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The following document is a work of erotic fiction. Any and all
resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental. The author neither encourages nor
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And thus we begin the story...

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01Knight - Chapter One {Moon Dragon} 
"Once a Knight" Copyright Moon Dragon - Mar/2010 
(fM, oral, FM, anal, magic, viol, F-solo 
exhib, MMf, f-solo, voy, reluc, best, f-dog 
1st-ff, ffM, shav, mf, MF, rom, hist) 
 
 - X - X - X - 

When a Contessa from present times returns 
and cannot go back for the love she yearns 
from a magical adventure in the past 
though ever more her love will last 
her squires must turn their weekend play 
into courage and prowess to save the day 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAE 
Lady Angharad O'Shaughnessy of Kilkenny 
Lord Lincoln Mac Galbraith of Blakeshire Wood 
     (Squires to Syr Gabriella) 

     Syr Gabriella Valentina, Contessa del Giardino Bella
     (Head of House Valentina) 

Sir Edmund de la Claire 
Baroness Sokhatai Bolkhadar 
     (Lord and Lady of House de la Claire) 

Duchess Lucinda Melisande Von Landstadt 
     (The Ivory Duchess) 

Sir Tyrus, Lord Blakeshire 
     (Knight of the Kings Court) 

Helga and Hannah the Serving Girls 
     (Handmaidens at Blakeshire Keep, Sisters) 

Lord Nathaniel of Belascye 
     (Squire of Sir Tyrus) 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
Holding his hands, Lady Angharad preceded Lord Lincoln
deep into the camp site until they reached the striped
white and sapphire Tudor pavilion that he often called
home during the two week long medieval camping events
that he attended in the summertime. She moved in ahead
of him, casting one of her trademark mischievous grins
over her shoulder, beckoning him to follow. 
 
Now here was something new! Lincoln had always enjoyed
flirting with this sexy redhead, but they hadn't ever
taken it further than harmless banter, so he was quite
anxious to know just how far this was going. He ducked
beneath the tents entryway as Angharad reached up and
tied the flaps closed, then turned away to apply flame
to a pair of hanging oil lanterns. 
 
"There," she stated, "That's better. It's much quieter
in here than it is out there, is it not?" 
 
Lincoln nodded, but before he could compose a coherent
reply, Angharad moved into his arms pressing her firm
young breasts against his chest. Her forest green gown
swayed in the lamplight as she brushed her lips across
his own, then fell to her knees on warm furs strewn on
the straw covered floor. 
 
"Um, I believe we ought not do this," declared Lincoln
unwillingly. It was just his honor speaking, although
his body was telling his honor to shut the fuck up and
play along, "What would Syr Gabriella think?" 
 
"Well," Angharad answered with a wicked smirk, "In all
likelihood, she'd tell you that you truly ought to get
laid more often... to calm you, of course. I heard her
say those actual words this very day. I do believe it
was whilst you, milord, were making ready to rush into
battle, and you had been rattling round the encampment
like a barnyard fowl with its head removed." 
 
"Said she so indeed?" Lincoln laughed, "Have you taken
it upon yourself, then, to see to it that those orders
are obeyed?" 
 
Saying nothing, Angharad slowly ran her hands up along
his naked calves until she'd reached the lower edge of
his great kilt. The traditional garb of the Scottish
Highlander, the belted plaid, or breacan feile, was no
more or less than an overlarge tartan blanket that was
pleated round the waist and secured with a belt. Extra
fabric was thrown over the shoulder, borne in place by
a stout metal brooch, then most usually ignored. 
 
"So what DO you wear under this thing anyway?" grinned
Angharad as she slipped her hands beneath the kilt and
teasingly ran them up his thighs. 
 
"Me mum once said that a proper lady wouldn't ask," he
replied, then added quietly, "She was right, God bless
her." 
 
"Hey, I heard that, y'know," smirked the russet haired
lass as she playfully feigned indignation. She pushed
him backward towards the straw pallet covering his oak
timbered rope bed, "Why don't we see just what sort of
proper lady I really am, shall we?" 
 
Lincoln didn't bother to reply as she flipped his kilt
up around his waist and planted a tiny kiss on the tip
of his hard cock. Her open fronted forest green twill
skirt gently swept her calves as she slowly started to
circle one of the pavilion center poles, undulating in
a rhythm with the middle eastern drums they could hear
beating throughout the encampment. 
 
Raising one arm over her head, Angharad moved her back
against the pole, bending her knees to slide downwards
like an exotic dancer. The drumming was joined by the
skirling of pipes, along with some variety of stringed
instrument in the background, as she untied the silken
laces of her bodice, shrugging her shoulders so bodice
and skirt fell upon the floor as one. Turning her back
to him, Angharad grasped the fabric of her embroidered
chemise at her hips and, gathering it in her hands by
inches at a time, lifted the hemline until it was over
her hips. 
 
Angharad looked back over her shoulder with her russet
locks cascading over her face, winking wickedly as she
reached beneath the lightweight garment and hooked her
thumbs into the waistband of a pair of linen bloomer
shorts. They were just a little too scantily styled to
be historically accurate, but Lincoln certainly wasn't
complaining. 
 
Keeping her legs straight with feet together, she bent
from the waist, purposely framing a very spankable ass
within the folds of her chemise. She knew that she had
just given the braw Scotsman a glimpse of her eagerly
waiting slit, as planned, hiding it again as she stood
upright letting the hem of the undergown fall back to
the floor. Clad only in a soft linen chemise, Angharad
prowled across the floor and stretched out full length
on the pallet mattress of the rope bed, then waited to
see what Lincoln would do next. 
 
Taking his cue, Lincoln stood over her as he unclasped
the brass penannular brooch that kept his plaid pinned
to his shoulder, then loosed the light chain that held
his sporran, casting it to one side. He unbuckled the
wide red leather belt that was the only thing allowing
the tartan blanket to resist the pull of gravity. The
plaid fell upon the floor in a shapeless heap, leaving
him clad in just a thigh length shirt and his boots. 
 
Slipping the lower hem of her chemise smoothly up over
her silky calves, Lincoln laid a trail of kisses from
her ankles to her knees. His lips followed the garment
as he lightly raised the sensuous ivory colored fabric
still higher til it was gathered round her thighs. His
heart was pounding like a war drum, he was waiting for
Angharad to make him stop at any moment, but she did
nothing of the sort. The soft fabric slipped up around
her slender waist as she lifted her hips, allowing his
trail of slow, hot kisses to arrive at the juncture of
her thighs. 
 
Lincoln paused for an instant, to gaze in appreciation
upon an unexpected treasure that he found. Apparently
her calves weren't the only part of her body that Lady
Angharad kept silky smooth. 
 
"See something you like?" she whispered with a grin. 
 
Letting action speak louder than words, Lincoln gently
parted her thighs, and began planting kisses all over
her soft little pussy. Angharad let out a hushed groan
of happiness, as Lincoln's tongue began to explore her
slit, making her dripping wet. She crossed her ankles
around his shoulders, spreading her legs just a little
wider to allow him greater access, beginning to writhe
with pleasure as his lips danced over her slit. 
 
"Oh god, yeah," she moaned, "Just like that." 
 
Angharad felt her breathing grow ragged and heavy as a
pulsing heat spread throughout her body. She slid her
hands beneath her chemise to gently squeeze and caress
her tits, gasping in ecstasy as Lincoln lightly parted
her pussy lips to flick his tongue over her clit. Her
stiff little button pulsated with delight, as her slim
hips writhed lustily. 
 
"Not yet, baby," she begged, "Slow down... Ungh... God
damn, I think I'm gonna... Mmm... I'm gonna..." 
 
Angharad felt her body let go, thrashing in ecstasy as
Lincoln gently suckled at her clit, sending wave after
wave of explosive color surging through her body. She
squeezed her tits a little harder, prolonging the heat
that was overwhelming her. 
 
"Oh baby... Mmm... I'm cumming," she whimpered, "Fuck
yeah, just like that... Ungh, ungh, ungh!" 
 
As her body began to relax, Angharad savored the scent
of her orgasm, bucking her hips lightly in reaction as
Lincoln's tongue teased her oversensitive clit. After
taking a moment to recover, she sat up and tangled her
fingers lightly in the long wavy brown locks that fell
over Lincoln's shoulders, and gently pulled him up til
he faced her. 
 
"Okay," she whispered, "That was fucking incredible!" 
 
"Wonderful," Lincoln grinned, "Glad you enjoyed it." 
 
"Oh, I did," she replied, "But now its my turn." 
 
She reached up to remove his shirt. The fine tunic was
a cobalt blue through the body, with a puffed roll of
white over each shoulder. It had white vambraces laced
up over the forearms, and there was a matching ruffled
jabot tied at the throat. Both the vambraces and jabot
were trimmed in a silver braid, with a row of sapphire
stones encircling each wrist, and a wrought silver and
sapphire pendant hung from the throat. 
 
Deftly unpinning the sapphire pendant, she unlaced the
vambraces, and pulled the tunic over his head and cast
it to the floor. With a playful shove, she pressed him
back onto the bed, then pulled away his leather boots
and dropped them upon the straw as well. Kneeling upon
the stuffed mattress beside his hips, Angharad leaned
towards him, gently pressing her soft lips against his
own, teasing him with the tip of her tongue. 
 
Lincoln reached up with one hand, tangling his fingers
through her own russet locks, as he drew her closer to
him with the other. Her soft tits flattened up against
his chest, as the shared warmth of their bodies spread
through her embroidered chemise in hot waves. 
 
He heard her groan softly, as she hiked her chemise up
round her hips and moved the weight of her body toward
him, throwing an ivory thigh over his hips and taking
his shaft in her hand. He gritted his teeth, trying to
avoid moaning aloud as she placed the head of his cock
against her wet slit. An instant later she settled her
weight upon him, and her pink pussy lips spread around
his cock, as she slid down his length til he bottomed
out deep inside her velvet heat. His own struggles for
silence were rendered pointless when Angharad groaned
loudly, clearly audible to any passerby outside of the
pavilions canvas walls. 
 
She idly hoped there was nobody around to overhear her
cries, but in truth, she honestly didn't care. She had
observed the braw Scotsman from afar since his pledge
to Syr Gabriella a month and a half before, barely one
week after her seventeenth birthday, and although Lord
Lincoln was nigh six years older than her, she'd spent
the last six weeks awaiting this moment. She had once
heard it remarked that a woman knew within ten minutes
of meeting a man for the first time whether or not she
was eventually going to sleep with him; she had made a
decision within thirty seconds. 
 
Wanting more contact, Angharad impatiently tore at her
linen chemise, tugging it over her head and baring her
soft young tits to Lincoln's touch. Rocking herself up
and down on her knees, she whimpered with pleasure as
he caressed them teasingly with the softest touches of
the tips of his fingers, lightly circling her nipples
with his thumbs. Her lean hips rose and fell in primal
abandon as she slid her dripping slit up and down over
Lincoln's thick stiffness, wildly fucking herself with
his hard cock. 
 
Groaning in ecstasy, she held her tits, squeezing them
as Lincoln slid his hands down to encircle her slender
waist. Her clit ground hotly against him, throbbing at
every contact, each time she thrust her silky smooth
pussy down upon him. She began to moan, another orgasm
looming closer with every instant. Lincoln pulled her
close, so that her tits were slipping up and down over
his chest with every motion. 
 
"That's it, baby," he whispered in her ear, "Just like
that. You're almost there, aren't you?" 
 
"Mmm-hmm," she whimpered, "Oh god, it feels so good!" 
 
"Oh yeah, don't stop," he encouraged her, cupping her
naked ass as it rose and fell over his hips, "You want
it, don't you, baby?" 
 
"Oh fuck, yeah," she groaned quietly, "You know I want
it, I wanna cum so bad, baby." 
 
"Do it, baby," Lincoln told her, "Cum for me." 
 
Angharad plunged downwards once more, ramming his hard
cock in deep as her pussy began to spasm. 
 
"I'm cumming," she wailed, "Ungh... Oh shit, baby, I'm
cumming. Mmm... Mmm... Ooooh! Oh yeah!" 
 
Angharad let herself come apart completely, convulsing
uncontrollably as she ground her slit down on his hard
shaft. Vivid undulations of color exploded throughout
her body and brightly hued lights burst forth in her
head. She squeezed her tits, loving it rough while she
was cumming, and felt the sensations slowly drift away
from her once more. 
 
Feeling her pussy hotly pulsating around his hard cock
was more than Lincoln could withstand. He felt himself
drawing closer to his own release, but realized barely
in time that there was going to be trouble. Angharad
still languidly stroked her slick pussy up and down on
his hard cock, and he struggled against the inevitable
as he tried to explain. 
 
"Uh, baby, stop a second," he begged, "Please you have
to... ungh fuck... I'm not wearing a condom." 
 
Angharad grinned wickedly, tightening her pussy around
his stiff cock to tease him. She could see in his eyes
that such teasing couldn't last very long, however, so
she offered a wordless solution. 
 
Lifting herself off of him, she slowly moved down over
his body until she was kneeling between his thighs. An
instant slipped by as she smiled mischievously, then
dipped her head down to take his hardness into her hot
wet mouth. Lincoln groaned as he felt her tongue slide
down over his shaft, and she began to bob her head up
and down upon his stiff cock with aching slowness. She
seemed to know when enough was enough, however, as she
stopped each time he was within moments of release. In
this way she held his pleasure at bay for just another
minute or two, until she was ready. 
 
Glancing up to make sure he was watching, Angharad let
her head tilt back and slipped his raging cock all the
way down her throat. Lincoln gasped, feeling his shaft
sliding deeper and deeper into her mouth until her hot
moist lips were pressed tight against the very root of
his cock. There was no way he could endure it. 
 
"Oh god baby, here it comes," he warned, expecting her
to move before it was too late but she didn't. Moments
later he grunted, tangling his fingers in her hair as
he fired spurts of hot cum into her mouth. Moving only
enough to allow herself room to swallow, Angharad gave
an impatient moan as she let Lincoln's salty sweet cum
trickle down her throat, without spilling a drop. 
 
Releasing his dwindling shaft from her mouth, Angharad
crawled up alongside of him, and fell into his arms in
an exhausted, though sated heap. 
 
"Now that," she exclaimed dreamily, "Is what I call an
exquisite celebration!" 
 
Laughing softly, Lincoln agreed. Although he was still
befuddled to some degree, he tried to recall just what
they'd been celebrating in the first place... 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
... Battles raged around him, and his ears were filled
with the clashing of arms and the cries of men... many
of whom were oddly laughing while, and even after, the
stout blows that felled them were struck. 
 
Lord Lincoln Mac Galbraith of Blakeshire Wood stood in
the last rank, with a sturdy recurved bow in hand, and
launched padded arrows against the broad enemy shield
wall that barred their way. He was jostled by the butt
end of a longspear, carried by one of his own comrades
in arms, which spoiled his aim. Fortunately, a warrior
wielding a pole axe zigged when he should have zagged
and stepped right into the shot, so that arrow had not
gone to waste although it had missed the target he had
intended. He had but one final shaft left, though, and
he had to make it count. 
 
There, in the second rank, behind a protective wall of
shield bearing fighters, was the enemy commander. His
silvery helm gleamed in the noonday sun, as if begging
to be targeted, and many enemy warriors rallied around
a silk standard decorated with the very same white and
gold design as his surcotte. Lincoln warily nocked his
final arrow, and in one smooth movement, drew back the
bow and loosed, threading the needle as the blunt head
of the arrow flew in between the commander's upraised
shield and that of the man on his right. The commander
of the enemy force snapped his head back with surprise
as the padded arrow struck square on the face grill of
his steel helm. 
 
He looked across the line to catch Lincoln's eye, then
raised his weapon in salute and fell to the ground. He
wasn't actually harmed, of course, just acknowledging
the hit honorably by playing the part of still another
casualty. Lincoln gave a snarl of glee, then slung his
bow over one shoulder, drew his molded rubber axe from
the worn leather sling over the other, and waded into
that chaotic fray... taking all of two steps before he
was felled by a hairy barbarian with a war hammer. 
 
Later that night, while sitting around the fire within
the encampment of his knight, Lincoln entertained his
sword brothers with a song of a Norseman who found his
way at last to the halls of Valhalla. As he sang, amid
the evening quiet, broken only by the sound of revelry
from neighboring camps, he kept time by slapping the
end of his belt gently against his open palm. The belt
was red leather, and upon its tip was a small enameled
shield bearing the arms of his knight. 
 
He had pledged his service to the lovely Syr Gabriella
Valentina, Contessa del Giardino Bella, only six weeks
earlier. For as long as she deemed him worthy of her
household, and in need of her training, he would serve
as her squire. He would carry and maintain her weapons
and armor, as well as his own, and he would wait upon
her and attend her needs at court. She, in return, had
pledged to train him in the ways of knighthood; in the
art of combat, deeds of arms, and court etiquette. 
 
At such time as she deemed him fit, she would petition
her peers in the chivalric Order of the Golden Hart to
invite him into their ranks. That day, however, would
not be anytime soon, and Lincoln was quite content for
the duration to serve alongside his two other brothers
and sisters in arms as Syr Gabriella's squires. 
 
Just as he finished his ballad, Lincoln noticed that a
shadow had moved between himself and the camp fire. He
looked up to see a knight, in his surcoat of white and
gold, gazing sternly down at him. 
 
"You are he," asked that knight, "Who felled me during
the battle this day?" 
 
Lincoln remained silent for a moment. Some knights had
a dislike for archers, whom they claimed fired their
weapons from afar, only to yield without taking a blow
if their opponent was within melee range. Some knights
contended that there was a lack of honor in this, and
berated archers for failing to lay themselves in harms
way like true warriors. 
 
Glancing over at Syr Gabriella, Lincoln could see that
she was awaiting his response, with one eyebrow raised
expectantly. Honor, both hers and his own, demanded he
speak and answer true. 
 
"You say rightly," he said rising to his feet, "It was
indeed I, sir knight." 
 
The knight simply reached up to grasped his forearm in
a warriors handshake. 
 
"A fine shot that was, young man," he said with a wide
grin, "And your knight must surely be pleased that her
squire has attained such skills, with sword or bow." 
 
"He fares better in the list," Syr Gabriella said with
a smile, "His skill with sword or axe serves him much
better when there is only one opponent to keep account
of. In open battle, he is often struck by one opponent
while charging after another." 
 
"As is so often the case," the knight agreed, "In time
you will learn to be broader of vision during the heat
of battle. Until that day, your bow shall serve your
kingdom just as well. Know me then as Sir Edmund de la
Claire, and know too that at the behest of your knight
I have been watching your performance, both on and off
the field, even before this day. Skill at arms can be
learned in the course of time, but only heart can make
a man who he is, and heart cannot be learned. If ever
you should need a strong arm to lend support when your
own knight is unavailable, you may freely summon House
de la Claire at any time." 
 
Sir Edmund wheeled around on his heel, and strode away
without speaking another word. Lincoln heard a buzzing
in the air, or perhaps merely within his own head, and
he fell back to his seat with a thump. He was grinning
like an idiot, so much so that he scarcely heard the
congratulations of his squire brothers. Sir Edmund was
one of the knights that was oft heard spoken of around
campfires with tones of awe, and to receive such words
of encouragement from such as he was almost as good as
being knighted yourself. 
 
"Come, milord," whispered a voice in his ear, "This is
cause for celebration." 
 
Rather shocked, he looked up into the laughing eyes of
Lady Angharad O'Shaughnessy of Kilkenny. Syr Gabriella
had but one female vassal; she had been squired to her
much longer than Lincoln had, even before the Contessa
had taken her place in the order of chivalry to begin
with. Three years had gone by since then, and although
young Angharad had been only fourteen at the time, she
had blossomed nicely as time went by... 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
... Sir Edmund walked out of the Contessa's encampment
and made his way through the throngs of medieval revel
goers. Middle eastern drums beat a heavy rhythm amidst
the skirling of pipes as he entered the encampment of
House de la Claire. He had long since been knighted by
the time Syr Gabriella had accepted the accolade, with
seven squires who had sworn fealty to him, each squire
commanding as many as a dozen various men at arms. 
 
Indeed he hadn't founded the household himself; rather
he had been invited to join it, and later inherited it
upon the retirement of the original founder, Bolkhadar
Khachigun. Bolkhadar also had a daughter, Sokhatai, in
the KMA who had been but two years old when her father
had begun to assemble his household, but that had been
nineteen years ago. Since then, although the name of
the household had been changed to respect their newest
head, their Baroness Sokhatai Bolkhadar had shouldered
her fathers legacy well, and Sir Edmund wore her favor
with pride. 
 
As he neared the campfire, hearing his squires and men
at arms telling stories of the days battle, Edmund saw
the Baroness walking casually into the Mongolian yurt
beneath his banner of crimson and gold. She was gazing
coyly over her shoulder, and was untying the sash that
bound her caftan as she went. Deciding that the tales
of battle could wait for morning, Edmund abandoned the
fire, following her toward their portable hut. 
 
Sokhatai was already practically naked by the time Sir
Edmund entered the yurt, with her calve length caftan
and an ankle length undertunic that she'd been wearing
beneath it already discarded carelessly upon their fur
strewn floor. There was naught but the dim flicker of
candles to hide the form of her body as she tugged the
thigh length linen chemise up over her head, spilling
her ebony black hair from under its hem as she exposed
her bare tits to his admiring eye. 
 
Edmund began to doff his own clothing, his surcoat and
hauberk joining her garments upon the floor. His tunic
of white and gold fell upon them, and he moved toward
her, clad only in boots and leather breeches. Slipping
one arm around her slender waist, he pulled her closer
to him, flattening her naked tits upon his chest, then
pressed his firm lips against hers. 
 
Eagerly undoing the ties of his breeches, the Baroness
wasted no time slipping one venturing hand inside the
snug leather garment to grasp his hardening cock. With
no delays, she dropped to her knees upon the luxurious
furs cast over the floor, dragging Edmunds breeches to
fall around his ankles as she went. In the real world
outside of the Kansas Medieval Association, the lovely
baroness was just a quiet accountant who worked in the
local tax offices, but there was just something about
the music and the firelight that stifled her restraint
and released her inner passion. 
 
Licking her lips with eager anticipation, Sokhatai let
the knights throbbing hardness slide into her mouth as
she moaned contentedly. Mongolian music could be heard
outside their yurt over the mixture of bagpipes, lutes
and other dissimilar instruments from elsewhere about
the campground, but Edmunds groans soon began to drown
out all of the other sounds of revelry. 
 
Settling back on the fur covered bed as he tangled his
fingers gently in her hair, the knight watched as the
baroness bobbed her head up and down in his lap, using
her movements to slip his cock in and out of her silky
wet mouth. There he remained until he noticed Sokhatai
writhing erotically, urgently craving attention. 
 
Rising to his feet, Edmund moved her forward until she
was bent over the edge of the bed, then he knelt into
position behind her. Holding to her naked hips to make
steady his aim, he loosed an arrow of his own smoothly
into her moist target. Sokhatai groaned, savoring the
rapid plunge that had her body lurching forward on the
bed, knotting her hands in the furs as Edmund began to
thrust in and out of her aching slit. 
 
She bit her lip to stifle any further moans, listening
to the carousing band of Mongolian warriors outside as
they celebrated both victory and defeat, unaware that
their baroness was getting her wet pussy hammered only
a few paces away. She liked knowing that their troops
might hear. It turned her on to think that she and her
knight could be discovered at any moment. Pushing back
against Edmund's driving lunges, Sokhatai whimpered as
he slammed his hips into her smooth round ass, forcing
her ever closer into delirium. 
 
"Ungh, fuck yeah," she whispered, "Harder baby. You're
gonna make... ungh yeah, make me cum." 
 
Sir Edmund redoubled his efforts, driving his hot hard
cock into her slick wet slit using every ounce of his
strength. He reached around, grasping her soft tits as
she moaned out his name, feeling her pussy starting to
spasm around his rigid shaft. 
 
"Ooooh yes, I'm cumming," she moaned, trembling as all
the colors of the rainbow shot through her body, "Ungh
yes, right there. Ungh fuck me, Aaaaah!" 
 
Sparkling jolts of polychromatic music surged all over
her throbbing slit, crackling like a lightning bolt up
through her spine and into her brain. In that endless
moment of breathless ecstasy, the baroness felt Edmund
still driving himself forcefully into her wetness, hot
shocks of delight prolonging every second of delirious
frenzy. A short time later, when she was able to form
some coherent thoughts once again, Sokhatai moved away
from the knight, turning them both so that he was once
again lying on the bed. 
 
Kneeling on the bed between his feet, the ebony haired
noblewoman grasped hold of his rigid cock and began to
stroke it slowly, her own juices having left it slick
and wet. With her right hand pumping up and down in an
endless rhythm, Sokhatai gently squeezed her tits with
the other, alternating back and forth between them as
Edmund watched her jerk him off. She grew impatient to
see him cum, she loved the sight of his face grimacing
as he tried to fight back his pleasure. This eagerness
could easily be sated, however, as she knew the way to
make Edmund cum whenever she wanted, regardless of how
hard he fought. 
 
Grinning wickedly, the baroness coaxed Edmund to raise
his knees as she dipped one finger into her hot pussy
to make it wet. Once she had done this, she slipped an
agile hand beneath him and brushed a finger around the
cleft of his bottom. 
 
"Ungh fuck," he groaned, "Cheater." 
 
Taking his moans for encouragement, Sokhatai then slid
her finger gently into the knights tight ass, stroking
his prostate with her left hand and his hard pulsating
cock with her right. Slipping her slick wet fingertip
back and forth in his ass, with her raven haired locks
matted with the sweltering heat of their congress, the
baroness wrapped the palm of her hand around the plum
dark head of his shaft, grasping it gently as she felt
his hips begin to buck upon the bed. 
 
The double sensations of Sokhatai stroking the head of
his shaft and fondling his prostate simultaneously was
more than Edmund could stand. With a low growl, he let
himself go, pulsing hot jets of sticky white cum into
her hand until the baroness felt it trickling out from
between her fingers. The hot cum clinging to her hands
was enough to send her following Edmund. 
 
"Ungh, fuck, yeah," she groaned. Without being touched
at all, she felt waves of dizziness as a mind bending
orgasm ripped from her head to her feet, her toes even
curling in the furs of the bed as hot raging eruptions
of electric color ripped through her. 
 
A short time afterward, when they had both calmed down
somewhat, Sokhatai gave a devilish little giggle while
she looked for something to clean up the mess. Taking
time to gather up their clothing, they got dressed and
went outside. Sir Edmund walked into the firelight in
time to hear muffled snickers and catch a small number
of coins changing hands. 
 
"What's this now?" he challenged. 
 
"Nothing at all, milord," one of the men at arms about
the campfire replied, "Merely a friendly wager amongst
comrades." 
 
"What kind of wager?" 
 
"Well... keeping score, milord. You see we... by which
I mean they, questioned how long, uh..." 
 
Sokhatai walked up behind the knight to whisper softly
in his ear. Flushing many shades of red, Edmund glared
around the encampment. 
 
"You lot," he growled, sitting by the fire, "Are all a
bunch of incorrigible scoundrels." 
 
The baroness came over and sat on his lap, handing him
a tankard of mead as she smirked saucily at the troops
of their household. 
 
"Don't fret, milord," she remarked, "Regardless of any
wager made by such devils, remember that this night it
was you who scored..." 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
... Lincoln gazed down upon the sated Lady by his side
just as she opened her mouth in a jaw cracking yawn. 
 
"Oh, that was attractive," she giggled, "How about you
just pretend you didn't see that, alright?" 
 
"See what?" 
 
"Good boy," she said, then she slithered up out of bed
and began to gather her clothing, "Now get up and come
with me. I've got a surprise for you." 
 
"I don't know," Lincoln smirked, "After the unexpected
performance in here a little while ago, I believe I'm
pretty damned surprised as it is, assuming that counts
for anything. Not that I'm complaining, mind." 
 
"You are such a man," Angharad grinned, "But seriously
though, you gotta come with me." 
 
Rolling out off the pallet mattress, Lincoln collected
his own clothing and began to get dressed. There was a
bonus midnight battle scheduled to commence in just an
hour, so leaving all of his jeweled finery behind, he
donned instead a pair of quilted blue hose, trimmed in
white, that he laced onto the drawstring of his wholly
anachronistic tartan print shorts. Over this he pulled
a matching thigh length quilted coat with its upright
quilted collar and sleeves that extended out to enwrap
the backs of his hands. The long coat laced up in the
front, and it was called a gambeson. Collectively, the
items served as padding under the entire suit of chain
maille that covered him from the bottom of his feet to
the top of his head. 
 
Over these padded undergarments, Lincoln donned a pair
of maille chausses. Resembling nothing as much as hip
length stockings, the chausses were built of thousands
of interlocked and welded titanium rings, each one of
them smaller than a dime. The chain link leggings were
pointed to leather tabs on the interior of his padded
gambeson, and they were joined by a thigh length shirt
of maille also known as a hauberk. 
 
Greaves and vambraces of leather, reinforced with thin
splints of hardened steel, protected his forearms and
shins over the maille pieces, with jointed poleyns and
couters to guard his knees and elbows. He wore a vest
of leather, lined with overlapping metal bands, called
a coat of plates, with articulated steel spaulders to
protect his shoulders. The coat included a high collar
of leather reinforced with a steel band to protect his
throat. Over all this, Lincoln donned his belted plaid
and sporran around his waist over a blue surcoat that
had been emblazoned with the two headed falcon and the
three Scottish thistles that together made up his coat
of arms. 
 
He tucked his helmet under his arm, a coal grey powder
coated helm, designed to resemble a fourteenth century
chapel de fer, with a shoulder length coiffe of welded
maille hanging from the brow to conceal those sections
which had been varied away from historical accuracy in
favor of safety. A pair of steel plated gloves, called
gauntlets, completed the ensemble; these he carried in
his upended helm. His shield and weapons he would send
one of Syr Gabriella's men at arms back to retrieve a
little later, after the safety marshals had officially
announced the call to arms. 
 
When they'd deemed one another decent enough to appear
before the public, Angharad took his hand, leading him
from the pavilion and toward the market square. Out in
the 'plaza' had been raised a great array of tents and
shelters, each housing merchants of every variety and
sort. Armorers, leather workers and metal smiths; food
vendors, bowyers and fletchers, all shared space round
the square. 
 
Making him close his eyes, Angharad led him across the
square to an old covered wagon before she allowed him
to look. A long table had been hastily set up in front
of the wagon, and a shimmering exhibition was laid out
on its rough wooden surface. 
 
The display of jewelry was like nothing he'd ever seen
before. Although these trinkets, and their crafter as
well, if he were honest, seemed somewhat eccentric and
strange, he was drawn by their wonder. Looking down at
all of the different pieces, Angharad instantly picked
out the items she wanted. A matched couplet of Celtic
torcs in twisted gold, with large amethyst stones that
were set into the filigree at either end. 
 
The eerie old Gypsy merchant looked at Angharad as she
picked up one of the torcs to examine the stones more
closely. Tracing a finger across the gem she could not
help but notice the macabre chill that suddenly filled
the air. There was something strange about this object
but she liked it. 
 
"I would like to buy these beautiful pieces," Angharad
stated, placing her new treasures down on the table. 
 
"Ah, young lass," said the old gypsy, "Just leave thee
thy coins, and I will take care of all. Thou should be
thyself prepared, though, for all that may appear upon
their donning." 
 
Angharad and Lincoln walked away from the old lady, as
she swept up the coins with gnarled hands and vanished
into the wagon, casting a last look over her shoulder
at them, as if they both had faces that seemed vaguely
remembered from a forgotten past. 
 
"What a crazy old lady," she said with a grin, "But we
got these for such a steal." 
 
"Who is she?" Lincoln asked. 
 
"I don't really know," replied the young russet haired
girl with a grin, "But Syr Gabriella bought a necklace
from her two years ago, and she says it led her to her
hearts desire." 
 
A faux stone fountain, powered by a cleverly disguised
pump and battery, had been set up in the center of the
square. Angharad led him over to it, and they both sat
on the rough hewn benches that surrounded it. 
 
Using the water as a mirror, Angharad slipped the torc
upon her neck, and bid Lincoln to don his as well. The
effect seemed ideal, complimenting both her beauty and
his rugged virility. She delighted in their reflection
as it shimmered in the water, but suddenly the water
began to ripple. The air around them turned smokey and
grey. Then without warning, came a dazzling flash that
seemed bright enough to have outshone even the midday
sun, illuminating the practice fields for the briefest
instant. A rumbling like thunder that belied the clear
night sky was overtaken by an horrific crash, and then
the world faded to black... 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
... A thunderous eruption came out of nowhere, hurling
them to the ground. Feeling a large knot upon the back
his head, Lincoln struggled to open one eye. Where was
he? This was not the tournament grounds, and they were
clearly NOT in Kansas anymore. The torcs they had both
been wearing no longer adorned their necks. Without a
moments warning, the ground shook violently, vibrating
to the rhythmic gallop of two magnificent horses. Upon
them rode two wrathful men dressed in chain maille and
sporting upon their surcoats arms that neither of them
had ever seen before. 
 
"Witchcraft," one of the men proclaimed, "Capture them
at once." 
 
"Yes, milord," said the other, hurling himself off the
horse toward them. 
 
There could be but one response. 
 
"Run," Angharad screamed. 
 
"Good idea," Lincoln quickly agreed. Taking her by the
hand, he steered her firmly towards the nearest copse
of trees, then stood his ground, between her and their
unidentified attackers. 
 
The man who had gotten off his horse rushed at Lincoln
while the other wheeled his mount around them to chase
the Lady Angharad. She reached the trees just as the
early morning sun blazed up over the horizon, blurring
her vision, then she realized that Lincoln wasn't with
her. Cursing him for an over-courageous fool, she kept
pressing her way through the dense undergrowth within
the thicket, which rather proved to be a hindrance to
flight. The horse of her nameless pursuer was hindered
still further, though, and she had soon left the rider
behind. As she hid amongst the trees, she could hear
the man heaping obscenities upon the brush, though his
thrashing quickly moved away as he searched for her in
the wrong direction. 
 
Inching through the brush, trying both to flee pursuit
and find a way back to the dark haired Scot, to learn
what fate had befallen him, Angharad realized that she
had turned herself around sometime during her panicked
flight through the undergrowth. She no longer knew how
to find her way out of these trees. Lincoln once told
her how much time he had spent camping and hiking as a
boy, so he at least had a background in woodcraft, but
it was a background that she did not share. Aside from
the safe and structured camping of the Kansas Medieval
Association, she had never spent very much time inside
the out of doors. 
 
She would much have preferred to wait for Lord Lincoln
to find her, but in truth, she had no means of knowing
if he was in any condition to come looking. She even
tried to follow her own back trail out the way she had
come, but she quickly lost track of it. She remembered
that the rising sun had shone in her face as she was
entering the tree line, she figured that she should be
able to discover a way out if she kept the sun shining
on her back -- that is, if she could find the sun. 
 
These trees were even more thick above than the brush
was below, and they largely hid the sun, but she could
see its general direction from the fall of the shadows
and that was enough to give her some idea of the right
way to steer. She set off, grinning proudly that she
had recalled even a little of what Lincoln had thought
to teach her, then she promptly stumbled over a hidden
root and went quietly sprawling in a bed of dried pine
needles. 
 
Nothing was harmed save her pride, but as she stood to
her feet she realized that the root had probably saved
her from a fall of a much more serious nature. She had
been so busy looking upwards in order to keep track of
the sun-cast shadows, that she had failed to note the
sudden drop in the path. After tumbling down an abrupt
but shallow embankment, she would likely have wound up
in the drink, probably ending in the small pool at the
bottom. 
 
As she glanced down at the water, though, Angharad was
surprised to discover that the pleasant glade, and the
pool within, were already occupied. A water sprite of
about thirty five summers was frolicking in the waters
of the small pond, oblivious to her presence. She wore
her hair, so blonde that it was almost white, plaited
down past her thighs, and her clothing had been folded
neatly and placed upon the rocks a short way back from
the waters edge. She soon began to bathe herself, thus
sending currents of glistening water cascading down on
her naked body. 
 
As the long braided hair swept back and forth over her
ass, the young Irish lass caught an occasional glimpse
of an intriguing tattoo displayed on the woman's lower
back. Nigh as large as her splayed hand, there was an
ashen greenish blue circle surmounted by a mottled red
star outlined in black. Overall, in truth, it appeared
rather like an unusually patterned pentagram. With the
lowermost edge of the circle just barely hovering over
the cleft of her ass, it was actually kind of sexy. 
 
Angharad had never found herself sexually attracted to
another woman before now, but watching as this elegant
specimen was gracefully bathing was beginning to make
an unforeseen impression upon her. The lithesome woman
reached one hand upwards to leisurely unbind her long
hair, letting it fan out around her in silky plumes as
she laid back in the water. Without even a token look
around, to ensure that she was unseen, the woman began
to slowly caress her body, letting the cool waters and
the warm sunlight play conflicting sensations over her
excited skin. 
 
Some part of her being knew that it was wrong to watch
this woman in so private a moment, but Angharad was no
more able to tear herself away than she was capable of
denying herself breath. The svelte blonde slid a hand
down over her tits, caressing her stiff nipples as the
cool water hardened them, then slipped her hand still
lower until she reached the juncture of her thighs. An
endless moment later her fingers brushed down through
the pale thatch of curls over her mound as she touched
her velvety soft pussy. 
 
Oblivious to her environment, the woman failed to hear
the soft rustling in the shrubbery which signaled the
approach of another. From her place of concealment, an
originally unnoticed trail became visible to Angharad
when she checked out this new arrival. Stifling a gasp
of surprise, she was quite taken aback to find, riding
into the glade, the very man who had pursued her. 
 
"It is almost time to leave, Duchess Lucinda," the man
called deferentially, "Now that the sun has risen, we
must be away from these lands ere Sir Tyrus dispatches
his morning patrols." 
 
Sir Tyrus? Angharad was shocked anew. It couldn't be! 
 
"It will be time for us to leave, Pasquale, when I say
it is time to leave," the woman said, with her fingers
still idly caressing her pussy, completely unconcerned
about the mans presence, "Now begone!" 
 
"Yes, your Grace," Pasquale said, reining his stallion
back through the trees, and leaving Lucinda alone once
more. 
 
Unfazed by the interruption, the duchess continued the
slow tracing of her pussy beneath the still waters of
the pool. She reached up with a free hand and returned
to caressing her alabaster white tits, squeezing them
roughly as she slipped a finger between her pussy lips
to search for her own wetness. She circled the tips of
two fingers slowly around the satiny slick opening of
her inner sex, plunging them abruptly into her waiting
slit. Lucinda was not known for her patience; anything
she wanted, she wanted now! 
 
Angharad watched soundlessly as the svelte lady pumped
her two fingers quickly in and out of her pussy. There
was no gentleness, no intimacy, in the act. As far as
the Irish lass could tell, Lucinda was attempting only
to get herself off, just as quickly and efficiently as
possible. Forsaking her tits, the duchess slipped her
other hand down between her legs, stroking her pulsing
clit and driving herself ever closer to orgasm. 
 
Opening her ivory thighs wider, the duchess pumped her
burning slit furiously with her fingers, stroking her
clit violently as she pushed herself closer and closer
to the edge. Angharad watched as Lucinda slipped one
hand away from her pussy, reaching beneath herself and
pushing a slender finger in her tight little ass. This
caused the duchess to moan out loud, biting her lip to
silence her cries. Still beating the tip of her finger
over her clit, she slid a delicate finger of her other
hand in and out of her asshole. 
 
"Ungh, yes," she groaned quietly, "Mmm!" 
 
Angharad looked on, with her own little pussy starting
to drip, impatiently waiting while the duchess wildly
tried to make herself cum. There was an awful sense of
enthrallment as she spied on this genuine highborn and
aristocratic lady, silently begging her to climax. 
 
As if Lucinda were able to hear her soundless pleading
from the pool beneath, she arched her back, the waters
splashing around her as her body began to spasm. There
was an awful moment when Angharad was certain that she
had been discovered, as the ivory duchess locked her
gaze upon her, but it lasted only for an instant with
no reaction forthcoming, so Angharad convinced herself
that Lucinda had been staring unfocused into space, no
more conscious of this unseen observer than of her own
name at that moment. 
 
Even throughout the depth of passion, Lucinda kept her
teeth tightly gritted together, making almost no sound
that would betray a moment of honest bliss. An instant
later, when she had regained control of herself, her
mask was back in its place, all control and efficiency
once more. She got to her feet and, stepping up out of
the pool of cool water, picked up her clothes to begin
getting dressed... 
 
... Lord Lincoln, meanwhile, had dropped gauntlets and
helm as the thunder threw him from his feet, but faced
now a varlet in chain maille who was wielding a wicked
looking sword. These weapons were no mockups of rubber
and plastic such as he was used to facing, but honest
steel in their stead. He did have his doubts about the
skill of the man wielding the weapon, though. Swinging
wildly at the Scotsman as he came, this thuggish knave
charged toward Lincoln like a maddened linebacker. 
 
Grasping his opponents wrist as he came into range, he
ducked under the flailing blade, and stuck a foot into
his adversary's path of travel. The large man sprawled
in the turf but quickly rolled to his feet, spitting
out mud with a caustic oath. As he squared off against
the man once more, Lincoln realized that he was now in
between the man and his horse. Lashed onto the animals
saddle was a weapon he was much more familiar with. 
 
Backing away from the man as he spat out a final piece
of offending slime, Lincoln withdrew the utilitarian
axe from its position. The axe was a wood cutting tool
instead of a weapon of war, but he was well aware that
beggars could not be choosers. The now filthy warrior
charged him once again, with the sword grasped in both
hands over his head, clearly intending that Lincoln be
cleft from brain to ballocks, but he was in for a rude
awakening. 
 
Leaning to his left, he felt the swords edge glance to
one side as it struck his metal spaulder, and again as
its point failed to penetrate his coat of plates. His
attacker made one more vicious swing, aiming this time
for Lincoln's unarmored head, but the Scotsman decided
that the contest had gone on long enough. 
 
Deftly slapping the swords blade away with the haft of
the axe, Lincoln whirled round and roughly backhanded
the man across the lower jaw with the flat of the cold
iron axe head. Foul teeth flew to the ground, and the
heavily set man crashed into the turf once more like a
fallen redwood, and this time lay still. 
 
Lincoln considered discarding the wood axe in favor of
the fallen sword, but closer examination showed it to
be pitted with rust, and almost as dull as the man who
had carried it. Threading the axes handle through his
belt, he retrieved his helm and gauntlets, and set off
toward the thicket of wood, to find the Lady Angharad
and learn what awful fate had befallen her. He'd meant
that both men should attack him, seeing an armored man
as the greater threat, leaving her free to escape, but
the mounted soldier had but left the footman to attend
to him, and chased her instead. 
 
He crept silently into the underbrush, discovering the
disturbed growth where the rider had become snarled in
the brambles, but he saw also a clear trail as the man
had ridden away, abandoning his quarry rather than his
horse. This meant that the man was either lurking yet
about the neighborhood or, more likely, had ridden off
to marshal reinforcements. But where had Lady Angharad
gotten to... 
 
... Angharad decided to wait a few more moments before
moving, so as to avoid being discovered anew. Even now
her heart was pounding in fear of further pursuit. 
 
"Here you are," whispered the voice in her ear, nearly
making her jump out of her own skin, "Come on we gotta
get out of here." 
 
"Lincoln!" she hissed, "Damn it, you scared me half to
death. Don't sneak up on me like that." 
 
"I was not sneaking," the Scotsman answered, "You just
weren't paying attention, or you most assuredly would
have heard my approach. What held you so spellbound in
any case?" 
 
"It was nothing," Angharad replied, blushing furiously
as Lincoln tried to look over her shoulder. 
 
"Why Angharad," he grinned when he caught sight of the
still half naked duchess, "You are a peeping tom." 
 
"Shut up," she said, slugging him in the arm as he led
her from the pool, "Besides, you're just jealous cause
you didn't see her first." 
 
Once they had exited the forest, Angharad set her back
to the early morning sun, walking purposefully towards
the west as he bombarded her with questions. 
 
"Where exactly are you going?" Lincoln inquired, "Slow
down just a second. Do you even know where we are? How
can you get where you're going if you don't know where
you are? Don't ignore me, Angharad, it's rude." 
 
"I don't KNOW where we are," she replied, still moving
away from the sun, "but I think I've got a pretty good
idea. If I'm right, we ought to find a fortified manor
house somewhere over in this direction." 
 
"How can you possibly know that?" 
 
"Less talking, more walking," Angharad answered, "Just
trust me, and I'll explain everything later." 
 
Lincoln opened his mouth to voice another protest, but
slammed it shut again as they turned a bend and looked
down into a vale below. The breadth of the valley had
been cleared of every tree and shrub, leaving no cover
for anybody who approached the structure on the island
within a small lake nestled in the valley. The russet
stones of the manor house gleamed like blood under the
early morning sunlight, and Angharad felt a moment of
childlike delight, as she beheld for the first time in
life what she had seen before only through the eyes of
another. 
 
Blakeshire Keep was just as Lady Angharad had pictured
in her mind, save that Syr Gabriella's description had
not done it justice. The red stone wall rose to thrice
the height of a tall man, and men patrolled the walls
upon the rampart. Smoke from a few small fires rose on
the crisply clean air, and the sound of small children
at play could be heard from within the russet walls as
they walked over a stone causeway which approached the
gate of the outer barbican. The barbican was a sort of
mini keep, itself built on the shore of second smaller
island that rose from the water between the first and
the beach, and at the foot of a road that wound upward
to the summit of the lesser isle. From there, a stone
bridge spanned a gap of roughly thirty feet separating
the two, leading to a gatehouse that extended from the
keeps outer curtain wall. 
 
Looking across at the larger island, Lincoln could see
the keep itself, standing four stories high, of carved
stone that matched the walls, with towers that loomed
over those three corners of the courtyard not occupied
by the fortified citadel. Upon reaching the drawbridge
and iron portcullis that guarded the entry, they both
waved to catch the attention of the soldiers stationed
on the rampart above them. 
 
"Halt," one yelled, "Who goes there?" 
 
"I bear tidings," Angharad called back, "Solely to the
ears of Sir Tyrus himself." 
 
"You know these people?" Lincoln hissed, "How?" 
 
"The Lord Blakeshire is not in residence," replied the
guardsman, "He is away on the Kings business." 
 
"Nonsense," Angharad scoffed, pointing up at an ensign
that flapped over the barbican tower, bearing a white
gryphon on a field of red and black, "His banner flies
thus, and it would not be so were he away. Admit us at
once sirrah! Else summon Sir Tyrus at least so that we
may address him directly." 
 
Another few moments passed them by whilst they awaited
the guardsman's answer. Lincoln took full advantage of
those moments to interrogate his friend. 
 
"Did he say Lord Blakeshire?" he asked, "But that's MY
name, or at least the one I use in the KMA. That can't
be a coincidence, can it?" 
 
"How came you by the name?" Angharad asked simply. 
 
"I took it after I was squired," he replied, "I hadn't
decided on a name to use, other than just Lincoln, and
Syr Gabriella suggested that one." 
 
"Indeed; so how then do you suppose SHE came by it?" 
 
Lincoln did not get the chance to answer. Just at that
moment, Sir Tyrus himself appeared. Even from this low
point of view, Lincoln could see that the knight was a
stoutly built man, standing somewhat over six feet in
height with the arms and shoulders of a man accustomed
to labor. He wore a shirt of gilded maille as his only
armor in his own home, with his black and red surcoat
belted over it, and his shoulder length chestnut blond
hair blew in the wind. Lincoln hadn't seen him walking
over the bridge from the keep, so he must already have
been within the barbican, mayhap himself only recently
arrived or making ready to depart. 
 
"Speak, outlander," he called. 
 
"As I told your guards, milord," Angharad replied, "We
are come to bear you tidings of the Lady Syr Gabriella
Valentina, Contessa del Giardino Bella." 
 
"You must be mistaken," the knight stated with a shake
of his head, "I know no such noble." 
 
"With respect, your lordship," Angharad differed, "You
do, but you knew her as Lady Jacklyn of Kansas." 
 
What happened next took Lincoln by surprise. Sir Tyrus
staggered back as if poleaxed, and his features turned
ghostly white as the blood drained from his face. 
 
"Open the portcullis," he bellowed, shoving the guards
to the side to work the winch himself when they moved
too slowly for his liking. As that heavy iron gate was
raised fully upward, he charged down the parapet steps
to stand before Angharad. 
 
"Where is she?" he pleaded, "Is she near?" 
 
"Alas your lordship," the Irish lass answered, "I fear
that she is not. She has searched heroically these two
years gone, trying to find a way to return to you, but
until this very day, none have been able to find the
way. Even we have come here by accident, unknowing the
powers of the same gypsy woman that she knew." 
 
Sir Tyrus fell upon his knees, choking back frustrated
cries of grief, unbecoming one of his station. Only a
few moments later, though, he had composed himself and
gotten back to his feet to guide them both through the
barbican. Therein, he mounted a fine bay stallion that
stood saddled, giving some credence to Lincoln's idea
that the nobleman had been making ready to leave. Upon
mounting his horse, however, he turned back toward the
bridge and led them both back to the keep, holding his
horse to their pace. 
 
After bidding his servants to bring food and drink for
his guests, they were led up the staircase to separate
chambers where they could refresh themselves. 
 
"Please make yourselves at home," the knight said, "As
soon as you are rested we will speak further. I regret
that I must leave you for the moment, there are other
matters to which I must attend, but I have charged the
servants to see to your every need. This lass is Helga
and she will..." 
 
Tyrus turned around to gesture to his servant, but she
was nowhere to be seen. Angharad, though, perked up at
the sound of the servants name. Even though they had
never been introduced, she'd heard much concerning the
lovely blond Helga. 
 
"Helga!" he bellowed, "Always hiding when there's work
to be done, that girl. Now where in the name of heaven
has she gotten off to this time..." 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
... At that moment, getting off was exactly what Helga
had in mind, but she was rather closer than the knight
realized though. Only a half score paces down the cool
stone hallway was a door. The chamber within had once
been used as a study, that Sir Tyrus had built for his
lady mother, but as she grew in years and her eyesight
failed her more every day, she no longer took pleasure
in books as once she had. As time went by, the unused
room became cluttered with broken furniture and trunks
of long forgotten clothing. 
 
The golden haired young handmaiden thought it shameful
that a perfectly good - and undisturbed - room such as
this should go wasted and unused, when she could think
of wonderful uses for it. Right now, for example, she
was in the room with two of her current favored men of
the keep, favored by Sir Tyrus as well; for different
reasons entirely though. One of these two men was dark
of hair and lean in the body, whip thin but possessing
a wiry strength that Helga found appealing. He was the
son of the manors chamberlain. 
 
It was this first man who was now laying a moist trail
of kisses down the side of her neck as his adventurous
fingers busied themselves by untying the laces of her
coal grey bodice. When these laces had been freed, the
chamberlains young son, whose name was Torquil, delved
strong hands into the front of her homespun chemise to
find her waiting tits. Helga moaned softly as the son
of the chamberlain promptly wrenched down the front of
her chemise, exposing her nipples to the attentions of
his lips and tongue. 
 
The second man, unknown to the servant girl but a good
friend of the first, was actually the same guardsman
who had tried to deny the knight's honored guests from
entry to his home. This one had a strength of arm that
she expected from a fighting man, but he was convinced
that his fighting days had abruptly ended. Surely, the
terrified man reasoned, once his noble guests had been
attended to, Sir Tyrus would seek him out and have him
hanged... or worse. 
 
Helga did not know who these visitors were, but as she
had been present in the courtyard during their earlier
arrival, she had been shocked to hear spoken the name
that had granted them entrance. She herself had rather
fond memories that involved Jacklyn of Kansas, who had
been entirely unaware that the servant girl had known
she was watching, and unaware as well that Helga later
crept out and watched in turn as she had her way with
the lord of the manor. She was also quite sure that if
the new visitors bore any news of Jacklyn's well being
at all, the knight would probably be found in spirits
most pleasant. Punishing the minor transgressions of a
single menial vassal, whom Torquil had identified only
as Ulrich, would be farthest from his mind. 
 
The foolish guardsman was quite positive, though, that
the knight planned to divest him of his manhood at the
very least, and he was determined to get the use of it
one last time whilst it still belonged to him. Though
altogether aware that he would do no such thing, Helga
had kept her council to herself, cheerfully allowing
Ulrich to believe that the lord knight could be on his
way to kick down the door at any moment, and that this
could well be his last chance to get laid for the rest
of his life. 
 
To be fair, though, the buxom serving wench was wholly
prepared to do everything she could think of to ease
the poor guardsman's anxieties... Short of telling him
the truth, of course. 
 
As Torquil continued to lightly fondle her tits, Helga
reached back, taking Ulrich's belt in hand to unfasten
its buckle solely by feel. Slipping one hand inside of
his breeches to grasp his rigid shaft, she leaned her
head back onto his shoulder and moaned in his ear. His
sword was clearly in fine working order, as a warriors
weapon rightly should be, and she could hardly wait to
be impaled upon it. 
 
Turning about, she moved backward until she fetched up
against and sat on one of the unused trunks, then had
Ulrich remove his leather breeches. The musky scent of
his arousal drifted towards her, and she eagerly drew
the brawny warrior closer as Torquil inched her skirts
up around her hips, tugging her bloomers down over her
ass to bunch round her thighs. Ulrich sat down upon an
empty wine barrel, so that his manhood was level with
Helga's face, and she reached up for him while Torquil
removed her bloomers and cast them aside. 
 
Whimpering in anticipation, Helga spread her thighs to
allow Torquil access to her body as he dropped to his
knees before her. She felt the gentle touch of his hot
breath upon the silky thatch of gold which crowned her
womanhood, and she shuddered as his tongue torturously
began outlining a slow path of hot yearning all around
her wet slit without actually touching it, leaving her
writhing in beautiful agony. Torquil mercilessly drove
her crazy with desire, finally relenting only when she
was certain that she was teetering upon the very brink
of madness. Rising to his feet, Torquil positioned the
head of his rigid cock between the quivering pink lips
of her slit and pushed. 
 
Ulrich felt his cock sliding into Helga's mouth at the
same moment that she felt Torquil's sliding up her wet
and willing pussy. All three of them groaned in unison
as they began to set up a rhythm, with Torquil driving
his hard shaft in and out of her dripping slit as the
serving girl bobbed her head up and down upon Ulrich's
lap in time to his thrusting. 
 
Sir Tyrus would likely order his chamberlain to take a
switch to her ass should he find out that she was off
somewhere being fucked while he still had work for her
to do, but at that moment, Helga didn't care. Far more
critical, in the serving girls opinion, was the rigid
shaft in her hot and aching pussy. Torquil slammed his
muscular hips up against hers, fast and hard, just the
way she liked it, and Ulrich groaned out loud as Helga
whimpered around his cock. She stroked up and down its
length with one hand while her talented tongue swirled
about its head, so that Ulrich gasped in delight. 
 
Reaching her free hand between her thighs, Helga began
playing with her throbbing clit, knowing that she was
but a moment away from a mind bending orgasm. With one
hard rod pounding roughly into her quivering pussy and
her moist lips sliding up and down over another, there
was no possible way that she could have fended off the
oncoming moment of bliss, even had she wanted to. 
 
As she flicked her fingers back and forth over the tip
of her hard little clit, the willowy servant girl felt
herself plummeting into joyous delirium. 
 
"Ungh yeah," she whimpered, as she continued to stroke
Ulrich's cock, "Ooooh... I'm cumming... Ooooh fuck." 
 
A fragrant vortex of light eddied through her spasming
body, as her undulating hips repeatedly jerked against
the pounding delight behind her, leaving her quivering
in euphoric ecstasy. As her pulsating slit eventually
subsided, Helga rose up to remove what remained of her
rumpled clothing, her overskirt and bodice tumbling to
the stone floor to lie upon her bloomers and her plain
rustic chemise following thereafter. She traded places
with Ulrich so that he was lying upon the trunk, then
placed a teasing kiss upon the tip of his swollen cock
before she swung herself astride his hips. 
 
Grasping his throbbing hardness, she moaned in delight
as the pouting lips of her wet pussy slowly enveloped
his hardness, sliding deeper until she had taken every
inch of him fully inside her. Leaning forward so that
the satin softness of her ample tits were pressed into
Ulrich's chest, Helga cast a sensuous glace back over
her shoulder, presenting the sweetly beckoning rosette
of her cute little ass. 
 
"Come on," she whispered, "I want it." 
 
Although surprised by this offer, the chamberlains son
was no fool. He placed his hard cock against her tight
bottom, and Helga gasped in carnal pleasure as he slid
it all the way up her ass in one smooth stroke. 
 
"Yeah, just like that," she moaned, "Give it to me." 
 
Ulrich began to thrust his hips upward, stabbing Helga
with his rigid length as he drove it in and out of her
hot little slit. The head of his big cock stroked the
depths of her pussy, hitting all of the right spots as
Torquil pumped his long hardness into her tight little
asshole. The servant girl moaned with each movement as
her hips were rocked forward by Torquil's efforts. 
 
Helga's head was thrown back in delight as she enjoyed
the double sensations that her two favorite guardsmen
were giving her. She always loved taking it up her ass
and her pussy at the same time, though she didn't get
to experience it as often as she would have liked. She
began to whimper when she felt the approach of another
delicious orgasm. 
 
"Oh God," she groaned, "Ooooh... I'm gonna cum... Give
it to me... Ungh, fuck me... Aaaaah!" 
 
Feeling Helga thrashing between them, with her ass and
her pussy both spasming in glorious bliss, was rather
more than either Torquil or Ulrich could endure. Helga
quickly stood to her feet, both hard cocks pulling out
of her body, then just as quickly dropped to her knees
upon the floor, squeezing a rigid shaft in each of her
soft hands. 
 
Ulrich exploded first, moaning as the lithesome blonde
servant girl stroked his aching cock, and Torquil shot
soon thereafter. Helga giggled in girlish triumph, as
she felt both men spewing jets of hot cum all over her
upturned face. As the milky white juices trickled down
into the valley between her ample tits, she eased each
cock in turn into her mouth, swirling her tongue round
the head to lap up every stray drop. 
 
Helga noticed shortly that Ulrich had gone rather pale
of a sudden, and he was looking towards the door. 
 
"I think I hear Sir Tyrus calling," he said... 
 
 - X - X - X - 

Continued in Chapter Two 
 
 - X - X - X - 
 
Story by: MOON DRAGON 
by my hand 
and beneath my seal 
 
 - X - X - X -