Post-Combat Fucking

Names changed to protect identities. This is not a real story, but many elements of it have really happened at one time or another.

*

It's been a really hot day here at the Rennaissance Festival. With the 100+ pounds of armor I'm wearing, I've been sweating the entire day, and the metal exterior has me baking in the heat. But the combat demonstration must go on, and you've come to see today for the first time what all the fuss is about.

You see us take the field, and as the individual combats begin, you realize that this is for real. We're using blunted swords, but there's no choreography or beautifully rehearsed interplays. We are seasoned swordfighters trying to land heavy blows on each other and win. The fight only ends when one of the fighters is to battered or exhausted to continue. You suddenly understand why this show is so popular; the crowd loves the visceral rawness of the violence, and every observer is screaming for the favorite knight to win.

After a few fights, I stride into the combat arena to take my turn. You can tell its me, because my beard flows out under my distinctively colored helmet. As I take the field, you hear a distinct change in the crowd's attitude; it seems I'm the favorite of many in the crowd.

"OHMYGOD ITS HIM WITH THE BEARD!". A woman screamed out. Another one shrieked and exclaimed, "OH ITS SIR BRUCE KICK HIS ASS MY LORD!"

You're quietly amused by the reaction. You didn't realize I was so popular. Then the fight begins.

I'm not the most skilled fighter that has taken the field. Some are faster and some are stronger. But I'm one of the more precise. I pick apart my opponent's defense, luring him in with fakes and parrying his blows into openings through which I rain counter blows. And my blows are solid and loud. The field rings with the sound of my sword clashing repeatedly into my opponent's helmet, with each hit echoing like a church bell and adding to his disorientation and fatigue.

Realizing that his sword work is insufficient to counter mine, my opponent rushes me, seeking to engage in a more personal form of close combat. Unfortunately for him, I have nearly a foot of height advantage over him and out-weigh him by a solid 80 pounds. As he charges in, I plant my feet, lean forward, and throw my shoulder directly into the center of his mass.

There's a spectacularly large crack of metal on metal as my shoulder plates make contact with his chest plate. The impact was hard enough to destabilize both of us, but I recovered quicker. As he staggered back, I gained my footing and charged forward, driving my knee up into his groin and following up with a solid punch straight into the side of his helmet. With a crack and a thud, he stumbled to the ground, and I pinned him there with my sword against his neck.

"Your winner, Sir BRUCE!" The announcer calls out. The crowd goes wild. The fight was heavy and fierce and violent in all the ways that appeal. "Ladies and gentlemen, the fights are over, but now we're at the meet-and-greet part of the show! That's right, our knights are coming out into the audience! Take pictures, hold the swords, feel the armor! It's all real, folks!"

As the announcer finishes talking, I take off my helmet and carefully pick my way over the safety ropes that denote the edge of the battle field. My face is flushed and covered in rivers of sweat and dirt and sand, and my hair is matted and unkempt from the impacts of the fight.

Immediately, I'm rushed by fans. You notice a pattern; fighters that won their matchups get much more attention than fighters that did not. And the attention we do get, we're eating up. It's clear to anyone who's observing that we do this for the crowd, for the adulation, for the reflected martial glory in their faces.

Most fans want their pictures taken with the knight. You notice that I prioritize the small children, but I do eventually get to everyone. But then...

"OHMYGOD ITS HIM SIR BRUCE OH MY GOD I HAVE TO TOUCH THE BEARD!!!!" The distinct sound of a Fair patron, massively drunk, cuts through the hubbub. As you watch, a group of 3 women, who clearly don't understand the difference between drinking mead and drinking beer, descend on me. They're hugging me and rubbing against my armor and talking about how strong I must be and how fit my body must be. While it's clear that I'm enjoying the attention, there's a time and a place, and this is neither. I try to make excuses about being out of time, and back away, but they're not sober enough to take a hint. "SIR BRUCE TAKE ME BACK TO YOUR TENT AND SHOW ME YOUR DRAGON SLAYER!!!!"

Oh boy.

You decide that enough is enough. You step forward and pull me back from the women. One of them looks at you and squawks "We had him first you have to wait your turn with the mighty SIR BRUCE!" I can see the irritation flash in your eyes. When you speak, though, your voice is calm, level... and full of steel.

"Actually, you didn't. I had him first. This is MY knight. And now I need to go take him to his tent and make sure he's not suffered any injuries, so YOU need to back up."

The woman is taken aback suddenly, and falters. You can't help yourself from pressing your advantage just a bit. You lean in close, and right next to her ear, you whisper...

"Actually, I'm going to have him fuck my brains out. Right there in that tent over there. So why don't you just go sit on those benches and if you're really careful, I bet you can hear me riding him like a show pony."

None of them have a response to that. For that matter, neither do I. You pull firmly on my massively armored arm and lead me away, and I follow without question. As we get to the tent, my pace slows slightly. It's clear that the adrenaline high that carried me through the fight and the endorphin high that carried me through the crowd phase have both started to wear off, and my body is beginning to feel the fatigue from the abuse I just put it through. We get to the tent, and you close it up behind us. We can still hear the bustle of the fair noise around us, but the tent does absorb some of the sound so its a little quieter, and more importantly, it's in the shade.

Without speaking, you begin helping me out of my armor. I'm not sure on what your mood is, so I decide silence is the safest option. I can hear you muttering under your breath about the temerity of these others trying to horn in on your knight. As the outer leather and metal layers come off, we get to the inner layers, which are largely cloth and padding. These layers are of course completely soaked through with sweat at this point. The pungent aroma of combat, the unique mixture of musk and violence and dirt, begins to percolate through the tent. I see it hit your nose, as your nostrils flare and your eyes widen.

You begin to disrobe me faster, with more urgency. You toss the padding layers on the ground next to me and smooth them out into an impromptu mattress and shove me down onto it. I hear you speak, but now there's something besides rage and anger in your voice... there's a lustful possessiveness.

"Oh Sir Bruce.... you fought SO good... And you smell.... SO.... GOOOD......"

You begin to kiss and lick me. When I make a motion to reciprocate, you grab one of my swords off the ground and point it at my face.

"LIE. STILL."

Your imperious command short-circuits the rational portion of my brain and I flop to the ground and lie still. In seconds, you're on me. All over me. Kissing and licking and biting me in various places. Leaving no inch of my body unattended, as any semblance of remaining clothing on me falls away.

You hitch up the skirt you're wearing and I'm blasted with the strong scent of your arousal. I've never seen you so wet. Without any further preamble, you hop directly on to me, and bracing yourself against my helmet, plunge my cock deep into your velvety folds. As quick as it went in, it comes back out, as you frantically fuck yourself with my dick at an incredible pace. The suddenness of it is overwhelming and I moan loudly.

"OH MY GOD SHES DOING IT!!!!!" We hear shocked whispering from just outside the tent. Without hesitation, you lean the top (still clothed) half of your body out, still impaled on my cock, and see two of the girls standing near the tent staring, with their eyes wide as saucers. You glare straight at them, and demand, "COME HERE NOW".

They find themselves moving, responding to your command, and enter the tent. You lean over and tie it closed behind them. Then you lean back, adjusting your body so that they can see me buried inside you. Finally, you begin to speak.

"THIS is what a real knight's sword looks like. And THIS is where it belongs. I don't blame you two for wanting it, but THIS is MINE. If you're REALLY REALLY GOOD, I will let you stay and watch, but don't think for a second I'm giving up an inch of this body."

They look at each other and quickly nod. The eroticism of your command voice and the odors of sex and sweat in the tent are combining with the alcohol to make them very pliant. You smile.

"Good. Now strip."

They seem confused. You sigh deeply, and explain more patiently.

"Sir Bruce has won his combats, and I would like him to see your naked bodies as his reward. Then I will fuck him to my satisfaction, and then you will leave. Is there some part of this that's unclear?"

One of them lights up suddenly and begins ripping off her clothes. Spurred into action by her compatriot, the second one quickly follows suit. As they do, you resume your rapid pace, fucking me so hard I can feel myself being driven into the ground. Biting my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Clawing at my wet chest with your nails. Flicking my nipples.

Its too much erotic power for anyone to resist. The women are brazenly masturbating, looking on at the scene, fucking themselves with their hands and wishing that for just a moment, they were you. I am overwhelmed, between the powerful sensations of your fucking skills and the brazen demonstration of your authority, as well as the complete submission of these two strangers.

You suddenly get up and turn around, then drive yourself back down on me from the reverse angle. As you do, one of the women begins fondling the other, and within a minute they are embracing and kissing deeply as they proceed to finger each other frantically. You've driven them over the edge. And you've nearly done the same to me.

You feel me hardening, and you can tell that I'm reaching the point of no return. You jump off me again, whipping around and grabbing my dick and pumping frantically with your hand.

"I command you, Sir Bruce. And my command is... Cum. Cum my champion. Cum, my knight in shining armor. And cum... NOW."

I can't help myself. I explode in your hand and all over my chest. You rub some of it in to my skin, but keep most of it on your hand. As I cum, the spectacle drives both of our guests over the edge as well, and they moan their orgasms into each other's shoulders.

You stand up. You point at them both, and begin to speak.

"You have done well. If you are willing, kneel before me, and receive an annointment as a token of your compliance."

They glance at each other and quickly agree. They kneel before you. You take the hand that is covered in a mixture of my juices and your juices, and dip your other thumb in it. You walk up to each of them, and draw some kind of mark on each of their foreheads with our fluids. As you do, you solemnly intone, "For those who submit to the Lady Kat, there are rewards. Receive now the essence of Sir Bruce, and treasure this status, for few have attained it." They giggle a little, but then solemnly bow and express their happiness in a still-somewhat tipsy way.

"Now get out."

They hurriedly dress and leave. You come back over to me, sit at my side, and stroke my hair as my breathing slowly returns to normal. After a brief interval, you lean down and kiss me, and then ask,

"Your next fight is in about an hour. We should start getting the armor back together so you can suit up."