“My God, I’m getting wet just from looking at him.”

“Did you check out his package? He’s either hung like a horse or he has a huge sock stuffed down there.”

“More like the entire sock drawer!”

“And those eyes! It’s like hypnosis or something. Did he kiss your hand, too? I almost ran to the ladies’ room to take care of business.”

I was mingling with the patrons of the big, charity event, dressed in wenchy, medieval finery, and shaking my head. The sense of déjà vu was overpowering. The day I met him, I was in the crowd at a Renaissance faire, and a group of women, part of the ren faire, were talking about him in almost the same, exact manner. This time around, I knew better.

The first time, the women I condescendingly nicknamed Glade’s Groupies were fawning over how amazing he was. Then, I thought they were completely full of shit. On this occasion, I was the one in the know. Things had come full circle in some regards. I no longer shook my head in disbelief over the phenomenon known as Glade Fever; I shook my head over the fact that women are drawn to my husband like slutty moths to a sexy flame.

“Did you see how all the other girls in the show are shamelessly flirting with him?”

“It has to be part of the act. No man is that fucking sexy and gracious all the time.”

“I hope they sword fight shirtless. Did you see his damn body?”

I turned toward them, smiling and cheery. “No,” I corrected. “He’s really like that all the time. There are regular, mortal men; then there’s Glade.” I didn’t mention that he was my husband, just for laughs.

“You know him?”

I nodded, but only said, “The king needs me; it’s my cue.” Giving drunk-as-a-skunk trophy wife and cougar-on-the-prowl polite smiles, I left them to act like the sluts fate had destined them to be. They had already begun plotting his seduction. That was perfectly fine with me; I don’t mind competition. Besides, I had my particular breed of seduction meticulously planned. If Sir Maris, my husband’s rival, made good on his intentions, I was the goading bait, a catalyst, the damsel in distress.

The charity event was being held at a nice park, which was closed to the public for the event. An animal rescue shelter was on the verge of closing down, and wealthy patrons were more than happy to show up, drink free liquor, eat free food, and open their wallets for a worthy cause. My medieval group, used to doing Ren Faires, educational demonstrations, and cheering up sick children in hospitals, was recruited to be the entertainment. We weren’t holding our standard type of tournament; the event promoters wanted a Professional Wrestling-style extravaganza.

Inundated with the manifestation of Murphy’s Law, everything that could have gone wrong did. However, the show was underway, and I’d just reemerged to mingle with the crowd after losing my fight. I was the lady Krystal, The Scarlet Banshee. My thirty seconds of spotlit fame had come and gone, and I loved every moment of it. My good friend, sometimes lover, and sword-fighting instructor, Ursula, an attractive, muscular, partly-Asian woman in her mid-twenties, was my foe. She played the heel to my heroine. I was not only soundly trounced, but, by losing the match, I lost our side wager.

After our grand entrances, Ursula choosing some frenetic, thrash-metal, punk-rock piece and me going with one of the songs from my husband’s old band—much to his disbelief—we gave our over-the-top “I’ll crush you” speeches and put on a very dramatic show. The action was intense, and I thought, on several occasions, that I’d emerge victorious, despite having inferior skills. As heated as that action was, the real action took place in the curtained-off area, hidden from view.

“Thanks for taking it so easy on me,” I said to Urs, giving her a congratulatory kiss.

“I wasn’t,” she giggled. “You improved a lot. I wasn’t holding back.”

“Thank you. But, still, I lost.”

“You know what that means!”

”I know. No free meal.”

“And?” Her face took on her impish, sultry look. I knew that look all too well. It was her “I’m horny” expression. “Pay up, loser.”

I sighed in mock annoyance. Both of us knew that I was eager and ready. Feeling the heat of my arousal match then overcome the adrenalin of our recent physical activity, I shrugged off my greaves—the armor that covers the legs—and under-padding, then spun around. A nearby chest, another member’s armor-storage box, provided a convenient surface for me to rest my hands upon as I bent over, sticking out my ass.

While I don’t necessarily consider sweatpants sexy, they do provide some extra padding while one sword fights. My black, heavy pants descended, revealing my nude flesh. 

“To the victor go the spoils,” my friend moaned.

Ursula’s kink is rimming women. As I’m a people-pleaser, I sometimes give in to her constant begging and let her send naughty shivers up and down my body. Our wager was that if I won, she’d have to buy us dinner. She demanded that if she emerged the victor, I’d submit my sexy, perfectly-shaped ass to her to feast upon.

The raven-haired beauty moaned in anticipation, her lips so close to my exposed behind that her hot, moist breath warmed my buttocks. Then, her able hands gripped my round, full hips and pulled my ass against her mouth. I sighed at the lust-filled contact, my entire body immediately overheating with arousal and desire.

Ursula’s lips sucked on my flesh, her tongue lashing out to caress my body. 

“Oh, that feels so fucking good.”

Then, her tongue snaked into my asshole, swirling and circling. Her devotion to pleasuring my back door made my knees weak, and I almost collapsed. Still, I maintained my position, shoving my body against her oral assault.

“Lick my ass, you slut. Make me fucking cum.”

My sexy, mixed-heritage friend moaned in response, too busy pleasuring my hole to talk. Glancing back, I noted that she’d she her padded pants, as well, and was fingering her pussy with wild abandon. Following my instructor’s lead, my hand plunged between my legs, and I furiously fingered my swollen, aching clit.

“Going to fucking cum.” I screamed, thankful that the roar of the crowd drowned out my filthy, whorish mouth.

“Umm, unngh,” Ursula moaned into my ass.

The dual sensations of her expert tongue and my fingers quickly thrust me over the cliff of pleasure. I erupted into a leg-quaking orgasm, falling over the trunk. Still, as I writhed, screamed, and cursed, my friend kept her lips locked onto my ass. Her orgasm soon followed.

As we sat on the ground, panting, I pulled out my secret prop, a weapon of mass seduction. It was a larger-sized anal plug.

“Do the honors?” I bent over the trunk, submitting my ass to her once more.

“Your cunt’s so wet that we won’t need lube,” she laughed. 

I felt her fingers penetrate my velvety tunnel, sloshing in my wetness, then moving up to my anus with agonizing slowness. By the time she’d lubed my ass up with my sexual nectar, I was moaning, again. Then, I felt the soft, tapered point of the anal plug press against my sacred opening. A few wiggles, some more pressure, and, then, that incredible feeling of "almost pain but pleasure" possessed my flesh.

“Oh, fucking fuck!”

With a pop of my sphincter, the plug was firmly inserted into my behind. Ursula gave me a few, playful swats, then kissed my soaked pussy from behind.

“Let’s get dressed and mingle like we’re supposed to.” 

Within minutes, we two ladies had redone our makeup, dressed in our aforementioned medieval finery, and were mingling with the crowd of drunken patrons. The charity event was proving itself to be a huge success, and the main event was about to begin. The king, Tim, had given me a silent signal. My “Oscar scene” was about to begin.

Getting into position took much longer than I’d expected. I was stopped, seemingly every third step, by a rich animal activist. Chatting with the “muggles” and posing for pictures was fun, and the attention made me feel like a celebrity. I also realized that if my bookstore goes under, I’d make a fantastic living as a sugar baby. Finally, I covered the distance between the crowd of well-dressed social elites and stood on the stage just behind the fighting arena.

Arousal, adrenaline, and excitement waged a brutal war inside of me, each one fighting for dominance. Not only was I on a huge high from fighting and being treated like a flame-haired, warrior-queen, but my husband was about to fight. His antics straddle the border between legendary and utterly insane. Personally, I lean more toward the insanity argument—his choice of spouses being proof-positive.

With the queen standing beside me, most of us in a line on the stage, the king began his spiel. “The mightiest warrior… a brutal killer…and a man whose legendary strength and thirst for violence has earned him the nickname of ‘Headhunter,’ I present the fierce knight, Sir Maris.”

Maris is a tall, broad, heavily muscled man with dark hair, beard, and eyes. If one is into the muscle-bound, bodybuilder types, he’s sexy as all get out. He’s also very aggressive, wields a sword as long as I am tall, and his prowess in battle is only eclipsed by his loathing for my husband. Calling them rivals is akin to saying Cain and Abel had a bit of a spat.

Sir Maris, really overacting his “heinous villain” role, gruffly grabbed the microphone out of our liege's hand. “I don’t care about saving the animals,” he growled. He waited for the jeers to die down. “I’m here for one reason, and one reason only. Where is that weakling coward, Glade? I’ll have your head on my pike before the end of this hour.”

He entered the fighting arena, making lots of noise by rattling the chain link fencing that enclosed the fighting pit, giving it a more Professional Wrestling Death Match feel, and pranced around the area. All gleaming steel and raven-hued, oiled curls he held his mighty blade aloft, drinking in the applause, hisses, boos, and insults. Thirty seconds passed, then forty, then a minute.

“Where is the coward? Show yourself and die with honor, rather than hiding like a child.”

“Glade?! You’re up,” the king announced.

“Fine.” Maris' voice rumbled like ominous thunder. “If you’re too cowardly to entertain me, I’ll amuse myself with the women.”

Leering in such a fashion that he’d qualify for a free raincoat, Maris tossed his sword to the ground, and it clattered on the fertile earth. In just a few bounds, he’d traversed the large fighting area and had jumped back onto the stage, ignoring the three, high steps.

“Sir Maris, to the fighting pit,” the king commanded.

“Peasant,” he screamed, gruffly shoving his royal highness out of the way.

Intimidating and growling, Sir Maris roughly grabbed me by the waist, and he pulled me into him. Unknown to all but a few, this had all been arranged in advance. Sir Maris, while he plays the heel in our group and in the show, had texted me, hours before, and asked permission to force a kiss on me, all in the name of providing a great show. I went along with it because their rivalry is real, and the sadistic part of me wanted to see how my unshakable husband, who never even gets upset, would handle his wife being “unwillingly” molested by his nemesis.

Maris’ grimy, wandering hand went places that a gentleman’s would never go, and his other hand grabbed the back of my head. His fingers tangled themselves in my fiery locks. Then, giving me a quizzical look, seeking affirmation of my permission, he forced his vile lips upon my mouth, kissing me as his hands roamed over places that one should not touch without invitation.

“Unhand the fine lady!” The shout came from behind the crowd of inebriated onlookers.

“It’s him! He’s the one,” one of the women in the crowd shouted.

“Look at him, so sexy,” another of the women who had been plotting his seduction commented, far too loudly. The cougars were definitely on the prowl that night, my husband their quarry.

My husband is, for lack of better words, pussy-drenching hot. Yes, I’m bragging more than a little bit, but that doesn’t change the truth. The effect he has on women in general is astounding, almost magical. Some guys short-circuit a woman’s logic, self-respect, and mind. One sight of them and women lose all control, consumed by lust. He’s one of those. Just looking at him churns up a desperate need to get fucked. I wish I were exaggerating, but he’s that stunning. It transcends mere looks, but there's some passionate, wonderful, sexual aura about him. Now, if you put that man in armor and add in his sexy, mirth-filled, roguish demeanor, it becomes devastating. I married the man, and we’ve been together for a few years, but, still, my heart stops and catches in my throat, and my pussy gushes.

The other women "oohed" and "aahed," and the men broke out in riotous cacophony. The look on his face, mirth, humor, and power, did not go unnoticed. He stood there, defiant and glowing., his confidence showing in his swagger. The king sent a page with a microphone running across the park, so my husband’s voice could be easily heard. All action stopped, but I continued beating Maris’ steel-clad chest in mock helplessness.

Unlike the other warriors in our group, myself included, my husband eschews the use of “cumbersome tin cans” for armor. Where the others were all decked out in shining steel, he chose to fight wearing leather armor, shot through with chrome studs. His feet were not clad in steel-toed combat boots or medieval sabatons; black suede moccasins covered his feet, offering scant little protection.

However, his long, blond hair seemed to summon the breeze, just to show itself off by billowing gently. His dark, demon-faced helmet and matching armor, contrasted with his joviality. On his left arm, at his bicep, was the now ever-present but tattered red sash I’d been wearing the day I met him.

That day, I’d labeled him, at first sight, as “rock star knight,” and he stripped the sash from me, using it to bind his damaged armor. With the show in full swing, he more than lived up to the moniker. He didn’t shrink under the gaze of the masses, he basked in it.

“Every spot that your vile hands have sullied the fair maiden shall be kissed by my blade, good sir knight. Prepare to meet thy doom, Maris.”

“Kiss me again, and grab my ass,” I whispered to the villain. 

“I shall have my feast of passion and toast your demise, Glade!” 

With that, he groped my butt, causing waves of ecstasy to run rampant through my body, as his molestation caused my anal plug to plunge deeper into my ass, then retreat. I screamed my protests, but he “somehow” managed to overpower me. He was actually quite a decent kisser.

Suddenly, I felt a massive force push me to one side, and Sir Maris went flying to the side of the stage, stumbling into the other members. My husband had kicked him away from me. Spinning around as I fell, caught up in the tangle of flying, armored limbs, one of Glade’s arms shot out, catching me at the waist, and interrupting my battle with gravity. We ended with me in his arms, looking up at him in a sort of tango dip. His dreamy, crooked, roguish smile broke across his face, and he gave me a humorous wink.

“I assume you’re fine?” he queried. 

The crowd was nearing a frenzy. They hadn’t even crossed blades, and things were already proving the chaos theorists correct. He knelt before me, took one hand, and soulfully kissed the back of my hand, those hypnotic, gray-rimmed hazel eyes penetrating my soul.

“I shall avenge the goddess’ honor,” he gleefully announced to the crowd.

As the crowd went bonkers, I looked at my husband and said, “After we fought, Urs ate my ass and we orgasmed together. She shoved my large anal plug up my butt. You can take my ass, tonight… if you win, good sir knight.”

My husband’s elfin face lit up, his eyes penetrating my soul, which set my flesh on fire. 

“Promise one thing,” I added.

“The sun, the moon, the stars? Name it, my impassioned goddess of divine perfection, and it shall be yours.”

I glanced toward Sir Maris. He stood off to the side, his expression a mask of hatred and malice. “Make him apologize.” The microphone picked up my plea, and the crowd cheered.

“Excellent! I swear it to you,” my husband laughed. 

”Never!” Maris shouted. “I’ll have your helmet for my trophy.”

My husband smiled, patted my butt, laughing, and then jumped off the stage into the arena. Dramatically, he threw down his shield, all black and silver, drew his sword, and pointed it toward his opponent.

“Let’s dance, you and I.”

Instead of entering the fighting pit, Maris crossed his arms and nodded to his friends, all of whom had donned their helmets, prepared for battle. The crowd hushed, then went even crazier when the four men entered the arena and drew their swords. My husband’s escape was cut off, and he was greatly outnumbered.

“Ha!” Glade slapped his knee with his sword, laughing and defiant. “Four against one! That’s not quite fair. How about I wait here until you get more men?” To add to his smartassery, my husband plunged the point of his sword into the ground and leaned upon it, casually.

“Let these good people decide,” Maris grumbled into the microphone. “Do you want to see this rebel get trounced, four against one? He’s not even a knight! You paid for a show, and you shall receive one.”

The crowd decided.

“Very well, good folk. Make your bets and put fifty on me, please. I have beheld the paradise that is that fine lady, and I shall make Maris apologize for sullying her beauty with his paws.”

His ambushers waited patiently while he strapped on his demon-faced helmet. It was anodized black with a black horse tail over the crown and down the back. The action paused, briefly, so Glade could retrieve the sword of Sir Maris and have it delivered to him.

“Are you ready to rumble?” King Tim shouted the commonly imitated phrase.

His foes approached. Not emulating the acrobatics Sir Maris or my husband had exhibited, the four armored warriors drew their weapons and marched into the combat arena. My husband, either a natural showman or a terrible showoff, still leaned on his sword, feigning a yawn. In a line that spanned most of the area, his four foes slowly advanced, shields at the ready. 

In a planned tactic, the knights on either side accelerated their pace, charging him. Glade imitated a statue. I gasped along with the crowd. His foes towered over his diminutive stature, and he just stood there in the path of two oncoming freight trains.

“Fight back, you fool,” Maris said under his breath.

One may wonder why a man who’s publicized his loathing for my husband wanted him to fight back. Simply put, their dynamic is complicated. This was neither the first ambush Maris had orchestrated nor would it be the last.

“Proud of your dishonor and lack of chivalry,” I sneered to Maris. That got a chuckle from the crowd.

At the moment, I didn’t realize it, but my husband’s maneuver had been perfectly timed. He’d waited until the two men coming at his flanks were no longer equidistant, then sprang into action. I’d mentioned that the debate over whether the man is insane or not is a constant topic of debate. The pendulum swung further into totally-fucking-bonkers territory.

My husband, now a beast in black leather, quickly turned to face his closest opponent, shouting an “Ah-ha!” His left foot kicked the point of his sword from the turf, sending a large clump of dirt and grass at his closing foe. This disrupted his attacker for a fraction of a second, and that was more than enough time for Glade to demonstrate that speed and lunacy can be a potent combination.

Rather than meet or deflect the brutal attack aimed at his head, my husband dropped to his knees, sliding across the soil. He ducked under the lethal blow and brought his sword to bear in a horizontal blow that slashed out, contacting the knight’s thighs. The blow resounded like a peal of thunder; it stopped his opponent’s attack, and the momentum forced the warrior to fall forward, losing his balance in mid-stride.

Glade, still sliding, rolled out and away from the falling, would-be assassin and sprang upright, leaving his shield on the ground. Two mighty blows to the prone man’s back were all it took before the man screamed, “I yield!” Not even stopping to acknowledge the surrender, my husband plucked up the other man’s, larger blade, and faced the oncoming onslaught. The second flanker was upon him, and the third attacker was only two steps away. The fourth ambusher had hesitated.

Standing stoic, Glade interposed himself between the two rushing him, then he spun to the side, shouting “Ole!” The gruesome noise of clashing arms reverberated through the air, blows ringing out faster than I could count. My husband, the man they call “The Demon” in other groups, was a whirlwind, a runaway blender set on purée, and his dual swords wove a wall of steel.

The two men charging him slammed into each other, tangling up each other’s weapons as my husband danced off to the other side of the arena. Rather than press his advantage, he stopped at the edge of the fighting pit, giving the guests high-fives through the chain link fence. When his opponents had regrouped, he turned to face them, clanging the blades of his swords together.

“Who dies first?” he addressed the crowd.

“Get him!”

In a sort of semicircle, the three men approached. Having learned their lesson, this time they didn’t charge. Glade waited, taunting them until it seemed to be too late.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted.

Almost faster than the eye could detect, my husband rushed the man on the left. The knight, Sir Reginald, saw an opening and lunged. However, Glade was no longer there; he’d spun away, toward the warrior in the middle. The black demon’s commandeered weapon was punched down when it met Reginald’s blade, but Glade used that momentum to arc the blade down and around, the edge meeting the center warrior’s lunge, forcing the tip to ride high, harmlessly bouncing off my husband’s bicep.

By then, almost everyone in the had crowded the edge of the stage. Maris stood, still looking defiant in the center, and the king was beside him, trying but failing to narrate the action. I was ringed by my friends and could not be seen by any of the animal-saving patrons. I’m not saying that I get off on real violence, but this is all pretend make-believe mayhem. Sure the armor and weapons and fighting are all real, but the saying in the group is, “You’re out to kill your opponent, not injure them.”

One thing that gets my blood boiling and juices flowing is my husband. Seeing such a sexy, wonderful man in his element can be extremely arousing. His confidence, skills, joyous dedication to being a human Cuisinart, and the mirth with which he fights just do it for me. As all eyes were on the action in the fighting pit, my hand wandered under my skirt and gave my clit some action. I knew it was a formal event, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m a horny slut; sue me.

Rather than engage, my husband continued his spinning. His goal wasn’t to vanquish his foe but to sow confusion as he pirouetted across their ranks. His twirling met their attacks, and he managed to baffle blades, ending up at the far end of their ranks. There, he stood his ground, dueling with his opponent. 

“Look out!” the crowd screamed. 

My clandestine, public masturbation continued. My fingers danced over my clit as I watched the spectacle unfold. I tried to time my sighing moans to the cries of the onlookers, but, even if I hadn’t, nobody would have noticed. It felt so naughty and taboo to finger myself in the open; just the thought of it had me close to cumming.

My husband, slashing and hacking, was locked in a brawl with one man, and the other two were closing in, one behind him, readying to strike. Without even turning, Glade kicked his foe into the man closing in from the front, while thrusting behind with one blade, then following with an overhand, downward strike. The killing blow from behind was not only stopped, but my husband’s blades rained down on the treacherous warrior like a hailstorm. He went down under the flurry of blows, his armored hands releasing his weapon as he sought to guard himself.

The crowd went insane, and I’d stimulated myself to the point of no return. As my husband put on a stunning display of the pugilistic arts, I pummeled my clit into submission. I screamed in release, my ecstatic wailing drowned out by the frenzied onlooker’s cheers. I almost collapsed from bliss. Panting and sighing, I returned my full attention to the combat in front of me.

“Dirty whore,” my friend, Sylva, a stunning blond, chided. “You can’t keep your fingers off your clit, can you?”

I held my extended, cum-soaked middle finger in front of her face. My blond friend laughed, then sucked on my finger.

Sir Reginald had engaged with Glade while the fourth assailant stood by, watching. The idle knight was rubbing his arm where a particularly mighty blow had landed. Reginald is strong but wild. His attacks are somewhat predictable, even for me. Lacking follow-through, he tends to alter his trajectories, attempting stylistic flair. Less than ten clangs of steel rung out before Reginald lay my husband’s feet. As the leather-clad demon turned to the last man standing, his opponent laid down his sword and nodded to Glade, surrendering.

My husband then tore off his helmet, much to the delight of the drunken women in the crowd, roared in triumph, and smiled to the crowd. Helping his opponents to their feet, grasping each one in a strong bear hug, they patted each other on the backs and left Glade standing in the center of the arena.

I felt hands on my ass and turned. It was Ursula. “That really gets your blood boiling, doesn’t it? How are you handling all of this?”

“I’m so fucking horny that I’m ready to fuck you and anybody else that wants to join, right here, right now.”

“Me too,” she responded. “Do you think Glade would mind if I join you two, tonight?”

“No, my bride, do not bring another sexy woman into our bed has been said by no man, ever.”

The royal page, my coworker’s boyfriend, Jacob, jumped into the fighting pit, microphone in hand. He and my husband clasped hands and laughed for a moment, then Glade took the mic.

“I told you that I’d wait until you got more men,” he quipped. “Now that you've whetted my blade, it thirsts for vengeance! Fight me, Maris, if you dare.”

“GLADLY!” Maris roared. 

He took a running leap, clearing all the stairs and landing at the entrance.

“Nice toy swords you have,” he taunted my husband as he held his giant blade aloft. “When I kill you, I’ll give them to my daughter.”

“You make the false assumption that a woman would be willing to lie with you, Maris,” my husband laughed. “Come get some.”

To be continued…