Lathandriel had found himself in the employ of the Baron of Whitefield, a walrus of a man called Allister Du Peamont. He arrived with a letter of recommendation from his former employer and the Baron's colleague, the Earl of Northshire.
When the Baron expressed his disbelief that the rakish elf could serve as a bodyguard, Lathandriel proposed a test of his skills In short order, he had bested four of the Baron's best fighting men at swordplay. No small feat, considering he fought the four of them simultaneously.
Lathandriel found the Baron to be exactly as he had expected: equal parts egotistical, insufferable, and obese. The elves of the greenwood had no concept of aristocracy, and the human notion that a man was important simply because he was important irritated the elf to no end.
If one might wonder why, then, Lathandriel found himself in such company, the answer was to be found in the bedsheets of the Baron's mistress.
The Baron maintained half a dozen or so such mistresses, most of the hardly half his own age and quarter his weight. Some were servants, some were "guests." It was between the legs of such a mistress that Lathandriel now knelt, her skirts pulled up, his fly unlaced, his cock buried inside her. She still wore her silk gown, and he still his chainmail.
Her name was Velna, and she was a younger daughter of a minor family, officially sent to the Whitefield manor as part of her "schooling." Said schooling, sadly, mostly amounted to being fondled by the Baron. It was a situation which she did not at all enjoy.
She had instantly felt an attraction for the exotic elven warrior, and he to her. He admired her slender frame, the golden ringlets of her hair. And he had seen the fire in her, the spark of rebellion against her most unjust situation.
Velna's bodice had been pulled down, exposing two pale white breasts. Lathandriel licked his thumb, and teased one nipple with his hand.
"Oh, yes... is my sweet elf going to make me come again..." she moaned.
"Only if my sweet human is good," he said, his hips slapping against hers with steady rhythm.
It was at this moment that their lovemaking was interrupted, quite rudely, by the massive frame of the Baron of Whitefield barging through the door. His face was red as a beet, and his mustache twitched with rage.
"You! You two... What in the hell do you think you're doing?"
Lathandriel did not move, nor attempt to cover himself, nor even slacken the pace of his strokes.
"Making love, your lordship." Said the
elf, nonchalantly.
"Quite adroitly, your lordship, if I might add," added Velna.
Anger surged through the Baron. "You damn two-timing harlot! You cheating whore! How dare you throw yourself at my servant!"
Indignation replaced the orgasmic pleasure on Velna's face. "What gives you the nerve to accuse me of cheating! Why, you're cheating on your wife with me!"
"She has a point, my lordship. Accusing your mistress of infidelity is rather hypocritical," chimed in Lathandriel, still pounding away.
"And you! You bastard, I paid you to guard me, not to seduce my women!" The Baron's hand went to the sword on his hip.
"Of course, your lordship. I do this part for free."
The baron roared, drawing his longsword. Lathandriel had left his own sword at the edge of the bed, and in a flash, the blade was drawn.
And while kneeling on a bed, mid-coitus is hardly the ideal position from which to conduct a swordfight, Lathandriel had the advantage of being a much, much, much better swordsman.
The baron's swings were slow and clumsy, and parrying them did not even warrant a break from his lovemaking. He quickened his pace, stroking Velna's clit with one hand while fought off the Baron with his other.
"Tell me, my dear: who is a better lover? Me, or our fat lord?" He asked his lover, parrying a thrust.
"You are, my sweet! I love the feeling of your cock pounding inside me, making me come..." she mewled, bemused by the conflict. She rose to her knees, turning over, allowing Lathandriel to take her from behind. She glared at the Baron, hatred in her eyes.
"You old fat bastard. I was sent here to be your student, not your harlot. Sharing your bed is like being slowly crushed by a dead elephant. Look closely, Baron! This is what a real fuck looks like!"
