I wanted to fuck her so badly… I mean, I hated her. That’s it: hate, hate, Hate. But, damn, she was so sexy, so burning hot, and so much fun to be around. Meeting Angela—”call me Angie or Ang”—was an eye-opening experience, one that pointed out my self-delusion. The second I saw her, all my vanity and self-absorption collectively stood up and flipped me the middle finger.

Angie, who goes by Lady Angelica in medieval groups, was a defector from another medieval re-creation organization. One of our newest members, she was “running the gauntlet” that weekend; the term refers to the authorization process for new fighters. Proficiency with various weapons, the ability to fight safely, one’s honor and “sportswomanship”, and their endurance are all tested by the other warriors and the Marshals, who are sort of like referees. Angela, if she passed, would be the fourth lady fighter in our group. Of our small but vicious conclave, only myself and Ursula are active. Marilyn, the other sword-maiden, hardly ever dons armor these days.

As the only other female fighter at camp that weekend, I was tagged to show her around, introduce her to the other members, and fight her gauntlet match—one full hour of fighting. To give an idea of exactly how taxing such a bout is, picture the most intense, exhausting workout in your life, but all while wearing heavy, metal armor, multiplied by about thirty. The rigors of the exertion make an hour of fighting seem like an eternity of physical duress. King Tim told me, via text, that he’d consider it a “personal favor” if I showed her around, but I would have happily done it, regardless. That is until I caught sight of her.

We all have moments in life when we finally understand exactly how much we’ve been fooling ourselves. The first glimpse of Angelica was my eye-opening, soul-crushing epiphany. Up to that very moment, I’d been convinced that, despite being forty, I was in the prime of my life, in top physical condition, and that I both looked and acted half my age. Confronted with a new and improved, decades-younger version of me, my entire delusion came crashing down.

Angie hauntingly resembled me but was a younger, more beautiful, sexier, and improved version. Standing slightly taller than me, the bitch’s skin was supple, smooth, and creamy, whereas mine is pale and freckled, which makes me look like I’m covered in pockmarks. Angela’s breasts were larger than mine, as well as rounder, more succulent, and so perfectly formed that I wondered if they were store-bought. Her boobs jutted forth from her lithe, femininely-muscled torso, looking like swollen balloons about to burst. Her tits put mine to shame.

If that wasn’t enough, everything about her was an improvement over my features. It’s as if she were the masterpiece, and I was merely a rough sketch. My slightly pouting lips paled when compared to her full, swollen kissers, so plump that glancing at them made you envision those lips sucking on your clit. Lady Angelica’s ass was round and perfect, a twenty-something-year-old version of mine. Unlike my chicken legs, hers were toned and shapely.

Even the vile woman’s hair was better than mine. My naturally-red hair swept past the middle of my back, but her brilliantly-red-dyed hair had grown to her butt, the vibrant hues fading into blond near the ends. She even had the eyes I wished I possessed. My orbs are a moss-green, mottled color, and she had stunningly-bright eyes that gleamed like emeralds in sunlight. Looking at her was like looking at a post-plastic-surgery mirror: before, after.

When we first met, an entire conversation crossed, wordlessly, between us. We noted our uncanny similarities, appraised one another, and then came to grips with it before a single syllable had been uttered. She also noted that I understood the meaning of her pentagram necklace, advertising her pagan faith.

“Krys,” King Tim said to me, glancing back and forth between us, “this is Angelica. She’s new, and you’ll be running the gauntlet with her in a few hours.”

I smiled at her, resisting the urge to brutalize her too-perfect face with those defined cheekbones and perfect visage that made me seem so inferior. Holding out my hand, I said, “Krystal of Blackfeather, so pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, my fucking Goddess,” she blurted out, immediately hugging me in a full embrace. “You’re THE Krystal! Married at Ren Faire to the Demon, Krystal. You’re a fucking legend!”

I forgave indiscretions of showing me up by being a superior doppelgänger of myself. “I’m not a legend,” I countered.

“You fucking married Glade,” she exclaimed.

Even her damn voice was similar to but better than mine. She had the most-perfect inflection, mirth, and intelligence behind every word. Even that barest hint of southern twang, an accent I eschewed, upped her sexiness. “You’re like a goddess in the MCF circles. You’re super-hot, smart, and witty, everyone knows who you are, and you fight. I know you’ll kick my ass, tonight, but there’s no shame in being beaten by a superior version of me.”

At that moment I completely absolved her of showing me up.

“Well, since you two seem to be getting along, I’ll run off and do kingly things. Show her around and teach her the rules, please, Krys. See you both in, say, two-to-three hours?” The king of the realm, who owns a dispensary in mundane life, strolled off, enthusiastically testing some of his inventory.

“How long have you been fighting?” I asked as we began walking. The group’s custom is that a veteran member, which I never considered myself to be, shows the new members around, introduces them to everyone, and informs them of how we do things.

“Three years,” she replied. “Ever since I turned twenty-one. We must be pretty close in age. How long have you been fighting.”

“Almost one year,” I cattily responded. “Since I was thirty-nine .”

“No fucking way you’re that old…I mean, you don’t look it. I’d kill to look as good as you do,” the lying ass-kisser said. Just because she was blatantly spewing falsehoods did not mean that I didn’t enjoy her platitudes.

The campsite our group uses is a little over fifteen acres of partially-wooded land with lots of varied topography. Any member is free to use it whenever they want, and it’s usually closed to the public. We made the rounds, which took a lot of time. As always, Angie was welcomed with open arms, as the group is big on total, instant acceptance. After the first half-hour, though, the question. “are you two sisters?” wore very thin.

“Well, evil twin,” I quipped. By then, I’d gotten over my initial shock of having a superior clone of me running amok. “Where are you camped?”

“I, um, don’t have one. The group I came from didn’t have such a sweet setup.”

I pointed up the hill to where my husband habitually pitches his pavilion. “Our tent is up there. You can stay with us until you find a spot you like and get set up.”

“Thank you so much.” Angelica hugged me, pressing her ripe, firm breasts against me, making my pussy wet. I fought down the physical urges that had been welling up inside my body for hours. “Everyone here is so open and accepting. What a positive change.”

“I have to warn you, though. Some, not all, but some, of the group are into open and free sexual adventure. Our pavilion is right in the middle of ‘swinger’s row.’”

“If I camp with you, am I expected to do…well, you know.”

I laughed. “No, not at all. It’s just if such things offend you or make you uncomfortable, don’t camp with us. Nobody here will ever pressure or mistreat you.”

We walked across the site to the parking area and retrieved her gear. The bitch even drove a green convertible, just like I do, except hers was newer and in better shape. Getting along like sisters, we walked back across the encampment and stowed her stuff in my husband’s pavilion.

“Will The Demon be pissed that I’m here?”

“Glade? Oh, no. He’s very accommodating, but why do you call him a demon?”

“Oh, that. The only local person ever invited to the IMFC World Championship? The one warrior that everyone, in every group for hundreds of miles around, that nobody can ever beat? The few that have fought him say he both looks and fights like a demon, and it stuck.” 

I laughed. “Around here, it’s just Glade, but most of the women call him Mr. Skintimate behind his back.”

“Why?” I just giggled and shook my head from side to side.

As we walked up the hill towards our camp, my husband came into view. He was shirtless, exactly how any man with such a pussy-drenching physique should be, wearing black leather pants, and his long, medium-blond hair was swept back from his face with a broad, leather headband. He seemed so natural, so confident and sexy, and so stunningly lust-inducing, that the both of us paused to admire the eye candy that is my husband.

There are just some people that radiate a powerful aura of sexuality; Angela, my twin-like, superior counterpart, and Glade, my husband, are two of them. Some of us just exude primal, sexual energy, immediately churning up visions of fucking their brains out. 

“Please tell me that he’s not gay,” Angie said to me as she grabbed me by the arm and pointed. “Men should not be allowed to be that hot. Who the fuck is he and will you please introduce me?”

“That’s your demon,” I told her. “My husband.” 

“That’s fucking Glade? No fucking way?”

“Honey,” I yelled, “get your sexy ass over here and meet the lady Angelica. She’ll be bunking with us for now.”

He ran his fingers through that dreamy hair, shook out his head, stood, and smiled that seductive, crooked smile of his that never fails to make my cunt wet. Then, he jogged toward us, with even the Goddess Sun altering the laws of physics to shine her rays upon his flesh. All he lacked was some theme music. Instinctively, I chewed on my bottom lip to keep from moaning. A glance at my new friend affirmed that she was likewise affected.

“I missed your perfection,” he smiled at me. His muscular arms swept me up, holding me close, his fingers kneading my ass. We kissed, long and passionately. “The sun dims in your absence.”

“This is Angela, the lady Angelica, she’s our newest fighter.”

“Charmed,” he said to her.

I watched, smirking, as my husband did his usual thing. His gray-rimmed, hazel eyes penetrated her soul as he drank in her essence. One hand deftly reached out, tenderly drawing her hand toward him. Never taking his eyes off hers, he leaned forward and kissed the back of her hand. Angie’s flesh responded with an outbreak of goose pimples, her cheeks flushing, and her entire body quivering. 

“I’m…”

“Glade, The Demon, Blackfeather,” she interrupted, her voice impassioned. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Half the lies aren’t true,” he guffawed. “Make yourself at home. Our tent is your castle.”

“We’re fighting the gauntlet in a little bit. Are you going to come to watch me die?” I interjected, just to remind him that I existed.

“I have just a few things to take care of, then I’ll come right along. Who knows, maybe I’ll jump in and penetrate you with my sword…”

“We’ll kick your ass,” Angie intoned, eliciting hearty guffaws from my husband.

In our tent, we donned our armor, helped each other gear up, and then made our way to the arena. While we have a little over two-hundred people in our chapter of the group, the campsite seldom sees more than half of that, except during events. However, it seemed like every member had shown up to watch us fight, and brought friends.

The gauntlet, being the last of the trials before one is authorized to fight in events and tournaments, is grueling. An entire hour in armor, swinging heavy, steel weapons at your foe, is an eternity of exertion. In a fight, time compresses, and a minute seems like an hour. Nonetheless, we fought and fought well.

As soon as the Marshal dropped his striped pole to the horizontal position and cried out, “FIGHT!” I knew that I was slightly better than she was. She was enthusiastic and precise, but her conditioning to fighting for points instead of kills inhibited her style. Because of that, we stopped on multiple occasions, so I could show her a move I knew, give her pointers, or otherwise instruct.

The goal of a gauntlet isn’t expressly to win; it is a test of personal honor and endurance. Angie and I bantered back and forth, me felling her the first few times; then, she rebounded and slew me three times in a row. As we fought, I saw Sir Reginald gearing up. He seemed as if he were going to jump into the fray.

“Reggie, there, is going to rush in and fight one of us in a moment, probably me. If he beats me, then I’m out, and you have to fight him.”

“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen, then,” she said to me. We clanged swords in a salute just as he ran in.

Side by side, Lady Angelica and I turned to face Sir Reginald, the man that tried to usurp the crown just last year.

“Beat me, and I’ll suck your cock,” I cried out in challenge. I heard Angie’s tittering laughter, sexier than my laugh.

That challenge was over in a few seconds, the two of us ganging up on him. It will suffice to say that the knight in shining armor’s cock was not sucked that evening. We dueled back and forth, me usually having a slight upper hand, but almost evenly matched. Then, four armored men took the field.

I heard an “Ah-ha!” that could only be my husband and saw him, in his everyday armor, strapping on his helmet. Nearly all the fighters in our group, and every other I’ve encountered, wear full, metal plate armor or a gambeson, which is steel plates riveted to a thick, protective coat of leather or heavy cloth. Glade, on the other hand, fights in leather. While assorted plates protect his elbows, thighs, and knees, the padding of his armor still lets most of the force of the blows through. Simply put, the man is insane, the woman he married is proof enough to demonstrate his insanity, but wantonly jousting with minimal protection is the hallmark of a lunatic. For the record, I fight in full plate; I may be foolish, but I’m no fool.

“Coming to kill your wife, Sir Glade,” Angie shouted.

“Not at all,” he let fly. His voice held mirth and robust enthusiasm. “I’m here to even the odds.”

“Watch this,” I told her, nudging her with my shield.

We stood at the ready and watched Glade charge into the four of them. While most fight tot-to-toe, slugging it out, he exploded with fury, rolling under a swinging battleaxe and cutting the legs out from underneath the first opponent. Springing up, his lighter armor giving him incredible maneuverability, he repeatedly struck the nearest foe in the back and helmet several times before turning to face the third knight, who was charging him from behind.

Parrying a wild blow, he spun around and pushed the third man, Sir Maris, from behind, sending him stumbling into Angela and me. The tow of us took him out before he could recover. Glade and the final warrior faced each other, a few paces apart.

“I offer you honorable quarter,” my husband taunted. Slamming his sword against his armor. Offering quarter is allowing them to surrender.

“Refused. En garde.” Alexander, a seasoned veteran of the sport, cautiously closed the gap between them. That gave Glade plenty of time to shrug, nod, and then pick up the fallen sword of his second opponent.

Holding his short, elfin blade in his left hand, and the newly-acquired sword in his right, the two fought with an intensity that made their blows sound like thunder. In less than two minutes, Alexander was slain. My husband helped him up, and they patted each other on the back.

“Resume!” the Marshal cried, and Lady Angelica and I finished our endurance test. 

The final twenty or so minutes left us both heavily winded, exhausted and sweaty, and smiling. Although I technically won the match, having dealt her more final attacks than she did to me, the bout wasn’t about winning. Angela emerged from the grueling ordeal an authorized fighter of the realm, permitted to duel, fight, and compete.

We hugged, but not as friends, which we were fast becoming, or as lovers, which I held out hope for, although it seemed more than slightly narcissistic to be enchanted by an improved version of me. We embraced as comrades in arms, congratulating each other on a well-fought battle.

“Let’s shed this stinky armor, get a shower, and garb up for the night’s celebrations.”

“Huh?” Angela shrugged. “What’s the occasion?”

“You, silly. Of the four tryouts this weekend, you’re the second one to pass. Everyone will want to congratulate you and party with you.”

When we arrived at our pavilion, I was more than pleasantly surprised to see that my husband had reworked things to accommodate three of us rather than just him and me. Disrobing, wearing only cloaks and carrying towels, we traipsed to the showers, delighted that there was no line. We quickly showered, as the water doesn’t get very hot, and returned to our camp.

“I’ll wait here while you get into your persona’s garb.”

“Um, I don’t have any,” Angie’s voice was crestfallen. “My group didn’t do the role-playing stuff like here. We just put on armor and fight, that’s all.”

“Oh,” I responded. “Playing your medieval alter-ego is half the fun. When you’re in character, all the troubles of the mundane world just disappear.” I thought for a moment. “You’re about my size. Pick out anything you want from the big chest and wear that.”

“Thank you.” She hugged me, and I tried to ignore the voluptuousness of her young, sexy body, covered in only my thin cloak, pressing against me. She hadn’t given me any signals that she was into women in general or me in specific.

She entered the tent, not securing the flap, and I waited, watching the last vestiges of the sun disappear behind the forested mountains. I was bruised and sore, and my muscles were tight and tired. I opened my cloak, letting the cooling air wash over my nude body. There was no worrying about offending somebody; where we pitch our camp, nudity and everything imaginable up to open debauchery is acceptable.

Some minutes went by, and I thought I heard Angie moan in pain, very softly. Figuring that she was, likewise, in some pain as the adrenaline wore off, I didn’t think much of it. As usual for me, the post-battle horniness began pulsing through my veins.

It’s difficult to describe, but there’s something so empowering and liberating about sword fighting. The entire universe fades to nothingness, and it’s just you, your skill and reflexes, against everyone else. The berseking joy of battle morphs into arousal for me. Usually, after I fight, I’m so horny that I’ll wear out multiple lovers. I mused over some of the things I’d done as I waited, barely noticing that my fingers had begun caressing my wet folds.

Bit by bit, I became aware of deep breathing, soft moans, and the rustling of cloth from inside the tent. My curiosity piqued, mostly concern that she may have been injured and was in real pain, I listened. Angie’s breath, although barely discernible, was coming in deep, ragged gasps. I could hear her sultry voice moaning sporadically. Some of the blows I’d landed on her were a bit hard, so I was worried.

Without thinking, I stood up and pulled open the entry flap. “Are you okay, Ang? I heard you…” my voice trailed off.

Angela was completely nude, my green, corset dress and a see-through chemise beside her on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, and she had one hand on her perfect breast, her hard, swollen nipple between her fingers. Her other hand was between her legs, two fingers quickly rubbing her clit in an up-and-down motion.

“Oh, fuck! Sorry,” she screamed. 

“Oh, fuck! Sorry,” I echoed. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I’ll go if you want.” Angela was in a panic. “It’s just that I get so fucking horny after I fight that I needed to…well, you know.”

Although rude, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Me too!” I shouted. “Don’t sweat it. I was actually fingering myself outside; I just thought that maybe you were hurt.”

I wondered if my jealousy showed in my gaze. She was the woman I wished I looked like, talked like, and sounded like. I tried to loathe her, but she was so much fun to be around, that I just couldn’t. Her breasts sat so high and firm on her chest, complete with perfect separation, that they had to be overfilled with helium. Her pubic hair was immaculately trimmed, an inverted triangle of dark blond, smooth on the lips. Her wetness glistened on her fingers and thighs, and even her blushing cheeks were alluring.

“I’m sorry,” her reddened face grew more crimson. 

“I’ll just go outside and let you finish.”

“No need. Let’s just get dressed. “Do you have any panties I can borrow? I promise I’ll wash them before I return them.”

“Oh.” It was my turn to blush. “Panties aren’t period, so I never wear undergarments when I’m in character. Well,” I confessed, “I never wear panties in the first place.”

Angela shrugged and giggled, and we soon forgot about the embarrassing situation I’d discovered her in. Soon, the night took on that otherworldly feel that only occurs when one is totally divorced from daily life. Revelry was in full swing with various parties at multiple, personal campsites. Angie and I began on the Burrows, an area where those not into adult play tend to gather. From there, we went to the Viking encampment, then to the conclave of belly dancers, to the Mercenary camp, and finally back up the hill to our area.

Hours passed and the two of us were carrying on like silly sisters. Copious amounts of recreational herbs were passed around, as well as whiskey, mead, beer and ale, and honeyed wine, which I love. None of us were feeling any pain.

“That blond over there,” Angelica whispered into my ear. “Is she fingering the woman she’s with?”

I looked. Indeed, she was.

“I told you that anything goes here. No pressure, ever. Just be respectful and don’t join in unless invited.”

Then, I called out to the blond in question. “Sylva, stop fingering Gwen and get your slutty ass over here and meet Lady Angelica.”

She came over, and I introduced her as my best friend and neighbor, both of which were true. Sylva kissed me, her mouth tasting like lady-cum, and went back to her friend.

“Fuck,” Angie exclaimed. “I think those two are going to have sex right here.”

“Yeah. It sort of freaked me out, at first. We can go someplace else if it bothers you.”

“And everyone else just keeps partying like nothing’s going on. Leave? Fuck that. I want to watch.”

She watched, mesmerized, her head bobbing up in down in time with their copulation. Those perfect nipples atop her perfect breasts stood out proud and firm, betraying her state of arousal. My husband was, as always, attentive, but not interfering; he and Rolf, a Viking type, were engaged in the retelling of a raucous story.

“If this night gets any hotter, I swear I’m going to run to your tent and finger myself.”

“I’ll race you.” 

“Really? Won’t your husband get upset?”

“No, we’re not like that. Total freedom and fun is just that, fun.”

Hand in hand, ignoring the sister jibes, we sauntered back toward our camp.

“I know this sounds silly,” she giggled nervously, “but I’m intimidated by you and attracted to you. I hope that doesn’t make you uneasy.”

Rather than respond, I took her beautiful, sexy face in my hands and leaned in to kiss her. Tentative at first, our lips gently probing, experiencing the thrilling feel of the other’s mouth on our flesh, we kissed softly. Our hands mutually wrapped around each other, pulling ourselves in for a hot, tight embrace. As her breathing grew into mewling sighs, her lips parted, inviting my tongue into her mouth to caress and explore.

Our embrace grew more passionate with our lips smashing together, our voices singing in moans, and our hands exploring. Then, I felt her hand leave my waist and begin pulling up my skirt. Still kissing, I moaned into her mouth when her fingers found my wetness. I mimicked my doppelgänger’s actions, finding her swollen clit right under the neatly trimmed tuft.

There, on the pathway, we fell to the ground, rolling on the earth, lost in lust. I gently pushed her thighs apart, my head creeping up to her honey pot, and immediately locked my recently-kissed lips over her slit. My tongue rolled up and down, slithering wildly as she moaned.

“I wanted you since I first saw you,” she sighed. “Please lick me, lick my pussy.”

On my elbows and knees, I was in the perfect position to nuzzle her clit with my mouth and reach between my thighs to stroke my clit while I ate out my younger, evil twin. I furiously masturbated, still worked up from both her and the fighting, not to mention the X-rated activities of my friends. 

“Going…to…aah…fuck…mmm..cum. Oh fuck, oh fuck, feels so good.”

Angela’s hips began bucking wildly, making me stop fingering myself, so I could grab her full, round hips and keep my mouth planted on her flailing cunt. She came hard and intensely, her pussy contracting in spasms while she screamed at the top of her lungs. As she calmed down a bit, I thrust two fingers deep into her pussy, making her moan loudly.

I finger-fucker her like that until she relaxed a bit, then clamped my lips over her clit once more, sending her passion skyrocketing into another orgasm, twice as intense as her first. 

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” she cooed. Angie then sat up, kissed me, licked her cum off my lips, and pushed me down onto the dirt. “Now, it’s my turn.”

Her eyes were hungry, and those perfect, pouting lips pursed as she lowered her head between my outstretched thighs. I felt the tips of her fingers delicately probing my juicy pussy, then her tongue lightly flicked up and down my swollen lips. Alternating between tongue and fingers, she kissed, sucked, and fondled all around my drenched hole until I was begging.

“Make me cum; please, please, please. Lick my cunt. Suck my clit. Please make me cum.”

“You’re so wet that you’re dripping,” she observed.

Slowly, driving me to tortured agony, she made love to my cunt. All the while, my body went from desperate desire to unadulterated need. When I couldn’t stand her teasing any longer, I grabbed handfuls of her red hair and shoved her face into my snatch. My hips knew what they wanted, and they humped her mouth, swiveling all over her lips, chin, and cheeks, soaking her face with my nectar.

Angie moaned into my overheated cunt, her tongue finally connecting with my sensitive clit. I jumped and screamed in pleasure, still holding her face against my crotch. Then, those succulent lips of hers sucked the nub into her mouth.

“Fucking fuck! Lick me. Lick my cunt, you slut. That’s it; make me fucking cum. Oh fuck, of shit, I’m going to cum all over your perfect face.”

Screaming like a banshee, my pussy unleashed a tidal wave of orgasmic juices, flooding her face as I writhed in rapture. As soon as my orgasm crested, Angie thrust a finger into my convulsing cunt and shoved another into my pussy-juice-lubed ass, which heightened my orgasm and made me cum so hard that I nearly blacked out.

When it was over, we lay together on the path, smiling at each other, kissing. Then, we heard shouts and applause. Embarrassed and laughing, we looked around. Three people had stopped to watch us, unknown to us. It didn’t matter, but it did make the encounter all the hotter.

“Shit,” Angie spewed. “I suppose I’ll get a reputation, now.”

“Not at all. You’re in a judgment-free zone, here.”

“So, what do we do, now?”

“I believe we were headed to our tent to masturbate, and…”

“Unless the ladies want a massage after a long, glorious battle,” my husband’s voice quipped.

Turning around, I saw him seated on a rock, not far from where we were. There had been just enough darkness and shadows that I didn’t see him there, before.

“How fucking long have you been watching us, you pervert?”

“Long enough to enjoy the show. Massages?”

I turned to my sisterly friend. “He does give the best massages.” she nodded.

“Only if you do it nude, so we can drool over your cock.”

I turned to Angela. “Now, you’ll find out why they call him Mr. Skintimate.”