The crowds of peasants turned up for the spectacular show, draped in tatty rags, their pockets torn with scraps of stolen bread, greasy hair, and faces and hands filthy from a lifetime of hard labour. Amidst the grandiose decorations of the event stood a stunning fountain, its crystal-clear water cascading around the naked statue of the god Adonis. But heaven forbid any of the ragged folk even dared approach it—one lash of the whip for a glance, and should they try again, they’d earn themselves ten nights in the dungeon.
The eyes of the crowd—mostly men, young and old alike—weren’t on the valiant knights ready to risk life, honour, and reputation. No, they were far more interested in the noble ladies and girls, dressed in bright, layered gowns that did little to hide the glint of their bare white breasts and rosy nipples, teasing under the fabric like a secret ready to be uncovered.
In the elevated, honoured box, decked out with gilded wall plaques, ribbons, and blossoms, sits the Duke of Fotheringhay draped head to toe in brocade and velvet. Beside him, his young, noble wife sits pale, looking rather as if she might take a turn any minute; her bulging belly speaks to a very advanced pregnancy. On the Duke’s other side perches his favourite daughter, the darling of the crowd and, most of all, of the young noblemen—Lady Sybilla of Fawnshire, a true scandal in silk, who knows just how to work her charms.
Lady Sybilla was truly a treat for the eyes. Her light-brown hair fell in graceful, cascading waves all the way down to her charmingly round backside. Her large, catlike green eyes gleamed from her perfect face like two emeralds, and the dark rouge on her lips gave her a thoroughly tempting look. Her waist was cinched so tightly by her corset that it appeared almost unnaturally slender, making her pert, round breasts stand out even more in their generous neckline. Delicate white lace barely covered her nipples, leaving her enticing curves on display for anyone bold enough to stare—and there were plenty of eager eyes upon her. Lady Sybilla was not only famed for her beauty but, despite her young age, was already notorious for her lecherous escapades.
The tournament grounds buzzed with excitement. Troubadours played lively tunes, laughter echoed all around, and the noble guests indulged in watered-down wine and pastries aplenty. Even the commoners in their tattered clothing shared in the revelry, eager not only for the spectacle but also for the bowl of ducats set before the prince, ready to be scattered among them once the tournament crowned its victor. A few young men from the crowd grabbed a nearby woman, spinning her into an impromptu dance, drawing laughter from some and cheerful applause from others.
This day marked the third and final in the tournament’s running, and excitement was running high. Of the dozens of matches, only a dozen finalists remained—the best, the quickest, and the strongest. Each of them was noble, muscular, and handsome, dressed in heavy armour not meant for battle, but for show. These armours were often adorned with gold, precious stones, feathers, and ribbons, the epitome of tournament finery. The horses they rode were majestic creatures with sleek coats, braided manes, and beautifully decorated saddles, strutting proudly before the eager crowd.
A long blast from a horn rang out, not unlike the call of a hunt. At this signal, all twelve knights trotted gracefully forward to the main stand, offering a salute to the organiser and bowing gallantly before the gathered ladies. For many, this moment was the most anticipated part of the tournament.
A whole bunch of beautiful young noblewomen stood up, each one a vision—made-up, dressed to the nines, and doing their best to catch the eye of one of the knights. These fine gents, perched on their steeds, trotted about, eyeing up the lasses who were waving their colourful ribbons with sweet smiles, beckoning the knights to ride closer.
A trumpet blast rang out: “Sir Alistair Greystone!” And with applause mostly from the common folk, a knight in black armour with a red plume on his helm spurred his horse forward. As he reached the grandstand, he gave a showy manoeuvre, rearing the horse onto its hind legs before riding up to the lady in pale blue. With a grin, he allowed her to tie a blue ribbon to his lance. He held it high, and the crowd erupted into cheers.
“Lord Thomas Ravenswood!” the trumpet blared again, and a knight in silver armour, atop a white steed, made his entrance. He had his horse leap into the air several times, its hooves thundering before he rode up to claim his ribbon. But this time, the knight went all out, aiming high, offering the tip of his lance in a gallant salute to Lady Sybilla. She gave a delicate bow, pulled a white handkerchief from her bodice, and tied it around the knight’s lance, sending the crowd into wild, raucous applause.
Next up, Sir Alden Carrington came riding in for his ribbon, and of course, he sought the hand of the most beautiful maiden, Lady Sybilla. Sir Rowland Montague, donned in blue armour with golden trim, had his horse rear and kick its powerful hind legs, a magnificent beast to behold. But even that paled in comparison to Lady Sybilla, who, with a wicked grin, pulled out yet another handkerchief. As it turned out, it was the lace of these handkerchiefs that covered their breasts, and when she handed out the fourth and fifth handkerchiefs, her nipples showed. The crowd noticed immediately and roared in mad enthusiasm and laughter.
One or two of the women in rags succumbed to the atmosphere and turned their backs on the knights and, with their skirts lifted, showed them not only their naked arses but an awesome view of their private parts. They, too, received applause, but not the applause of the host’s daughter.
The famous names of the valiant knights continued. Behind each name was a hulking figure in armour, and each of these noble gentlemen rode to receive a ribbon from his chosen beauty. Nine out of the twelve chose Lady Sybilla, so that when the performance of the knights was over her breasts were fully exposed and in the cold weather her nipples were stiff and daring, and while her father who sat beside her took little notice, several priests and abbots who sat among the nobles in their ironed robes exchanged a few dismissive and deprecating comments.
Everyone else, however, was thrilled, including Lady Sybilla. As if that weren’t enough, she decided to take it up a notch and push the boundaries of audacity even further.
Kráska prudce povstala a při tom pohybu se její pevná ňadra zhoupla. Něco zakričela, ale její hlas zanikl v šumu davu. Zavolala proto na trubače, který přišel blíže, nechal si něco pošeptat do ucha, překvapeně na polonahou krasavici pohlédl a ta přikývla na potvrzení svých slov.
The trumpeter then returned to his post, blew his horn, and with a booming voice, announced the shocking words.
“Attention, all! It is hereby declared that the brave victor of today’s noble contest shall be awarded a special prize… that is, erm… the privilege of the illustrious Lady Sybilla.”
The priests in black, clearly ruffled, jumped to their feet and began to bicker. One had the nerve to challenge the prince directly, but the prince was having none of it and had the insolent fellow quickly removed. The others settled down, and the host, ever the diplomat, had them served with undiluted wine, which seemed to calm their ruffled feathers.
Lady Sybilla watched the scene unfold with a knowing smirk. Once order was restored, her lustful gaze swept over the twelve armoured knights, and she deliberated on which one she might favour with her attention. Which one would she most enjoy favouring in more carnal ways?
Two of them were already in her lodgings, and while neither of them had disappointed her, neither had really excited her. For today, she’d prefer to try someone new. Word had reached her that Sir Bertram Hawke was said to be wonderfully equipped and long-lasting. Lord Edmund Redgrave, on the other hand, was renowned for his gallantry and had a reputation as a womaniser, and with experience usually comes skill. There was one other man she was distinctly enticing, and that was Sir Alistair Greystone, and not only because he dared to bestow his favour on any other girl than herself, but he was said to be pious and yet a virgin. Lady Sybilla adored a challenge.
The very first duel was nothing short of brutal—a swift, bloody affair that left the defeated knight sprawled on the ground beside his dead horse. The crowd roared with delight, mad with excitement. Stones and curses rained down upon the fallen gentleman, adding insult to injury. The victor took his bow to the thunderous applause, then trotted off to make way for the next bout.
The following duel, by comparison, was rather dull and dragged on far too long. In the end, the knight in black armour scraped a victory by a hair, as his opponent, utterly spent, conceded in exhaustion.
With the clanking of armour and the neighing of horses, and on the choked dirt, which in places turned to bloody mud, all six of the first fights took place, and the winners faced off in the next contest. In the end, the only two still undefeated stood against each other. To Lady Sybil’s delight, it was Sir Bertram Hawke and Sir Alistair Greystone. Like so many others, she could no longer sit up from all the excitement and so she stood there, her pink hard nipples attracting many leering glances and so in places she received more attention than the bloodied nobles themselves. It wasn’t that naked breasts were anything special in this day and age, it was that she really was an exceptionally beautiful girl and knowing that the winner would have her, many less valiant men would have no hesitation in trading places with one of the men who risked their lives.
The winner’s price was worth it, however.
Two rivals stood facing each other, their horses quivering with anticipation mixed with a touch of weariness, for this was each knight’s fourth duel of the day. They locked eyes, but if any words were exchanged, they were lost beneath the roar of the feverish crowd. Then, one knight lowered his visor and leaned forward, practically lying against his steed to shrink the target for his opponent. The second knight did the same. The tension was indescribable, the noise deafening.
Yet, one person turned her back on the spectacle—Lady Sybilla herself, who, with the assistance of her attendants, descended from the grandstand and made her way to a waiting carriage. The thunder of hooves and the clamour of the crowd as the knights finally charged each other faded into the background as she departed.
It wasn’t that she lacked desire to witness the finest clash of the day. Rather, she’d decided to heighten her enjoyment by leaving the victor a delightful mystery. She would discover soon enough which knight would earn the honour of vying for her favours that night. She could hardly wait, eager to prepare herself for the special occasion.
Her maids prepared a hot bath, which included aromatic salts and herbs, and helped her to enter the giant tub naked, where she sat comfortably. Then the maids left and two servants took their place, both men only slightly older than Lady Sybilla and also, like her, completely naked.
Gaspard was her favourite. He wasn’t very robust, rather tendonish, and shaved his entire body, including his pubes, at her command. Gaspard stepped into the tub beside her, settled at their feet and gently massaged her feet. He smiled pleasantly at her as he did so, and as she demanded, his gaze feasted uninhibitedly on her naked body.
Usually her bath with Gaspard involved her oral satisfaction, but this time she ordered him to touch her only lightly, intensifying her desire but leaving her unsatisfied, ready for the deserving noble winner of the entire tournament.
Walter’s place was next to the tub. Lady Sybilla had chosen him for his unrelenting erection, which was enormous, and all through her bath his engorged male pride glistened right next to her face, to her pleasure and amusement. Walter used the rough washcloth to bathe first her back, then her bum, and then he moved forward and turned his attention first to her breasts and then to her pussy.
The whole bath lasted over an hour, sensual, full of scents from the salts and herbs and oils and the rising steam from the hot water, which the maids continually replenished to keep the temperature as their mistress liked it.
When the maid came to tell her that the winner of the game was waiting for her, she ordered the two servants to help her out of the tub and dry her off. They both knew that in doing so, they were expected to touch her lewdly and make her body, relaxed from the bath, even more agitated. Their fingers applied scented ointment under her breasts and on her inner thighs, their palms touching the lips of her pussy as they did so. Then they dressed her in a simple sheer gown and left with a bow.
When she was alone, only the heavy curtains separated her from the room where they had brought the winner of the joust, a virtuous and valiant knight who had come to collect his promised reward. She heard his footsteps and the soft tapping of the golden goblet of wine. She still had no idea which of the two was waiting for her. Would it be the experienced woman chaser or the timid virgin?
As she stepped into the room, just as she’d arranged, there sat a cloaked figure in black, turned away from her. The thrill of anticipation stretched on—though only by a moment now. She glided towards him, her steps soft over the polished wooden floor, but in the dead silence, her footfalls still echoed clearly, drawing his attention. He turned his face to meet hers, and their eyes locked.
With a seductive stride, she approached him, well aware that her sheer cloak did more to reveal her bare form than to hide it. She gently brushed her hand across his face over the dark hood, then slowly pulled it back, unveiling his features bit by bit, savouring each glimpse as the hood slipped away—until it fell completely, and she recognised him.
“Sir Bertram Hawke,” she whispered seductively. He gave a nod, stood, and with the practiced ease of a renowned lover, swept her cloak to the ground, leaving her bare before him.
“At your service, Lady Sybilla,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble as he pulled her close.
“Not so fast,” she teased, slipping from his embrace with a playful laugh.
“I’m in no hurry,” he replied, though he shed his own cloak without hesitation, revealing his own form. He had managed a quick rinse to wash away the dust and blood of the tournament, though his bath hadn’t been quite as meticulous as hers. A hint of earthy, masculine musk lingered—just enough to stir her senses. After all, if she’d wanted something perfumed, she’d have chosen a lady for her pleasure.
“Congratulations on your victory,” she said as she slowly circled him very tightly, her fingertips touching his chest, then his back, then his stomach. “Tell me, were you scared?”
“Of course,” he smiled confidently, then took her hand and pulled her closer. This time she didn’t resist him. “Only a liar or an idiot would say they weren’t afraid. The important thing is to turn that fear against the bastard you’re fighting. I apologize for my crude language, my lady.”
Lady Sybilla took his penis in her hands and squeezed gently, remaining motionless. She could feel it growing in her hand so she gently loosened her grip and began to stroke it very slowly.
“Apology accepted, Knight,” she replied as the man placed both hands on her breasts and played with her hard nipples.
“I hope my winning pleases you, my lady.”
“Honestly,” she said teasingly, “I was kind of hoping for Sir Alistair Greystone. He’d fought valiantly and deserved his reward. He even killed one knight.”
“If you like virgins, my dear, I can pretend I haven’t touched a woman yet.”
She laughed and pulled the naked knight to her without releasing his cock from her grasp, then gently lifted her own leg and guided his hard member into her wet vagina. They both hissed in pleasure at the movement.
He took her butt cheeks in his hands and slammed hard, his hard cock driving into her up to her balls. She moaned, her gasp turning into a long groan. As he periodically pumped, she held his muscular neck and whispered in his ear.
“How does it feel to drive a spear into the other guy’s stomach?”
“Most of the time the spear slides over the armor,” he said, his copulatory movements quickening, “but when a man is unlucky and the tip of the spear finds its way through the plates around his hips and in his thighs, the wound can be mortal and the death very painful and long.”
With that said, the knight took Lady Sybilla around the waist, lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her over to a large, massive chair. He leaned her against the back, buried her face in the seat, and spread her legs roughly. Then he teased the entrance to her wet vagina with his glans. She moaned, pleading for him to push it in again.
“Sometimes the broken tip of the sword gets stuck between the ribs and stays there,” he told her as he continued to tease her, this time with his fingers as well. Then, without warning, he rammed it violently into her and she cried out in pleasure. “Do you like it, my lady, when men die for your pleasure and honour?”
The words aroused her even more than the fact of how skillfully he had insinuated himself. She felt a wave grow within her, delightfully, irresistibly, inevitably. She yielded to it. He sped up, he was more brutal now, and her pleasure mingled gently with the pain.
“I love it,” she moaned, earning a rough snuggle in return. She continued. “I like it when men fight for the privilege of fucking me. And the absolute best is when one dies and then the other squirts the seed of life into me.”
The knight grunted with pleasure, watching his cock disappear into her wet pussy. Knowing that even for this moment of pleasure in the most beautiful cunt in the entire county he was risking his life, he found gallantry in it and it was a sign of his devotion.
With that noble thought, with his cock hard in her wet, insatiable, unchaste vagina, he released into her the seed of life she begged for. With a few mighty thrusts, he emptied himself and relaxed.
He had collected his prize.
By Honour and Courage: A Knight’s Plea for Gold to Secure the Lady’s Favour… For Myself
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