The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 9 The Knight s Passion
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“Ovulating…” one of the hags whispered to the others, making them nod in approval. The wedding had to be held the following day. They wasted no time and prepared a bath for the bride-to-be.
Now the girl was sitting on her bed, alone, wrapped–up in a simple robe, as water was still dripping down her neck. She stood up, leaving the robe behind, and slowly walked towards the mirror. She could barely contain her excitement, and it showed on her flushed cheeks and lips. Or was it because of the hot bath? The dying rays of the setting sun were filtering through the open windows, together with a gentle, warm vernal breeze, lighting her full, firm breasts. One of the drops of water ran through her bosom and reached a turgid nipple before falling down on the floor. Her grey eyes and tapered fingers instinctively moved on her pale, smooth stomach, caressing it around the navel.
“Ovulation…” The maid whispered to herself. That meant that she was receptive to semen, fertile, and everyone at the wedding would be aware that. The though made the girl step backwards into the darkness, troubled by the notion, until one of her velvety legs hit the bed, and she let her petite frame fall on the sheets.
The girls could smell the scent of the dawn of spring coming from outside:
She could feel blossoming flowers pollinated into fruits as she caressed her breasts, arching her back forward, spreading her legs wide, tense;
She could feel fruitful fields softened by dew, plowed and sowed by the strong oxen, as her gentle fingers traced her body down to her glistening sex;
She could feel a rutting stallion mounting his mare in heat… the same heat she felt spreading between her smooth thighs, as she fondled her damp clitoris, whimpering, desperate to cling to a real man, aching to fulfill the call of nature.
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The old nuns were back early in the morning. They dressed Helen up with an exquisite white dress, adorned with pearls, with a conservative neckline and a short trail. Her hair was gathered in an elegant hairdo, garnished with small, white lilies. “Riches wasted on these people…” one of the nuns muttered, to Helen’s surprise. The old woman continued, ignoring her inquisitive look: “…but the Gods will be pleased. Prey for them like we taught you, from the moment you leave this room to when your eyes cross the ones of your groom”. Helen had no intention of doing that: those crones were lunatics and she was glad she would have soon broken free from their guardianship. She nodded anyways, not keen on the idea of being slapped.
The harpies left and Helen was bored. If this had been any other day, she should be busy embroider, perfecting the technique for when she would have to portray on a tapestry the deeds of her husband, the tale of her family; she should study herbs to tend to the indisposition of her future husband; she should be studying history to be able to teach her children; she should be praying in her spare time.
But today it was different and excitement prevented her from concentrating on anything. She had been spending years in complete isolation inside that tower, from puberty up until now, she already made peace with her meager lot in this life: to be used as a vessel to carry a stranger's offspring. She just sat on a padded chair, watching outside of the window, observing the horizon, waiting for the guards to come and escort her to the tourney.
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All of the unmarried warriors of the city attended to the annual tournament, jousting, fighting in their heavy armor and ultimately, showing off.
Among the spectators, a dozen maidens sitting on wooden bleachers set apart from the others, young, naïve, easily impressed, and most importantly: fertile, ovulating. They were but prize. It was not them that the knights had to impress, but their families, their noble fathers.
An imposing figure removed his helmet, revealing a bearded, flushed face traversed by a scowl. The stranger bowed, grabbing Helen’s gentle, pale hand in his calloused paw, kissing it unceremoniously.
The brute bent on her hand was definitely not the gentleman she was hoping for. How could her father let this happen?
Helen, distressed, suppressed a whimper.
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Helen’s whimpering, turned into ecstatic screams, as soon as the thrusts between her thighs became more pronounced, sharper. The warrior was desperately seeking to reach the deepest recesses of her passage, knocking at the gates to her fertile womb, spankings her buttocks with his big scrotum, swollen with seed. Remembering that she was at the peak of her fertile period, Helen let the brute squeeze her round curves, she let him grab her childbearing hips, arching her firm breasts against his hairy chest. She convulsed in hopelessness while being choked by a merciless orgasm, as the man on top of her was rushing toward his only goal: inseminating his filly by flooding her sex with his virile essence. Her smooth limbs ended up wrapped around his body, while her sheath milked his shaft to extract as much semen it could from it.
The lion roared, giving a final short thrust, and delivered the final spurt.
The heaving man tried to catch his breath, his heartbeat quickly slowing down to a relaxed rhythm. In the dim light that filtered inside of the tent, his satisfied smile was barely noticeable as he starred in the eyes of the flustered girl. The knight closed his eyes in contemplation of the holiness of the deed he had just performed. They both could almost feel the potent semen aggressively racing for the egg, ready to assault it, fertilize it. A sperm could seize her womb, make her swell with his child, his heir.
With a wet suction noise, the warrior pulled out from the intoxicatingly soft, warm, welcoming flesh of his female, standing up with a strained grunt and clumsily putting on a pair of slacks. He walked outside of the tent without turning back, so Helen immediately grabbed the pelt she was laying on top of, shielding her naked, sensual frame, blinded by a flash of sunset light, while the crowd outside cheered, finally able to celebrate. The maid barely caught a glimpse of her knight triumphantly walking outside with his arm in the air, welcoming the jubilation, then turning to shake hands, accepting blessings and congratulations from a group of peers.
Now everyone knew she was claimed, Helen thought, sinking her face in the fur, mortified, as she felt a small stream of thick seed trickle out of her sex, dripping from her moist lips. -->
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