A Hard Knights Night

At long last, the day was over.

He trudged down the dim streets with burdened shoulders. Waiting, fighting, fucking, bowing, listening, eating, it was all just too much for one day. It would be quite bearable if it was without an audience, but such was life.

There was some small solace to be found in the leisurely days ahead, at least until he was called upon next. Perhaps he would have an entire month this time. Then again, perhaps not. There really was no way to guess when he would next need to sate the crowd's craven bloodlust.

Warm white light bathed the stones beneath his feet as he dragged himself closer and closer to home. His heavy footfalls and their echoes were the only sounds around. Nobody else was out at this hour, but that wasn't particularly surprising. The formalities and celebrations had kept him until far after dusk fell. Thus, he had few diversions to distract from thoughts of Yvethe.

Would she be upset? Was she still awake? Was there food? Such questions were only lazily entertained. In his heart, he knew that she was not upset, she was certainly still awake, and there would surely be a very large amount of delicious food. She was far too kind for this world.

He turned the corner and embarked on the final leg of his journey. It would be mere minutes until he was in her unconditional embrace. The others had their charms, but they were incomparable before blessed Yvethe.

It stood wedged between identical narrow apartments, all of the same unassuming stone. He could afford a place ten, twenty times as large, but that was not what he wanted. This hidden coziness was all he wanted. The fame, the honor, the glory, the wealth, the affections of girls and women, paupers and princesses alike, all were just stepping stones on the path to domestic bliss.

From time to time and on nights such as this, he wondered how he had gotten so wrapped up in such frustrating webs. These thoughts never lasted beyond the warm return to Yvethe and so his pace quickened. He wanted to hold her, to not think about the unpleasant truths that dominated his public life.

Then, he was there. His long day was over.

He placed a heavy hand on the wooden door. He spent a moment just looking at that hand, envisioning all that it had done during the day. One by one, the spectral remnants of blood, gold, and women withered into nothingness. The ritual complete, he pushed and entered his home.

Sparse candlelight could hardly compare to the vivid paleness outside, but he didn't need his eyes to make his way inside. More importantly, the bursting warmth within must be protected and so he swiftly slipped inside and closed the door.

He peeled away his layers one by one, first exposing his face from beneath his titanic scarf, then his hands from beneath his inscribed gloves. There was a sharp burning with each motion. Skin so used to the cold was reacquainted with warmth and comfort.

The entryway didn't extend very far before veering off into the dining room, but he couldn't hear any movement within, nor could he make out any figures in the relative darkness. All signs pointed to her being asleep, yet he knew that she was waiting.

The pile on the floor grew until he was wearing nothing more than his sweat-stained undergarments. It softly clung to his skin and it wasn't uncomfortable, but the smell was a bit too much.

He took no more than a step before he noticed the neat stack that was waiting just before the dining room. She had laid out fresh garments. He considered changing on the spot, but thought better of it. With the warm stack of fresh clothes held delicately in two arms, he crossed the final threshold.

Within, the candles were greater in quality and quantity. Flickering orange danced over every surface in the room, from the feast-laden table to the stiff oak chairs and matching cabinets. The smell of warm, buttered potatoes mixed with the candles to fashion an atmosphere that was unmistakably "home."

At that table, awash in firelight and love, she sat with hands folded in her lap. There was not a speck of food on the plate before her, nor was there a drop of wine in her glass. Though she faced straight ahead with her trademark stoicism, her eyes followed him as he strolled across the small room to his seat.

But he did not sit.

He let the spirit of home seep in and set about a calculated disrobing. The fresh clothes were set down gently on the back of the chair. Buttons slipped one by one, though at a much slower pace than was strictly necessary. The warm, unmoving air kissed his skin with each reveal. At times, he thought he could feel her hot panting breath reach from across the table, but she was far too composed to show it.

Her cheeks did not redden and she did not fidget, but he knew the effect that he had on her. His arms and chest freed, he let the rest fall to the floor. There was enough chair and table between them that she couldn't get the full view that she desperately wanted, but that was a part of the game as well.

It was her eyes that gave her away. In those penetrating black orbs, one could see a burning lust, assuming they knew where to look. A yearning to bite lip hard enough to draw blood, a willful force that kept wandering, groping hands in check, the clenching of muscles that kept her seated. The desperation to throw herself at him was always plain to see if one knew what to look for.

As the fresh clothes were donned, the immediate desires faded, but only because they were pushed out by a more sustainable love. He felt a little guilty, but he was tired, hungry, and a little cold. He very much wanted to eat before handling her.

The dirty clothes were dropped on the floor, out of sight and to be dealt with later. He sunk down into the chair, simultaneously weathering the unyielding wood and embracing the most comfortable of seats. It was not comfortable by design, but by shared experiences. To many, an entirely too harsh seat, but not to him.

He leaned into the wood and watched from beneath heavy lids. For the first time since he had arrived, she looked elsewhere. Her nimble fingers picked up and gently replaced all manner of dishes, foods, and utensils. A perfectly planned plate slowly came together, replete with everything he could ever ask for. The ingredients were immaterial, the added sentiment critical.

At times like these, he could look at little more than her face. Such soft, pleasant features, unmarred by frowns or smiles. The way she could shift from stone to dripping wax in a flash was nothing short of miraculous. He didn't really need any more motivation, but the desire to see her melt added fuel to his quiet flame nonetheless.

Reality crept back in and he realized that she was staring back at him. How long had she been waiting and looking?

He sheepishly set to work and ate to his heart's content. Every bite was delicious, yet a knot slowly started to form. He pushed it down and pushed it down some more, but he could not get rid of it completely. He knew that he should be enjoying the moment for what it was, but he could not ignore his guilty conscience. She waited so long, so patiently, so faithfully, but she only had him in the evening.

As usual, he found a weakness in the knot: a pledge that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, there would be no tournament and no need to go out. He would spend it all with her, then the next and the next and the next. He resolved that even if a pressing need did come up in the next week, he would ignore it for her sake.

That resolution made the potatoes taste richer, the meat juicier, the wine sweeter. It didn't make her look any more beautiful, but that was likely impossible.

He glanced at her from time to time, but she was eating very little. She tried very hard not to give the impression of impatience, a kindness that he found it necessary to return. He felt the fullness in his belly and accelerated his pace. The last few bites were wolfed down, leaving exactly half of his meal still on the plate, now a messy fusion of every color.

Her eyes lit up when his fork hit the table. She adjusted her unadorned gown and rose to her feet. He followed suit and took the lead. Out the door to the hallway, past the kitchen, into the bedroom.

There was nothing more than the bed, a dresser, and a shelf of books. Even so, the room was packed and completely unlit, though that was more of a conscious choice than a constraint of space.

He sat on the edge of the bed and she took her place beside him. Neither could see the other's face, at least not directly. Now, he could definitely hear panting. She could barely contain herself. He placed a hand on her knee and she placed a hand atop his.

As he stood, he struggled not to ponder the nature of her allure. It was intoxicating and so pure, but it seemed wrong to think of others, even if it was just in comparing their shortcomings to her virtues.

He towered over her. Even as she stood to meet him, he was more than a head taller. Looking down, he felt a deep desire to smell her hair.

And so he did.

A slight bend of his neck brought him low enough. He smelled deeply of her unperfumed sweetness, then roughly gathered a handful of her hair and smelled even deeper. Her squeak of surprise was all he needed. His cock was ready for hell itself, but his goal was the gates of his own private heaven.

He gently pushed her back and she fell without a struggling. She laid there on the bed, her hair splayed out into a mess. So like Mauvelle, but so much more real. So much better.

He leaned over atop her, planting a hand on either side of her head. He could practically feel her legs twitching. She wanted to wrap them around him and guide him into her. She wanted it right this second and he was not one to deny her.

Though the distance between them was still great, he thrust and searched. The cock gently searched for its home. It first found a thigh, then a bit too high, then a bit too low. All were home, but he needed the door.

The corners of her mouth tugged. She wanted to smile, to moan, to laugh. He wished that she would, but her proclivities belonged to her alone. She always started this way and cast off her shell after the first release. It was incomprehensible, but he loved her anyway.

The homecoming was barely noticeable. Such unimaginable wetness, begging for him to enter, but not holding him down when he finally arrived. She didn't touch herself, yet she managed this every single time he came home. Did she just sit at the table and fantasize? Did she eat dinner like this? Well, some questions must never be asked. What a lovely, bizarre woman.

He fucked her and she laid there. Her fingers twitched atop nightgown and humble breasts. One didn't need to look at those begging eyes to see that she was barely restraining herself.

Without any help from her, he matched his pace to her breaths. He watched her hands rise and fall with her heartbeat, more waiting for her to transform than anything else. This was perfectly serviceable, but it paled in comparison to her true self.

Her breaths grew too fast for him to keep up, so he settled for force. Slow, long pushes into her. Two or three were more than she could handle and she shuddered around him. Tight, tighter, tight, tighter, then Yvethe was unleashed.

In the most erotic display of stretching he had ever seen, all the rigidity left her body. Wrists bent, a hand clawed at her face, a finger gently bit, a deep pull on her nightgown to reveal all she had to offer. As her eyes had promised before, her legs wrapped and squeezed his ass, but not before her heels gently rubbed up and down the backs of his thighs. It was all far too intense for his cock and so he pulled out.

There was nothing straight or firm about her lips now. They smirked more with every passing second. He had to close his eyes to even have a chance of fighting down the urge to cum.

He panted, still bent over her, and tried not to think about how his cock felt lazing against the hair above her pussy.

"So, dear, how was your day?" It was a tantalizing croon and he hated her for it. It was beautiful, but he really wanted to save his finite cum for what was to come. Even the question itself was deceptive, for it surely led to one thing and one thing alone.

"Productive."

"How many?"

"Two. Three if you count the princess watching."

She didn't respond to that, but he knew that it wasn't out of surprise or anything of the sort. She was just giving him a moment to recollect his memories, as she always did. Her insistence was a mild irritant and he latched onto that in the vain hope that it might push down his urge to finish.

"I'm waiting."

He opened his eyes and found a lie. She was lying with her tits entirely exposed, save for her crossed arms. Her eyes were wide and questioning, her mouth slightly parted. If innocence had a face, it was hers and therein laid the laughable lie.

He couldn't catch himself and chuckled at the ridiculousness of it. She struggled in vain to hold a hurt expression on her face, but she soon succumbed to the laughter as well.

His arms were getting a little sore and the night was still early, at least by her standards. He rolled off of her and slumped down beside her. Together, they looked up at the ceiling, their backs on the beds, his feet on the floor, hers dangling just a tad too high for her toes to touch.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she had turned her head fully to stare at him and smile. She wiggled and he craned his neck out of curiosity. She had slipped entirely out of her clothes and now laid completely exposed in her normal, beautiful body.

Not one to leave her in a compromising position alone, he set to work discarding the clothes that he had just put on. It was difficult, lying as he was, but with a few giggles and helping hands from Yvethe, they managed.

Neither was very cold, but they lied to one another for the sake of an embrace. No small amount of awkward sliding and pushing brought them up onto the bed proper, with their heads and feet where they should be. On pillows and layers of blankets, the couple embraced, her head atop his chest and her breasts tightly pressed against his ribs.

It was a safe place and the epitome of comfort, but it was barely enough for him to bare his soul. She knew, in all of her understanding glory. What he had done to deserve her, he knew not, but she didn't care about the necessities of his life. He could ignore most of it, the barbs and snipes of his chosen path, but the women were something else entirely. They were intrusions in the vital depths of his soul.

Some nights, he voiced these concerns alone, rambling for hours on end. Torn between nebulous honor and personal desires, fucking before the match and after, enduring the tenacious curiosity of the princess, all predetermined and out of his control. They needed him and he had to do these things for the greater good of the people. A symbol, unable to break free of his chains, an icon for the downtrodden, a victim of pomp.

Some nights, he argued the exact opposite and it was never quite clear where his arguments started and ended. There was no real ultimate goal, just the venting of a man who felt trapped.

On those days and the days he was silent alike, Yvethe laid at his side and listened. Words or a heartbeat, it made no difference to her. She just smiled and bore it. To think that she might even go so far as to make a fetish of listening to those sordid tales was too much for him to even begin to understand. She had the heart of a saint and that was that.

Tonight, he said nothing. They just laid together for a time. Her faint squirming was the sign of her readiness to continue.

He began haltingly, as he always did. Terse descriptions of his encounter with Cevisa, hitting the important points as much to steel his own mind as to inform his wife.

As any other couple might sit and discuss the mundane realities of a day gone by, he spoke of how his cock was sucked by a girl with hair as black as the darkest night. She poked and prodded for details that he slowly produced.

The more he spoke, the more she moved. Her legs wrapped around one of his own, providing a perfectly clear picture of just how aroused she was. Her knee expertly avoided his cock, which had been, much to his shame, woken up by the memory. He knew from experience that she bore no jealousy for this. More specifically, she would soon bear no jealousy, just pride.

His tale ended with a very detailed description of how she laid on the floor after he finished. Again from experience, he knew that withholding anything was only an invitation to a battery of invasive questions.

She was very wet now, as the slick streak down his leg would surely testify. He considered getting up, but thought better of it. Sometimes, she wanted to recreate it as accurately as possible.

His question was answered without a word as she slipped away from him. She pulled herself down his length, her hands lightly gripping and pulling as she went. There was the faintest sensation of fingernails dragging and lifting across his scarred chest.

She came to a stop by his cock. She curled up around it, her hair completely obscuring his view. He sighed in defeat and leaned back. It would be a matter of sensation alone.

A moan escaped unopposed when she brushed a palm over the tip. He waited, tensed, for the next feeling, but nothing came. It was safe to conclude that she was not going to stick to the script this time.

The next touch came on his collarbone. Somehow, she had snaked a hand up without him noticing. Her fingers lightly traced the outline, left, right, left, right, over and over again. She must have been just lying there, staring at it. He couldn't feel her breath, but that didn't mean much. She liked to play tricks with such things. Sometimes, she held her breath, sometimes-

She took him in an instant. He could feel a firmness pressing on the tip of his cock, just as he could feel wet lips against his skin and balls. He was completely within her and he couldn't help but thrust gently. Her startled yelp did not help matters and so he reflexively fell into a rhythm.

He fucked his wife's mouth gently, but she was hardly a passive receiver this time. Lips parted and kissed as they slid up and down, tongue darted out and circled, fingers formed a ring and held still at the base of his cock, providing orgasmic sensation purely by the virtue of his thrusts.

Slowly, he became aware that she was moving. The heavenly sucking continued without stop, but he could feel her shifting around. He did not open his eyes, trusting everything to her. He even slowed down his pulsing thrusts, giving himself entirely to her.

A leg swept over him, only lightly grazing his chest. She was straddling, her gorgeous pussy pressed against his scarred breast. Before he had a chance to raise a hand to play with the tantalizing prize, she started moving. Lightly at first, she moved like she was fucking. Quivering lips slipped over his skin, sliding back and forth, but never traveling the same path twice. She drew rough shapes upon him, bathing him in her wondrous beauty.

He smiled and couldn't help but remember the first time that she had tried this. It had been a surprise, but much more shocking was the explanation that she meekly offered afterwards. "I like the way your scars feel," had been the quote. It wasn't particularly pleasurable for him and it was still slightly disconcerting, but that was no reason to interfere with her clear pleasure.

If anything, her hunger for cock increased. She had given up using her hands at all. Just as he had described earlier, she now gripped the backs of his thighs and was forcefully impaling herself upon his cock over and over. Wet, choking gags could be heard, but everything was in her hands. If she wanted to take a break, there was nothing stopping her.