Prince who struggles to bring himself to completion alone and is hungry for the assistance of his favourite knight, but has yet to select a champion.
Prince who has his eye on the two knights that regularly remain as the last pair standing in the melées. One wins this event, but in that tourney the other will best him. They are too evenly matched.
Besides which, both are righteous and honourable and appealing to the eye. One is full of bright smouldering charm and the other has a dark quiet intensity. And either, of course, would fight and die for a chance to bring pleasure to his prince.
A test of relevant skills is required before the prince can say which is best placed to meet his more personal needs.
So that is how the two knights end up curled around each other on the rug in the prince's private chamber, codpieces removed and glistening cocks sliding in and out of each other's busy mouths; while the prince reclines in an armchair with his legs flung over one side, fingering his goblet of warm wine and watching.
The instruction to each is to learn his opponent's weaknesses and overwhelm him with pleasure at the earliest opportunity, while keeping the drive to reach his own pinnacle carefully in check. Neither is permitted to pull away until one has stripped the other's defences bare and tasted the white flag of his defeat.
To the victor go the spoils. The unfortunate knight who succumbs to the temptation to empty his balls will be dismissed from the bedchamber to return to his usual duties. The other will then have his well-stoked desire put to grander use on the enormous four-poster bed.
Decisions are so tedious, and the prince has quite enough of them to make in the council chamber, without having to make them in his bedchamber besides.
How pleasant it is then, he thinks, when a hungry trophy need only watch with languid interest and palm his twitching cock through his braies while he waits for the victor to reveal himself. Need only savour the anticipation as the sounds drifting up from the rug grow increasingly low and sweet, the intensity graduating from restrained to desperate. As the tongue of one knight finally discovers the exact right spot with the exact right pressure, and the movements of the other knight slide into frantic urgency at both ends, his ardent desire to win his prince now battling fiercely against a string of sudden and uncharacteristic impulses to yield to an opponent.
A secret tryst in the little stand of weeping willows by the bend of the river. You insisted I accompany you on your morning walk, and now you're pulling me by the hand through trailing greenery. Looking back at me with a glint in your eye - Thank goodness for spring, you say. The leaves are grown lush enough to hide us once again, are they not?
I know exactly what you want. I'm meek as a lamb while you're pulling me in, the obedient servant - Yes, Your Grace - and then I'm on you like a wolf, shoving you against the rough bark of the trunk, crushing my mouth down onto yours. Slipping my hand down the waist of your velvet hose as I hold you pinned with my forearm. Nibbling your throat hard enough to hurt, but careful and precise so as to leave no lasting marks, while I wrap my fingers around your hardening length and stroke slowly.
Here, for a few stolen minutes, you will let go all that power and responsibility. You will be helpless, writhing and whimpering in my grip, trying to push me away just so you can feel the frisson that runs through you when you find you can't. You are strong, my prince; but I am stronger and larger, and for the next few minutes this royal body belongs to me. I want to feel the moment your arms go limp, see the instant in which your eyes darken from that adoring shine into glassy arousal. I want to hear you moan low in your throat as you begin slowly bucking into my hand, wanton and seeking, because the soft gentle strokes I'm giving you are making your thoughts all fuzzy and they're not enough.
Such a needy prince now. Shhh, not so loud. If you're quiet I'll give you a little more. Can you be quiet for me? That's it. There you go. Oh, there you go. That feels nice, doesn't it? Yes, that's right, go on and take it. Take what's yours. It's all for you, my prince, my love; this secret pleasure that only I can give you, hidden away in a place where no one sees.
Squire with delicate features and longer hair who gets constantly hit with she/her by the other squires in what is clearly supposed to be derision, but she just smiles and doesn't argue and lets it stick.
Squire who now has to work twice as hard as every other squire to prove she belongs in the training yard, because the knights regularly express doubts about whether she is strong enough for this or tough enough for that. Never her own knight, but what if he secretly doubts her capabilities? What if the first she hears of his dissatisfaction is when he's got a new squire and she's being reassigned to the scullery?
So the squire trains in the yard after dark and before sunrise every day. She is always first to rise and last to retire. She never takes more than a few quick bites at board, and then rushes back out to practice her swordplay as soon as she's taken the edge off her hunger.
Her knight tells her she doesn't need to work so hard, that she's already excelling, and that she won't be able to keep up her progress for long if she doesn't start eating and sleeping enough. But the squire won't listen. She doesn't have time for all that namby pamby rubbish. She's on thin ice already. She needs to be better.
The knight keeps gently reminding her to prioritise her health for a week while she agrees politely and changes her routine not one iota. Until the knight snaps and drags her protesting into the kitchens in the middle of the afternoon, wrenches her down onto a chair and plunks a large bowl of mutton and barley stew in front of her, with a hunk of bread on the side. He stands over her, glowering, until the scowling squire eventually eats it all.
Then he hauls her over to the barracks and shoves her toward her cot. The squire protests - she can't possibly sleep now, it's the middle of the day - and the knight points firmly. Lie the fuck down. I can't make you sleep, but you will be silent and stay lying down until suppertime, squire, so help me god.
The squire mutters resentfully but does not dare disobey, so she drops onto the cot. In truth she is feeling quite sleepy and full after the hot meal - it was more substantial than any she's had in the past several weeks - but to give in to napping would be to show weakness. And she can't afford to show weakness. This is surely some kind of test of her stamina, to determine if he should seek a new squire. She has to prove to her knight that she can hack it.
So she lies stiff as a board, fists balled, glaring defiantly at the ceiling and occasionally blinking hard in an attempt to relieve the heaviness settling into her eyes. The knight eases himself into a chair by the door and pretends to busy himself with polishing his sword, casting quick glances at the squire when she isn't looking. He spots her clenching her jaw around a yawn. But she is tough and determined. A few minutes later, he notices her pinching hard at her own thigh to keep herself awake.
With a cynical grunt and a weary shake of his head, the knight sets his sword aside and climbs onto the bed. This will take more than mere patience, I see. You need to be taught how to relax, squire. The squire stares up at him, wide-eyed and half-fascinated, half-confused. She isn't afraid. But she certainly feels... something, when her knight nudges his knees between her shins and looks down at her that way. Curiosity, perhaps? That, and an undeniable low, sweet warmth that she recognises well enough to blush.
The knight carefully folds up her shirt to reveal the strip of her skin from braies to navel, and traces his fingertips across it very lightly. The squire's breath catches, warmth settling deeper and running south. The corner of the knight's mouth twitches, and he looks down at her with perfect knowing and confidence. When his large, calloused palms begin stroking across her tummy, the squire feels the inevitable smooth glide towards hardness taking hold of her in earnest.
She doesn't know what to say, where to look. She is caught between her drive to prove she is tough and capable, and the rising impulse to let herself melt into the bed with a little sigh. The tent in her braies betrays her internal conflict loudly. And the hands keep moving, stroking slowly over her midriff, comforting and tempting both at once.
The knight leans down and plants a soft kiss below her navel, then begins delicately pulling on the laces of her braies. This is for your own good, squire. You need to learn this lesson. Now lie still while I teach you. The squire swallows and nods once, her hen twitching with interest. The knight gently pulls apart the front of her braies and takes her hen in his mouth without further ado.
The squire whimpers quietly as the soft wet heat envelops her. Her fingers twitch against the plain brown blanket beneath her and her lashes sink onto her cheeks for a long second. The knight is exploring her with his tongue and it feels divine. At the same time he is pushing her knees up and aside, reaching for her hips, taking a firm hold and pinning them down. She half-opens her eyes again just in time to see the moment he hollows his cheeks and begins sliding up and down her length in a steady rhythm.
The squire makes a broken sound and grips the blanket, her hips trying to rise but held in place by large firm hands. Her back arches off the bed by way of compensation. She bites her lip and manages to restrain three moans in a row, but the slide of the knight's tongue is hot and perfect and the fourth moan is escaping before she can stop it, soft and needy. The sound of her own composure slipping kisses her ears and runs down her body like warm wine. She gasps, reaching for the knight's hair, trying to pull him onto her harder and rut up into his beautiful mouth.
The knight lets her yank at his locks, but he is immovable as stone and keeps her pelvis pinned hard to the cot. The squire's noises are rapidly becoming desperate, and the knight bobs faster, unravelling her tension with the flat of his tongue. At that, the squire forgets herself so badly as to cry out, several times, each cry more breathy and broken than the last. It culminates in a moment of silence, the pleasure and the sense of impending relief so tremendous that they stick in her throat. And then they wrench free as her body convulses into release. The knight takes her deep and she empties herself onto the back his tongue, shuddering and clinging to his hair.
When she stops trying to buck into him, the knight's hands release her hips and he slides slowly off her hen, giving her head a parting kiss. He drags a hand quickly across his mouth, then strokes her thighs and her tummy as she comes back down, slow and steady and calming. Her breathing is ragged as old sailcloth. Everything is hazy and warm and she is melting into a puddle and she can't quite summon the discipline to bring an end to this moment just yet. Soon, she promises herself fuzzily, eyelids fluttering in a failed attempt, her breath slowing into long sighs.
No. The knight is gently tucking her back into her braies, lacing them up again. Keep your eyes closed, squire. That's an order. You're not to open them until I give you leave. Understand?
The squire nods weakly, a small dazed smile catching at the edges of her lips. She feels drained, spent, warm and sweet, as if sinking into the bed and floating away from it at the same time. This is okay, she thinks blurrily. This can be okay, just for a moment. And her body sinks, and her mind floats, and the two part ways with each other between one breath and the next.
The knight gazes down at her, finally allowing a fond smile to take hold of him as her breathing gains depth and regularity. Her face, still flushed, has gone soft and blank; her limbs remain adorably askew. He strokes her knee very lightly for a moment before carefully backing off the bed to stand and collect his sword.
He looks back from the doorway, his heart full of affection. She is so clearly the best squire of the bunch and he couldn't be prouder of her. But she is his responsibility to guide and to mould, and part of what she must learn is how to rest, or she will burn out before she ever wins her spurs. So he will teach her. He will teach her how to let go of everything, to cry out in desperate ecstasy; and send her tumbling into the oh-so-comfortable void that lies beyond.
He will teach her as many times as is necessary.
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