Hello all. Here's the commissioned second chapter of A knight in the night.
Enjoy!
PREVIEW:
One month. One month of dust, road sweat, and the sweet, constant ache of lust and scream filled nights. The sun beats down on the rutted track, as Altan walks a half-step behind his new reason to live, Elara, as per usual now, carrying the bulk of their supplies in a worn pack that bows his shoulders slightly. The knight strides ahead, her armor gleaming even under the grime of travel, her hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword. To any passing merchant or fellow traveler, the two look like any other pair of sell-swords, the seasoned warrior and her young, perhaps overly-pretty, squire. They see the deference in Altan's eyes when Elara speaks, the quickness with which he fetches her waterskin or tighten a strap on her saddlebag. They don’t see the truth. They don’t see the way the knight's gaze lingers on the sway of the young man's hips in those tight trousers, or how she sometimes reaches back to casually cup the back of his neck, the way a possessor checks their property. They don’t hear the low, private commands she growls when they make camp: “On your knees.” or “Present that fat ass for me.” No, they, just as much as Altan himself, believe the two are companions, bound by shared road and shared purpose. She lets him believe that. It makes the control sweeter, she thinks.
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The room is exactly as one would expect from a shithole like this one: a narrow slit of a window, a washstand with a chipped bowl, and a bed barely wide enough for one, its straw mattress lumpy and stained. But it has a door. A lock. Privacy. That’s all that matters for Elara. She drops her pack with a thud and begins unbuckling her armor, the plates landing on the rough floorboards with heavy clanks. “Help me with the greaves.” She commands, and Altan is there instantly, kneeling, his dextrous fingers working the leather straps. As he does, the tall fighter looks down at the crown of his head, at the way his dark hair falls over his brow. And the familiar, heavy heat begins to coil in her loins.
Once She's free of the steel, standing in just her linen undershirt and trousers, Elara turns her attention to her 'traveling companion'. The journey is over. The pretense can fall away. “Strip.” She simply says, her voice quiet but absolute, filling the tiny room. A faint tremor in travels the boy's hands as he obeys, peeling away his travel-stained clothes until he is standing bare before her, shivering slightly in the damp chill. Elara bites her lip as she eyes him. He is still so beautiful, even now, his boyish frame marked here and there by faint bruises from her hands, her teeth, from nights spent in other, similar rooms. He doesn't meet her eyes. He's learned that lesson.
She closes the distance, the floorboards groaning under her weight. her hand comes up to grip his chin, forcing his gaze to hers. “What are you?” She asks, the question, practically a ritual by now.
“Yours.” He whispers, the word immediate, practiced.
“Louder.”
“I am yours, Elara.”
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She fucks him for a long time, until her thighs burn and his cries have turned into ragged, sobbing pants. She pulls out only to flip him onto his back, hooking his legs over her arms, folding him nearly in half so she can plunge back in, deeper this time, her cockhead battering that sweet spot inside him that makes his eyes roll back. "Oh, gods! Fuck!" He moans as she watches him crumble, watches his neglected dick jerk and spurt a weak, clear strand of pleasure across his belly, his fourth or fifth of the day, probably. The sight is enough to push her over the edge. "GrrrghghAA!!" With a final, deep grind, Elara empties another hot, thick load into Altan's well-used guts, her orgasm wracking through her with silent intensity. "Shit... Damned tramp you are~" She lazily says then collapses atop the boy for a moment, the sweat from their bodies mingling, and the smell of sex and straw filling their noses.
Eventually, She rolls off , lying beside her fuck slave on the cramped bed. As he is still breathing heavy, recovering from the intense breeding, Elara pulls him against her, his back to her front, spooning him, one arm thrown possessively over his waist. Downstairs, the sounds of the tavern, muffled laughter, a broken song, drift up through the floor. “Good whore. You're a good fucking lay, Altan." She murmurs in his ear as he nods along with a soft smile. "We’ll head for the borderlands tomorrow.” She whispers into his hair, her voice rough with spent passion. “The pay’s better for bandit heads.” Her hand drifts down, her fingers tracing lazy circles around his navel while his stretched, well-fucked hole leaks her load onto the bed. She presses a kiss, strangely tender, to his sweaty shoulder. “Sleep, now. You’ll need your strength.
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“These need washing too.” She says, her voice dropping to a husky register. Altan swallows with knowing expectations as his gaze locks onto the powerful slab of girl-meat that begins to fill in earnest, thickening against Elara's thigh, a blunt, needy weight that makes his heart thump in his throat. She takes a single step closer, so the tips of her boots are almost at the edge of the water near the boy's kneeling form. He can feel her shadow fall over him now, can smell the mix of leather, steel, sweat, and her own unique, musky scent that she knows his brain craves.
Altan's face transforms into a masterpiece of helpless lust. As she sees this, deep, throaty laugh bubbles up from Elara's chest, raw and triumphant, echoing over the lake as she watches his cheeks blaze crimson, his lips parting in a slack-jawed drool that trickles down his chin onto the damp fabric in his hands. He is a drooling mess, eyes glassy with an addicted hunger she made sure to beat into his brain over weeks of rutting his sloppy guts raw. The sight stokes the fire in her veins, her big cock twitching visibly, a fat bead of precum welling at the slit as she savors his his lustful gaze.
"What do you think you are looking at, boy." She playfully says as she lifts her right foot from the mud, the greave's cold steel dripping lake water, and presses the flat of her boot sole under Altan's chin with casual dominance, tilting his flushed face upward to force his worshipful gaze to meet her piercing green eyes. The boy's breath hitches, a pathetic whimper escaping as the pressure lifts his drool-slick chin, exposing the frantic bob of his throat.
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GLUUUURCK
The young slut gags violently, a brutal retch exploding from his stuffed mouth in a spray of throat slime that splatters the woman's thighs, his eyes snapping wide and tearing up in fresh torrents that carve clean tracks through the mud on his cheeks. His body bucks wildly under the assault, hands clawing at his tormentor's hips not to escape but to anchor himself, lungs screaming silently around the throat-plug of her fuck-rod as snot bubbles from his nostrils and his vision blurs to white-hot panic.
"That's it, cunt-face. Fucking fight for that air. Make me nut in your lungs if you wish to fill them with air again." The futa snarls down at him, her massive tits heaving with each ragged breath, nipples throbbing in the breeze. She starts fucking Altan's throat with short, savage shallow thrusts, popping just the first half of her slimy shaft in and out of his lips like punching a well-used fleshlight, the glans battering his gag reflex into frothy submission. Each pump pulls strings of his thick throat-goo coating her veiny length, slapping wetly against his chin before plunging back in, his gurgles turning to desperate, rhythmic glucks that blend with the loon's distant cry and the water's gentle slosh.
The boy's tears stream freely now, mixing with spit to drench his boyish face into a glistening ruin. His hips, however, hump the air uselessly, betraying how his fried brain equates this skullfuck with ecstasy, her scent and girth are the only drug he needs and will ever need.