Block by block, up the tower, hand over hand, his hands are on the stones. Toes nosing into footholds, and his muscles ache nicely with the push and pull of the climb. There is a slice of moon over the tower like a satisfied grin, like the satisfaction he’s soon to gain. She’ll be in his arms like silk, like a pillow, like the press of flowers in June. Dewy, desired.
(She stood innocent in the hall, white-limbed, slender, her hands on the water-pitcher. She stood still, she turned her head only once to wink at him, so fast he thought he imagined it. But then there was a dove at his window that bore a scroll tied to its legs: Come to me, sir knight. The tower is a rough path. I desire you. And the imprint of her lips, they must be her lips, in palest rouge.)
He swings a leg over the windowsill, pushes aside the curtains. He is already hard.
And she—his pale fainting creature with waves of golden hair, the freshest of spring flowers—kneels at the foot of her own bed, curtains billowing around her with the sudden draft, and there is another man’s hand on her throat.
The other man is a rogue, he’s a mercenary, he’s a hard-faced craggy son-of-a— with a black mustache and the moon’s own grin. He’s taken the princess and tossed her at the knight’s feet. She wears a white linen shift, that’s all, just a shift, and she lifts herself half off the ground, licking her lips, looking the knight in the eyes.
It wasn’t the way it was supposed to go but he’s brought out his cock before he knows and she’s flowed up to her knees and taken it down with an enthusiasm he wasn’t expecting. The rogue’s got his hand buried in her hair, forcing her down, and the rogue’s mouth is on the knight’s—they’re old campaigners, never friends, but the kiss is harsh with hair and stubble and surprisingly soft in turns, and surprisingly good. Her mouth below—and her eager tongue—so impassioned. The rogue holds her still while her throat works all around him, while she gags and claws at the knight’s legs and sucks air in loudly through her nose. Held captive, until with a desperate moan the rogue lets her breathe.
The knight gathers her soft flesh. She helps him pull up her skirt, and he hefts her onto the rogue’s cock, hisses with desire to see her rosy pussy lips wrap around the other man’s shaft, holds the wealth of her buttocks in his hands, bracing her, as the rogue begins to thrust.
It wasn’t the night the knight expected, but by the end he’s more than well-satisfied.
© Felisha Moon 2017