Yes, this is an old, old, tale.
A cave full of bones. A chained royal maiden. A knight in dusty armour preparing to ravish his prize.
Don’t custom and poetic justice decree that the hero dispatches a beast before getting down and dirty?
He can do whatever he wants.
Here we are. A bound princess and a knight of the empire, all alone inside a labyrinthine cave of carnage. Night is falling.
My subjects and executioners had lit the ring of torches before they left. For the monster to see me better.
The soldier of fortune had just ripped off my silken draperies and whipped out his cock.
Yeah, you know what’s coming.
Do you, really?
‘That’s better,’ I murmured, eyeing the imperial mace. ‘Kept tripping over this silly frock. What are you waiting for, soldier? The least you can do is ensure I am…serviced, before getting devoured.’
Not even halting to tether his mare, who was throwing her head, eyes rolling, the mercenary pounced. His gauntleted hands grabbing my nearly bare ass, making the lion-cloth jingle. The fat head of his poker pressing against bronze chain-mail scales as he fumbled for the clasp.
My chewed nails clawed at the porous cave wall. Was it getting warmer or is the condensation nothing but my palms sweating at the sight of his bobbing prick? While of average length, its girth was equestrian, and I eyed with thrilling trepidation the solid iron ring fitted around the shaft.
What was the purpose of this outlandish adornment? It must cause him considerable discomfort.
You’d need a stronger word for what such a cruelly armed cock would to to my cunt.
At last, he managed to undo my lion-cloth. The clatter echoing far longer and louder then it ought to as it fell on the heat-smoothed floor, narrowly missing a bleached skull. A sheep. Or a larger mammal.
Roughly extracting my breasts he exposed my gem encrusted nipple. Nearly, but not quite, scraping the jagged, torrid, stone.
Turning my head and forcing me to look at his pitiless grizzled face, my horny feathered head-dress sustaining minor injuries in the process, he stopped, club-prick stretching the entrance to my bejewelled cunt.
Reaching inside his breastplate, the mercenary fished out a pendant. He pressed the crudely molded silver against my mouth.
‘Repent, heathen slattern, for the grave evil you are doing. Causing me to commit a sin of the flesh! Receive the lord Jesus Christ into your heart, forsaking all others, and you shall be forgiven by the son of God, and granted a place beside Him in heaven.’
Yes, you know it. This story is as old as the dunes. And far more shifty.
But this particular token of corroded logic was newly coined then. And you must bear in mind that while I was vaguely aware of the Hebrew’s jealous rain-god, I have never heard a of the Galilee prophet, crucified more than two centuries beforehand by the mercenary’s current bosses.
We had our own bickering host of mystics, gods, goddesses, seers, heroes, half-divine beings, holy kittens and such. More than enough to go around.
Bent over in a torrid mountain cave, tits and ass bared, about to be gobbled, I was all geared up for a bit of sport. But while I couldn’t give a fig about who or what the fuck Jesus was, the mercenary’s preposterous blather was spoiling my appetite.
‘You want me to beg forgiveness for YOUR sins? I’m all chained up, with you, an imperial soldier, excuse me, officer, about to ravish me. Having just posed as a gallant saviour, without, mind you, having bothered to slay the monster. In what universe is this MY fault?’
The zeal in the mercenary’s eyes shone brighter then his gilded rotten teeth as he flicked two armoured fingers around my itching clit.
‘I have ridden from afar. My mission is a holy lonesome one. You, a sacrifice to some fiendish false god, brazenly bending over and wiggling your unclad pagan rump, had put temptation in my path.’
Can you believe this? Yes, I know you can. It’s no troubles as all, and you ken that there is no reasoning with knights in shining armour on a righteous mission. So, ignoring the cramp in my neck, I gave the only answer his ilk can understand.
I spat in his face.
He slapped me, hard. First my cunt, with his gauntlet, than my face with the silver pendant, and lastly, my cunt, just before he rammed his cock in, chuckling at my involuntary yawp.
From his perspective, things were starting to move nicely according to script.
Extracting the inflated hard rod, then slowly, maddeningly slowly, forcing it back, halting half way, the mercenary spoke again, breathing heavily.
‘Confess your sins, wanton heathen! Bow before Jesus and beg His forgiveness!’
I am telling you this in order to get the facts right at last, so I won’t lie.
As much as I struggled against my bonds, starting to properly despise the pious bastard, I was also gagging for a few more vicious strokes from that battle-ready cock. Well, maybe more than a few. For the road. After all, soon this body will be no more.
My desperate bucking lodged the ballistic head right against my secret sweet-spot. The whimper escaped my lips before I could bite it down. A pitiful greedy sound, not at all befitting a princes. Or what I was about to become.
Careful what you wish for. Those extra wallops for my pledged life’s sake? He gave them to me, with stiff interest. Pushing my torso against the craggy hot rock scratching my nipples bloody, and pummelling my cunt with single-minded vigour like Isis grinding Osiris’ rigor mortis.
The soldier’s hatred of me, a complete stranger, and himself, the vessel of some junior god of vengeful remorse, did something strange to my loathing and wrath.
As my revulsion of this pathetic mercenary was mounting, other parts of me were screaming and begging to be tormented by his stubby cock. The leather and metal encased fingers lashing my swollen clit and nether lips didn’t help, either.
Are you still with me? Damn right you are. Drooling. What’s not to love about a princess being brought to her knees?
See, I wasn’t begging. I was moaning, I know I was. Worst, when the mercenary pushed my head down, lifted my bum, and shoved his iron-clad prick so deep it clang against the armoured palm on my cunt, also yipping and praying for gods I only half believed in. But not for forgiveness, or mercy. Never this.
It wasn’t easy. Believe you me. Not with him constantly spanking my buns and croaking ‘take it wench, take Jesus into your foul heart’ and my mind pretty unhinged as it was by the prospect of what was really coming for me.
So yeah, I made some terribly un-princessly noises. But I didn’t beg, or cum. Which took everything I had. And them some.
With the cock of doom still rampaging inside me, I clenched my pelvic muscles, shook his hand off my neck, and, raising my bruised nipples, jewels scraped off, and my reddening cheek from the searing rock, said:
‘Hear me, soldier: I know not your lord Jesus, or why is he so bent on forgiving sins not committed and blessing evil deeds. But in the fire mountain’s bowels, I am both sacrifice and prophetess. And I will tell you this, hired sword of the empire: Only one supreme ruler dwells in this cave. It isn’t a God. Nor false. But nevertheless, it’s advancing. Can’t you feel your boots melting?’
Or something along those lines. It didn’t come out quite right. What with my throat harsh from his siege-cock and gauntlet doing their thing and the fumes rising.
Never mind. Historical speeches are always embellished after the fact. Picked clean right off truth’s skeleton.
But you get my drift, don’t you?
The mare screamed.
To be continued.