--------------------------------------------------------- !!!WARNING!!! THIS FILE CONTAINS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MATERIAL If you will believe that you will be offended by such material, or if you are under age, you are required to READ NO FURTHER! Delete this file immediately and go on with your otherwise normal life. By proceeding beyond this disclaimer you certify that you are of legal age and that this document is not prohibited by law in the area in which you live. The author assumes no responsibility for any legal or other difficulties that result from unlawfully viewing or distributing this document. 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 condones any of the practices herein, but neither does the author discourage or condemn any of same. The document is intended only to entertain and perhaps to arouse. 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And thus we begin the story... --------------------------------------------------------- 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 -