!”

The priest’s booming voice echoed around the town square; shushing all chatter. Excitement grew amongst the townsfolk, jostling for the best positions. The priest stood to the side of the raised platform, so as not to block the crowd’s view of the stocks.

Two burly guardsmen dragged a hapless wench up the short stairs and onto centre stage. She wore a simple, grubby, cotton nightdress. Her mousy brown hair hung down over shoulders and face, making her features hard to distinguish. Blowing hair out of her eyes, she looked upon her accusers. Those in the front row glimpsed her somewhat coy expression, covered in grime, but free of tears.

Overhead, grey clouds had rolled in, hastening the dusk. A misty rain fell. The market stalls surrounding the square had closed, except for a few selling snacks and ale. All eyes turned inward to the main attraction; the crowd eager to see the ensuing punishment and humiliation. Husbands stood embracing their wives and trying not to look too eager. Teenage boys drooled, and the town’s youthful women looked on with curiosity, ready to make the inevitable judgements of the guilty party’s attributes.

The priest unrolled the court scroll with exaggerated ceremony.

“I have found you, Madeline Atwood, guilty of wanton fornication. The sharing of your flesh outside the marital bed. Today we carry out the sentence of public shaming, after which you shall endure three months labour in the Queen’s stables. Let the first part of your sentence begin!”

A raucous cheer erupted from the townsfolk. The priest crossed to the woman and with no more ceremony, grasped the collar of her nightgown and ripped the garment clean away.

A collective gasp filled the air.

There she stood, held in place by a guardsman on either side. Her hair not long enough to cover her bare, pale breasts. They hung over an ample stomach, but a stomach not ample enough to obscure her full and untamed bush flourishing between generous hips. She hardly squirmed, this one. Her feet remained apart, as if inviting those in the front to make out her most intimate details.

“I can see her cunny!” came the cry from a callous lad unable to contain his excitement. This turned the crowd’s gasps into laughter, including a chuckle from the priest.

“Bring forth the idiot!” the priest decried.

From the side of the platform, a brute of a man climbed the stairs. He stood before the crowd, dressed only in a stained breechcloth. He had the body of an ox and the face of one too. None too bright. His ugly face wore an expression of dumb eagerness.

He stood alongside his quarry and allowed the priest to lean down and rip off his breechcloth.

Attributes that suited the task at hand were now obvious.

The gasp from the crowd this time had a more feminine ring to it.

The guardsmen manhandled the nude woman back behind the stocks, treating everyone to a superb view of her plump rump on the way. They placed her head in the large centre hole, pulling her arms outward and securing her hands. She hung her head low; hair falling down in a veil, breasts dangling in a most ungainly fashion.

The village idiot remembered his cue, and with his impressive manhood already rising to the occasion, he took his place behind her. A kick to the insides of her ankles separated her legs and presented him with a most convenient target. With a calloused hand on each of her hips, he pushed his swollen head between her lower lips.

She parted easily, he thought, and his length slid inside her.

The woman squealed and shook her head from side to side. It was the only movement she could manage, apart from clenching her fists. The idiot began his well-practiced rhythmic thrusting, and the wooden stocks shuddered on the platform with each movement. He drove his hips against her wobbling cheeks, and his heavy balls swung like a pendulum between her legs, bouncing against her mound. Her breasts, a larger version of his dangling balls, swung in time with them.

The priest, guardsmen, and crowd gawked in delight. The wet slapping of skin on skin and primal grunting were the only sounds heard, as many enjoyed the shame of one.


Three days prior.

Madeline, dressed in her most respectable attire, presented herself to the Queen to elicit a royal pardon for her sins. It had been a day’s journey from the town to the castle. Were it not for the fact that she was the chief consort’s niece, her request for an audience would have been denied. As it was, the priest had forced himself into the proceedings to ensure that she had little chance of success.

All explanations and excuses for her indiscretions fell on deaf ears.

The Queen lounged up on her throne in her jewelled finery, bored by the priest’s re-telling of the woman’s sins, and Madeline’s version of events.

The King was nowhere to be seen, drunk again— if rumours were to be believed. He was a drunkard, and a known fornicator. Not that he would end up in stocks for it. The long-suffering queen took it all in her stride. Word around the court suggested they no longer even shared a bedchamber. Perhaps that was why she showed no sympathy for the adulteress who presented herself before her.

“I’ve heard enough!” she snapped, cutting Madeline’s pleas short. “Priest, you may leave and prepare the town to deliver the just punishment, for it should indeed be delivered. You, Mrs. Atwood, will remain behind. I have a few choice words for you that would not fall softly on the ears of the Church.”

The priest gathered up his robes and took his leave, grinning. If the Queen wanted to give this slut a tongue lashing herself, all the better.


The idiot was nearing his climax. Most times, he could hump away for a good while, having dulled his arousal with ale from the tavern all afternoon. This woman, though, was hard to take time over. He looked down as he worked, and the view only hastened him. The rain glistened on her plump, round arse cheeks, and the sight of his rock-hard length sliding in and out of her was too much to bear. She pushed back against him too, and with impeccable timing. She rode him with each stroke, warm and wet around him.

The priest coughed and threw the idiot a warning glance; a reminder he must never sow his seed in fertile ground, lest more idiots sprouted.

Withdrawing just in time, he repositioned a touch higher for re-entry. An inch inside the wench’s back passage, the tightness overcame him. As he spilled into her, she shouted.

“Yes, you bastard, have me!”

And he could have sworn that she also came, her knees quivering as she slammed herself backwards, driving him deeper.

For a moment, the idiot wondered just who was fucking who.

The crowd broke their silence with a cheer as he raised his hands above his head, hips still bucking. Madeline nodded her head, hair flying, and fists clenching and unclenching in the stocks.

An aroused township drifted off into the rain. The town’s beds would see extra action that night.

The idiot extricated himself. The guardsmen released the woman from the stocks. Weak at the knees, she couldn’t have run away, even if she tried. They wrapped her torn nightdress around her and led her down the stairs to the waiting carriage. The sentence of mucking out the Queen’s stables would begin on the morrow.

With the night drawing in, the carriage made its way out of town, wheels turning in the mud created by the rain shower. Its driver navigating around puddles, lest they were too deep. Seated inside, the punished woman remained flanked by the two guardsmen.

But sitting opposite was a second woman, of a similar frame.

The real Madeline Atwood, in fact.

The Queen brushed back her hair and used the borrowed nightdress to wipe the worst of the grime from her face. She shifted on the seat, finding a nicer spot for her tingling backside.

“Well...” she announced, in a regal voice, “that was most delightful. I believe I’ve been royally shafted!”

The guardsmen somehow kept straight faces, although straining with the effort, as their queen continued to ponder.

“Perhaps we could find the village idiot a job in the castle, so I may call on his services without need for this subterfuge?”

Madeline, only too happy to have escaped punishment and helped her queen in the bargain, answered in as cheeky a fashion.

“Perhaps he could stand in the great hall with an oil lamp hanging from his mighty manhood, my queen?”

“Now there’s an idea. Although I fear it may singe the hair off those lovely big balls of his!”

Both women and guardsmen erupted into gales of laughter.


About the Creator

Davi Mai

Short story writer. Fantasy, sci-fi, transgressive. I lack a filter but try to make stuff fun.

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  • Alex H Mittelman 2 months ago

    Great job! Great work!

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