Victory and a Little Death

Mauvelle laid alone on a massive bed. She wore layers upon layers of exotic fabric, all shaped to fit both her and the trends of the day. On top was a conservative cloak of green, revealing not an inch of skin from jaw to toe. Of course, all those layers had carefully covered slits to allow easy access to her prized assets.

On any other day, she would have leapt at the chance to fall asleep in the rich, thick blankets that were piled around her. On any other day, the bed would have been the first and foremost of her concerns.

But on this day, it was hope and the unknown that dominated her thoughts. If he won, he would come to claim his prize and do with it as he pleased. If he lost, then he might come, he might not, but even if he did visit her, it would not be a pleasant experience. Fulfilling, yes, considerate, yes, but he would not be happy and so neither would she.

Such were Mauvelle's thoughts as she absently shaped her hair. Delicate fingertips picked and untangled individual strands, putting the finishing touches on the golden fan that framed her glowing face. It had been many years since her features could be described as youthful, but that was of little consequence to her or her clients.

She did not think of more unpleasant topics. Years ago, perhaps she would have been overcome by the allure of self-pity. To be a princess in distress, there was a certain appeal in waiting for her shining prince to come carry her out of her squalor. To dream of a rugged knight to lift this sordid courtesan from the doldrums of her normal life, that was a fantasy for girls.

Instead, Mauvelle approached the occasion for what it was: a blissful vacation. The things that he could do to her, they meant no more nor less than the obvious. To overthink the meaning behind them was to lessen their incomparable pleasure.

And so she listened to the distant thrum of the cheering crowd. It was already his turn, that much she knew. She could almost make out the moves of the duel by the thunder's ebb and flow. He was the crowd favorite and so uproarious applause met every victory, uncomfortable silence every defeat.

The cheers grew louder and more frequent, ever the sign of his impending victory. It was time and so she began to prepare herself. She was picturesque enough, but she needed to be immediately ready for him. Into the slits her fingers searched. When she finally reached flesh, it only took the lightest pressure to set her twitching. The folds of her beneath the folds of her facade parted with ease, soundless before the climax of the duel.

She could picture him perfectly, standing over his defeated foe with a steely gaze cast downward. He would be covered in his black steel, an enormous weight that only hinted at his inner strength. It had been years since she had witnessed him in the arena, but she could practically feel him standing right before her. After all, she received a reminder every time he went out to fight and won. Dripping, sweating, chest heaving, he looked the same after partaking in violence and pleasure alike.

She had to consciously slow her fingers down. Such thoughts were intoxicating and there was no need to get overly excited before he arrived.

Out of the corners of her eyes, she could make out a number of things, all in their proper places. Several surreptitious mirrors confirmed that not a hair was out of place. Together, all the angles painted a picturesque scene of an expectant lover. Unmoving drapes obscured the dreary grey sky that lazed beyond thick windows. They shielded her mood from the oppressive gloom, an insurmountable barrier that stood between her fiery love and the apathetic gusts without.

The cheers died down, but not in explosive anger. It was a steady decline of howling and stomping as the arena slowly cleared out. He had won some time ago then and he would arrive soon. Her fingers moved faster.

The faint shadows on the ceiling slowly swirled and separated. She traced the shapes and measured her breathing. She wanted to be ready, but not too ready. He would be there soon.

A faint tapping on the window began. An errant branch, perhaps. Her hand unconsciously fell into the same rhythm. She could feel it, somewhere in the distance, just waiting for her to reach out and touch.

The door below opened. Out the hall, down the stairs, through the entryway, the sounds of the street grew louder. The door thudded shut, the ambience faded back to normal. Her hand slowed. He was here.

Faint clattering marked his progress as he discarded his dirty shell. Metal clanged on stone, then wood. He was at the stairs.

Too far, too far, too far.

She thought of the least arousing things she could imagine, desperately trying to reel back her runaway lust.

Baking? No, that damnable kneading! A lover's firm massage, an inch closer to release.

Laundry? No, that contemptible feel of silk on skin! The undressing that came before the most intimate of all things.

Every effort in vain or worse, Mauvelle teetered on the very brink. He was close, so close. Could she last? The faintest glimpse of him in the hallway decisively answered that question.

She lost sight of the mirrors as her body was wracked with pleasure. Even something so simple as an arched back stole her many views away. She half-reveled in the pleasure and half-feared that disappointment that might mark his face. She had wanted to be ready for him, but she had gone too far. Barely a moment passed before every sensation was magnified a thousandfold.

Against the wetness, against so many layers, he was there. His shadow was atop her, his pillarlike arms on either side of her, but most of all, he was there. If the contact had been direct, she surely would have lost consciousness on the spot, so intense was the pleasure.

It was too much, all too much, that cock slamming in futility against her ever-dampening clothes. Layer by layer, her defenses were worn down, but he knew that. He was slow, just rubbing, pressing against her.

Such fucking kindness. He knew what he was doing and how much he had surprised her. He took pleasure in it, but of the sadistic variety. He was playful and knew when to stop.

Her vision slowly cleared up and several conscious efforts brought her back flat against the bed. He was above her, panting and featureless in the ill-lit room. Some metal still clinked together as he performed his shallow thrusts.

Ah, didn't even finish taking it off, did you? Did I interrupt you? Did you just have to come and take me on the spot? Fuck, you're beautiful.

Even as she crept a hand up to feel those bristly nascent whiskers, she felt him begin to lay siege in earnest. He had no intention of breaking down the gate before, not really. The strokes forward and back started to weave from side to side as well. With every push, he seemed to find his way through another layer, inconceivable though it may have been.

He only flinched slightly when the tip of his cock found the wetness. Onward, he continued. She glided her hands downward, one resting on his side, the other seeking to release her tits and display them in their full glory. Soon, he would grace them with his tongue and hot breath. Even as familiar as she was with the careful weaves, her fingers fumbled. He was near and drawing nearer by the second. Then, it all happened at once.

The tip hit flesh, she spasmed, and all of her hard work was undone. Her hand was lost in the folds. It would take too long to find her way back, she knew that. He knew that too, and so he reached down with a casual swipe and exposed her to the entire world. From neck to hair, thick fabrics were ripped by his beautiful might.

As to what excited her the most, she could not even begin to guess. Was it his immediate and inexorable desire to gaze upon her tits? Was it how quickly he lent his aid when she faltered? Was it the excruciating sensation of cloth pulling and cock pushing? Was it his smell, his hands, his sheer power?

Then, he was inside.

There was no pain as he entered. In a bit, out, in deeper, out. Each time, it parted her lips anew and filled her a little more. Never did it miss its mark. Not too big, not too small. To her, perfect in every way.

She couldn't see much, but she saw enough. His shoulders rolled gently with every thrust. In places, his half-removed clothes seemed ready to tear any moment. The air wasn't terribly cold, but she could still make out the haze of his breath. She couldn't barely think about anything beyond how that air was passing from his mouth onto her waiting face.

Some of the mirrors were obscured by his gentle bulk, but those that remained were too small to focus on. Nevertheless, she caught flashes. His pale ass, the way he rose half onto his toes with every other pulse, the way he flexed from time to time. She could feel it, but seeing it at the same time was much too much.

She felt it coming and didn't resist this time. So close, just one more-

He was out. A squeal escaped her lips as his hands closed around her waist. The world spun around her and the next thing she felt was warm bedding on her face. She was facedown on the bed, a heartbeat away from cum.

She came instantly, not just from the change, but from what she knew was about to happen. She could never control anything when he took her this way. The bed was too tall for her to kneel while he fucked her from behind, but it was also too short for her to stand comfortably and support herself on the bed at the same time. When it came to this man, that was a problem far outshone by its solution.

She reeled with pleasure while he adjusted and prepared. Slightly moving a hand here, guiding his cock back to her lips there. Both hands ended around her waist, nearly big enough to encircle her entirely. She nodded and moaned into the tear-stained blanket. It was all the sign he needed.

Those hands lifted her gently just off the bed. Her face and tits were still absorbed in the warmth that had just caressed her back, but her ass hung a few inches above the bed. Her legs hung limply, the tops of her feet rubbing against the deliciously cold floor.

He slid in and controlled everything. Half, he pulled her begging pussy to meet him, rocking her whole body with spasms of pleasure in every plunge. Half, he pushed that beautiful cock forward to meet her, fucking every bit of her that mattered.

Her entire body shook with the force of it all. He was so strong, so gentle. She couldn't even think, not that she wanted to. She didn't know if she openly wept or remained silent and she didn't care. This incomparable fucking was all that mattered.

The hands around her waist tightened and she instantly felt ready to cum again. It hadn't been long in this position, but he always made the switch just before he finished. A vague wish floated across her mind, the desire to suck and suck until it was over.

He pushed her down onto the bed, hard. He bent over atop her, his cock now barely moving at all. Newly freed, one hand snaked between the bed and her tits, squeezing with abandon. The other found its way around one of her legs and towards her lips. His fingers only faintly brushed over them, but it was enough for her legs to shake violently.

He came.

She felt the warmth and love deep within. A few seconds later, she was rocked violently with yet another orgasm. Several long moments passed before she could feel anything but sensitive pleasure, yet he was still pumping within. She could feel it in her pussy and in his hands as he gently squeezed and released in that unmistakable massage. He always did that with his hands when he finished inside her.

She couldn't handle it anymore. The last of her consciousness slipped away. The last thing she felt was the knight gently lifting her into his arms.