Hi it's my birthday! So, I decided to challenge myself and see if I could write something as a gift for everyone in just a few days, et voila, I clearly have! This is intended as the first in a series of four (that maybe I'll actually write, someday!) about lovely ladies and their handsome knights. You know, old school romance stuff. Some of these stories are smutty, some fluffy, some a mix - but enjoy, at least, one of them, the fruit of an idea I've had for quite some time now. I'm surprisingly productive when I set myself up with a deadline and a guilty conscience.
Happy reading!
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Knight the First: Lance of the Renaissance
There’s a funny thing about words: once they’re out, they don’t go back in. Da Vinci, as she fidgeted her toes in her too-tight heels, was pondering exactly that; it was partly the sheer inertia of her having spent hours getting dressed up nicely, doing her hair and makeup, and tidying her flat - or whatever passed for such in Chaldea - that kept her going through with this date.
Yes, a date - the unrivalled genius, Leonardo da Vinci, setting aside her work and her myriad chores and hobbies to, yes, spend an evening having dinner with a man she thought was, all things considered, decent and worth her time. Now that the appointed time was nearing, she couldn’t find exactly what in her mind or the tumult of her heart actually inspired her to go for this in the first place; at this very moment, she couldn’t even remember the way she worded that proposition of hers, and now as hesitation started creeping up inside her like a bad cold she tapped her heels together, wishing she could get out of this and go home - before realizing, never mind, she was ‘home’ already - or how about Florence then, please, maybe?
For what it was worth, this so-called flat was her home: the modest bedroom - mostly a bedroom now, slowly becoming an avant garde library/home gym mix - was in the back past a dark veil of a curtain, touched with embroidered stars; the front door opened to a nice little kitchen and dining room with a cute table for two, which now was laid out with the requisite candles, not-too-fancy tablecloth, and the highlight of the night, of course: dinner. Steak and wine, as it happened.
Renowned artist, polymath, Renaissance woman that she was, twenty-first century interior design and cuisine didn’t entirely fall within her portfolio. Thankfully, the modern technological marvel of the internet provided for those inconspicuous flaws.
There was no time left to think about that, though: a knock on the door caught her out of her spiralling cascade of thoughts, and she stood up straight and walked to the door, her hand gently on the latch.
-- --
“May I?” came his voice, punctuated by a knock on the side of the shelter, both gentle but concealing some urgency.
Da Vinci waved him in as she lolled over onto her side, her other hand holding to her forehead a damp cloth that used to be chilly but now was barely a respite from the desert air.
He wore a smile for her sake, acting as though he couldn’t see the burns, the bruises, the cuts that her tightly-wound bandages concealed. Of course she saw through his manners, but appreciated them for what they were, and the attempt he made. She and he made quite the strong contrast, and it almost made her laugh: while she was laying on a woollen cot, lifted up by blocked of rough-cut wood, dressed in loose linens, there he was in his armour as he always was, sword hanging from his belt, sweat heavy on his brow, his dark hair matted and hanging in disorganized curls down to his steel shoulders. His hands, dusted with chalk, were the only part of him bare of metal and leather below his neck.
The idle thought, without any ulterior motive, crossed her mind of what he looked like without all that bulky armour on; he had a face that belonged on a model in an artist’s workshop, and the esteemed painter in her had to wonder if the rest of his body was a match for his face.
He sat as lightly as he could on the side of her bed, his eyes crossing her face as if to see what else he could do for her, in the short time he had.
“It’s good to see you awake, miss Leonardo. Feeling better, I hope?”
Demonstrating her recovery, she sat up amongst her bedsheets. “I can do this without every muscle in my body screaming, so that’s better. And you can call me ‘da Vinci,’ please don’t be too formal.”
“Alright... da Vinci.” Again, that smile - now, strangely reassuring to her. “I doubt many others would have survived what you did; I’m sure you’ll be walking around in a few days at most, but make sure you get rest. Heroic spirit you may be, you still need to heal and let your body fix itself, or else you might be confined to this bed when your friends need you most.”
She sighed, falling back, head firmly on her pillow, looking up into his eyes. A coy smile reached her lips.
“Every morning, a handsome knight wakes me up and brings me breakfast while making very sure I’m still alive. Why would I want to give this up?”
The brief, sombre expression on his face suggested he was thinking of something else, but just this once, he let the lighter side of his personality slip through, and he indulged her blase attitude.
“Then maybe, someday, you’ll get this handsome knight to take you to dinner - whoever he might be.”
Da Vinci thought up an awful response to that she was only half-sure was appropriate to say, but she held herself back just this once - and for best, as in through the curtain separating this makeshift shelter from the sand, sun and wind of the desert walked a young man in a tunic and mail.
Her knight showed her a parting frown as their talk had to end so soon; he squeezed her hand in his, getting a light touch of chalk on her palm, and then he was on his feet.
He and the newcomer spoke in hushed tones, both visibly serious and the young man perhaps somewhat unnerved. The conversation was easily overhead: “Food I’m sure we can spare, but water?”
The youth shook his head. “We’ve dug three wells in the past day, but nothing. We still have enough stores for the rest of-”
“Get me a shovel,” he insisted, his hand firmly on the younger man’s shoulder. “We’ll have a fourth and a fifth before the day’s over, I promise you, and dug deep. If anyone in this camp goes thirsty, I’ve failed in my duty to you all.”
Before the young man could ask if he truly was sure about that, despite his other obligations, that flash of violet armour marched out into the searing sunlight, the slighter figure following him close behind with only a moment’s hesitation.
Last of all, and for a brief moment, he glanced over his shoulder with words softly spoken. “You’d best not forget about eating and drinking, yourself. I can’t rest and recuperate for you.”
Da Vinci, laying in her cot, was alone - tracing the lines in her hand, shifting around the little grains of chalk that Lancelot had left, almost like a memento. Her time here wouldn’t last much longer before she rejoined her friends, she knew, but then why did the thought of that now make her feel lonesome?
-- --
There he stood in the doorway: a head taller than her, and smartly dressed in a dark, very slightly blue three-piece suit, comfortably fitting his long arms and broad shoulders. Somehow it gave him something of a martial air, like an officer at a ball. Da Vinci hoped there wouldn’t be any dancing tonight; there was a reason why she wasn’t known for certain forms of artistic expression. His shoes came off quickly, anyway.
He bowed his head slightly, a confident smile on his lips, then stepped through into her flat.
Spying the humble dining table centred off on the far side of the room, he breathed in deeply, enjoying the smell of the braised beef filling the air, warm and tempting. It wasn’t what he was used to, but he wasn’t uncomfortable with this sort of arrangement.
Relaxed, taking in a breath and making himself more or less at home, his eyes wandered from the dinner table to his date - and then his breath caught at once in his throat. Finally he had a good, uninterrupted glimpse of her in the flat hue of fluorescent ceiling lights, and it was a few moments before he could figure out just what to say, the words in his mind but his mouth unable to give them life.
Da Vinci had decided to wear a dress of striking red, accentuated by ruffles about her hips trimmed lightly with gold, with a subdued blue underneath. Understated floral motifs embroidered the dress’ straps, just off her slim shoulders, where her long, unadorned brown hair fell in the slightest of curls to the middle of her back. To complete the look, she didn’t need showy jewelry, nor did Lancelot feel her outfit was incomplete without any, and all she wore to that effect was a single necklace, glittering with with miniscule stars tracing a line in silver just below her collarbone.
“Sir knight,” she breathed in a put-on tone, pretending at an accent, “is something the matter, was there something you wished to say?”
“Actually-”
Lancelot caught himself, gave his date a sharp look right in her coy blue eyes, and stepped forward. Placing his hand gently on her upper arm and guiding her, like a knight walking a charming debutante to the centre of a ballroom, he brought her to the dinner table and pulled out a seat for her, before he did the same for himself.
He softly inhaled as he passed her, and caught a slight aura of orchid and orange wafting from her shoulder.
Her elbows on the table, not paying a cent of attention to the dinner she’d patiently put together, she looked up at him, chin perched on her folded hands. “‘Actually…’ what, hm?”
He shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Actually, we should probably start eating before your lovely steak gets cold and soft, don’t you agree?”
Da Vinci sighed. “Oh, play along,” she chastised, with a playful smack of his hand. “Not the only thing that’s going to be cold and soft if-”
Too much. Too late. She froze up, realizing that she was maybe a bit too flirty for her own good, and as she was stock stiff with a bright blush on her cheeks she chastised herself, as well. Her personality was naturally light and casual, but considering the circumstances and who she was sitting across from, she had to regularly remind herself to tone it down. Otherwise, she knew, there was a line and she would run right over at some point and she wouldn’t be able to take it back. That funny thing about words, after all, and the way her mind tended to work so quickly that she spoke before considering what it was she was going to be actually saying.
Meanwhile, Lancelot almost literally bit his tongue, wanting terribly badly to shoot back with a retort of his own once more, but reminding himself that he was a knight: he was supposed to be a gentleman, aloof but kind, just on a simple date with a beautiful, intelligent woman in a jaw-droppingly gorgeous dress he still couldn’t tear his eyes away from, and the way she so casually-
He breathed in, deeply. Almost too deeply, but he hid his inner thoughts perhaps better than da Vinci did; he at least had the benefit of past experiences to keep him in check. For better or for worse, he knew what happened when he let himself be - well, himself. This was something he had to be serious about, but with da Vinci, he found it gradually more and more difficult to.
Without further hesitation, he distracted himself by slipping his fork and knife into his hands, holding them with an elegant sort of flair, his initiative suggesting his host do the same.
The steak split open pleasantly easily under his blade, severing into two soaking halves, warm fluids seeping out from within. He then proceeded to cut one part into a bite-sized cube, swirling it back and forth in the thick, pooling gravy - and lifting it right up and, his eyes narrowed and his fork-hand pausing as if testing it, placing it in his mouth. As he was accustomed to, he rolled it over on his tongue, letting the gravy and juice flow along his taste buds from tip to base, then a few chews, taking in an accidental, stalled breath, then a contented swallow. The aftertaste lingered a good while, almost like a second steak balancing on his tongue. His tongue, which immediately demanded more even as he wanted to bask in the fading flavours as they receded down his tongue and throat, knowing that the next bite wouldn’t seize him in the same way the first had.
Ultimately, the tragedy of any meal, he thought.
In front of him, da Vinci had barely touched her steak or anything else on her carefully-prepared plate; not even the little decorative herbs on the side had been disturbed from their resting place. Instead, she was entirely fixated, eyes, body, and all, on the precise way Lancelot ate. With his subtle body language he said he enjoyed it - but also that it wasn’t enough - also that it wasn’t what he was expecting - and, in some way, it wasn’t satisfying. It was like a film with a tense climax that drops off with no true denouement.
Little knots that she wasn’t sure of formed in her chest, and without the same artful touch as her date, she popped one - then a few - chunks of steak into her mouth, chewing on them a little while, then eating as one was supposed to with food.
She didn’t quite get the appeal, if there was one, and immediately her mind set to a little suspicion that the oh-so-gallant knight was putting something on just for her sake. Knots of frustration, now.
“As expected of the renowned Renaissance woman,” he said at last, leaning back a little in his chair, his dark eyes piercing into hers. That look caught her off guard, and she didn’t have a quick riposte prepared that she could pull out to leave him on his back foot again.
“Why did you become a painter? I’m sure the kings of France would have paid you more than handsomely to cater their kitchens. It’s a shame we didn’t live in the same era, or…”
Again with those eyes, those terribly honest eyes that assured her of the truth. He had a way with emotions - his own, and others - and she wasn’t sure if he was even aware of it himself. And then he struck her right in the pride; flattery was too terribly effective on her, and it was something she couldn’t not know about herself but still regretted. She, of course, knew that she was the incredible, unmatched genius known throughout the world, Leonardo da Vinci - but being reminded of it every so often made her heart jump, particularly when it was him, for whatever reason that might be.
She smiled, just a little, unable to hide her pride. “Well, you know, I’m sure you know what they say, about Italians, and cuisine, and quality, and, well.”
“And well?” Cutting through her defences as she tried to distract the conversation by eating, he didn’t let go.
“Well, you’ve tried it, and… thank you.”
Lancelot, in a moond now, was tempted to push that line further, but didn’t. He let it lay, giving her time to recuperate, and at least pleased that he managed to turn the tables on her for once tonight.
Without paying much attention to it, and certainly not as much attention as Lancelot did, da Vinci finished the rest of her dinner, and he followed suit not longer after as if spurred on by her sudden apparent appetite. Then silence fell on them, but Lancelot at least seemed to be taking it well, sipping his wine, pouring a bit more, then another sip, longer, and then more. He basked in the silence as if the atmosphere was to his liking, and he lounged in his chair as if he was at a high-class ristorante after a wallet- and waist-straining full course meal.
Ending all that, da Vinci let out a long sigh, the kind that tended to precede a series of goodbyes, smalltalk about how it was nice to see each other again, and then mutual, divergent disappearance into the evening.
“I’m going to be straightforward,” she stated at last, drawing herself up in her chair. “I don’t know why I feel the way I do. I don’t know what, of all the things that make people feel these things, made me have fluttery, tingly feelings in my heart when I saw you back then. And now, too, even if I don’t understand it. The chivalrous, fairy-tale knight… isn’t exactly my type, if you’ll forgive me for being broad.”
Lancelot shrugged, an uncertain frown on his lips. “You know I hardly have the happiest part to play in those ‘fairy-tales,’ don’t you? I understand how you feel, I’ve felt it myself. But I ought to warn you, da Vinci: me, and love… we don’t exactly mix very well, as you also should know.”
He almost stopped himself in the middle of saying that, knowing where it could and should and would lead, but at this point, it didn’t matter. His unfettered feelings destroyed a kingdom once; but that was the past, and now he had the perspective to make things right for once and for all. Considering who he happened to meet, and who happened to invite him on a date, he couldn’t help but be thankful he hadn’t found himself yet again falling for a queen, or even a goddess or some other woman who would no doubt cause his weary heart no end of conflict and pain. Da Vinci was different - truly, no one else in the world being like her was, ultimately, what best defined her. No other in history could match the unparalleled genius, not a one.
She slid a hand through the dark waves of her hair, and let herself smile. Nothing good came without some amount of risk and experimentation, after all - and, in this particular hypothesis, more than a bit of teasing.
“Who says it has to be love, hm?” she asked, an inquisitive finger on her chin as she gave him a wink.
Before he could parry that strike, she was on her feet, and grasped the hand he rested on his knee, holding it with an air of exaggerated grace and reverence. Then, falling to one knee in a romantic re-enactment like out of a play, she touched her gentle lips to his middle finger and looked up into the confusion and uncertainty that were now rife in his eyes.
“What say you, o sir knight of Camelot, to this fair lady?”
“What do I say?” he wondered, half to himself, and stood at once, bringing da Vinci back up along with him. Not a moment later, his face was mere inches from hers, his shoulders stooped over to bring him level with her so that she could feel his warm, wine-dark breath on her lips. His eyes stared deeply into his hers, dark against light, and she paused, held in tense uncertainty.
His arms wrapped about her waist, fingers brushing coarsely along the ruffles of her dress.
“This can be anything we may want it to be,” he said to her, but before she could say anything - if she could have formed a response to that in the spirit of the moment - her knight had stolen her in a kiss, taking her mind far away into a moment that seemed to last forever. She pressed back up against him, taking her fair share, her tongue against his, the alcohol in their breaths mixing; she hardly noticed when his grip around her tightened and her feet left the ground, her sudden, physical weightlessness nothing to compare to the pure white headiness in her mind as she savoured this kiss for as long as the world would let her.
Before she knew it, she bounced onto her bed, sitting down, their lips separate even as she still felt his faint touch on her, the aftertaste lingering, then fading, receding from her - and her most immediate thought was to recapture it with another kiss, but she knew the second wouldn’t seize her in the same way the first had.
Da Vinci paused, expecting more, her eyes closed, but Lancelot’s hands were off her now.
“An… exercise bike? Is that what this is?”
Her shoulders slumped, even in the dim, bluish light of the evening seeing where Lancelot’s gaze had wandered, and it was unfortunately well away from her.
She grabbed his wrists, demanding his attention without further ado, and caught him with a steely stare back up at him.
“I care about my figure, okay? Please get this off me now,” she ordered in a haste, drawing his hands to the clasps of her scarlet dress. He was, naturally, more than happy to oblige, albeit with some help as he had to maneuver his fingers around her back and her sides to find where exactly he needed to slip the folds and ties of the dress to loosen it. From the tightness of her breath, he could tell she was tired enough by now of being constrained by it, among other things.
Then, like finally finding the right key to a lock, it was undone and da Vinci could slip the straps over and off her arms, peeling the dress down her figure, exposing her top at first, then letting the rest fall in a rushed heap at her feet by the side of the bed.
From her waist up her body was entirely bare, the light Mediterranean tan of her skin accentuated by the low, simulated moonlight; shadows around her arms, along her hips, by her neck and under her breasts all drew attention to her immaculate beauty. She was perfection in every sense given human form, the true intention of the artist Leonardo da Vinci in his quest to capture the ideal beauty - in at least one man’s eyes, a resounding success.
As she stood up, seeing the longing in her knight’s eyes, she let her panties slip slowly along the curves of her thighs and calves to her slim feet.
“I wish I could be effortlessly charismatic and handsome right now, but,” Lancelot began, the words coming to him slowly as he imagined his lips against every curve of her body, the thought inextricable from his mind.
“But you’re at a loss for words, right?” Da Vinci pressed herself against him, one hand on his back, the other undoing his tie, tossing it behind herself onto the bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll take that as a compliment… just this once. You’ll have to impress me next time.”
He slid his hand up her thigh until it rested on the narrowest part of her waist. The suppleness of her skin barely felt real, soft and hot under his touch, and he barely remembered to say, in a gasp, “or else?”
The hand she had just under his shoulder blades slipped ‘accidentally’ downward, until her fingers got a firm grasp of his ass.
“Or else, my steak won’t be the only thing you’ll be missing,” she whispered, pulling him down sharply by his collar to speak subtle tones in his ear. Then, her delicate engineer’s touch got to work on the buttons of his shirt, then as more of his firm, muscular chest was exposed to the evening air she gradually began to nearly tear them undone. The white silk had very soon given way, allowing her unparalleled access to his waist, his abs, his firm collarbone and broad shoulders; very soon after it had given way completely, and was on the floor in a mess with the clothing of her own she’d left behind.
“I’ll be sure to be on my best behaviour, then.”
Playfully he pecked at her lips, a move she tried to snatch and pull into a full kiss, but he wouldn’t let her have her way that easily. As if to remind her who was in control - even if it was control he was happy to relinquish - he cupped her ass in his palm, squeezing roughly and pulling her hips in to grind against his own, controlling her light body with a single hand.
She shook her head, almost incredulously, as she looked into his eyes. “I should’ve expected this of you of all people, Sir Lancelot.”
“And what’s that?” he bit back, helping her unclasp his belt and bring it, along with his dark trousers, to the floor, exposing him just as she was - together, now, there was no going back from this. They both knew that, and their hearts beat both harder and faster, the intensity of the night reflected in their rising breaths, the heat of their cheeks, and the determination with which they held so close to each other.
“You like big butts, and you cannot lie,” she said with a coy smile, her fingers intertwining with his as he kept his hold on her ass and walked her step-in-step towards the bed.
He furrowed his brow, strands of long hair falling in front of his eyes that da Vinci dutifully tucked away.
She sighed. “You haven’t been here as long as I have. It gets boring in Chaldea sometimes.”
Sometimes, was what she said, but certainly not tonight.
For him, that was when he decided that was enough, and his arms slipped again about her waist smooth as silk, drawing her in to his fully nude form like a great statue of marble given flesh, holding her in the warm stone of his embrace.
She felt her thighs against the overflowing brown blanket of her bed, and that momentary distraction was enough for Lancelot, who took best advantage of the moment she was unawares and slipped in with a new deep kiss. It took a little while before da Vinci realized that this was happening, and this time she fell into it, letting herself be taken in by his lips, briefly breathing in the intoxicating, heavy scent of his fragrance just as he did hers. He couldn’t get enough of that, in truth, and he let their lips linger, trembling against each other as he drank in the gentle floral, fructal perfume she wore, worn just for him, worn perhaps knowing it would come to this.
He had to wonder if this, too, had been his intent all along.
As their kiss resumed, da Vinci came to her own realization, even as she wasn’t sure if this was their second or their third, but then again, maybe it didn’t matter: she thought that they wouldn’t be the same as the first, wouldn’t strike her, but now that she experienced them - they did. An electric shiver ran down her back, every new kiss - neither kept count any more at this point - enticing her further.
It wasn’t just her lips that demanded and were granted his attention, though: she leaned back against her bed, rising up a little to sit comfortably as Lancelot’s tender touch ran down the whole of her figure.
Soft, gentle, generous brushes down her collarbone and to her breasts, contrasted by a sharp tingle that ran through her when she felt the press of his tongue on her nipple, his hand grasping underneath her breast before his kisses moved on, moved down; his tongue ran down the middle of her belly, pausing for a idle few moments at her navel. It felt like brief moments of smooth pleasure here and there, but he was in no rush to bring his nimble tongue between her thighs - but eventually, he did.
Da Vinci’s body seized up as he poured little kisses and darts of his tongue all over her, his hands comfortably spreading her legs as he fell to his knees like a man in prayer. He said nothing at all, save for the work his mouth did, and she tried to grab at his shoulders to have something of him to ground her as the little pleasurable shocks stepped, built, rose, into a deep crescendo. Her fingers dug into the pliable flesh of her breast, her other hand clutching the bedsheets; she closed her eyes, holding on as though she was on the edge of a cliff, about to fall off if she didn’t keep up a precarious balancing act.
It was only Lancelot’s dedicated ministrations that taught her, in the centre of this all, it was okay to let herself fall, and she did so with a shuddering gasp.
Lightness overwhelmed her, body and mind, and for moment at a time she couldn’t piece together exactly what Lancelot was doing - only that he was below her one instance, and then the next time she peeled open her eyes he was atop her, his hands working independent of her hazy mind, pulling him onto the bed. She meant to grasp his defined shoulders, admire his smooth back, but she found her fingers had yet again ‘accidentally’ wrapped around something else entirely.
He was stiff and ready she could tell by touch alone, and when she regained a sense of herself, his hips above her, she wrapped her hot palms around his length and pressed her lips to his tip, feeling an intense heat there she hadn’t expected.
Above her, he stayed passive, letting her do what came easily to her. Briefly she was somehow intimidated, realizing how much more experienced a lover her knight was - but only briefly. She wanted to make him feel just as she had, and she took him in his mouth, little by little, her tongue and lips in concert. Da Vinci, of course, had an intelligent, clever mind: it didn’t take long for her to figure out what pleased him. He let out a heavy breath, tousling her hair in his appreciation, and she went at him more eagerly, bringing her full lips along the sides of his cock, leaving wet kisses up and down his length and even below.
As his breaths grew more intense, his hold on her mussed hair grew tighter, and da Vinci sucked him passionately - until she wasn’t, not wanting this to end so soon, feeling his touch grow suspiciously lighter and his breathing lighter, more sparse. He understood how close to the edge he himself was, and he pulled away, turning her over, and she followed what he desired, letting him lead.
She trusted that, just as he did what felt best for himself, he considered her as well, even at the peak of passion, a passion he wasted no time in expressing.
On all fours, da Vinci felt his weight behind her, and he slipped inside her without hesitating, just a bit at first, easing her into the experience. He could feel her gripping tightness recede as he filled her with gradual thrusts, one hand on her ass and the other pressing to her back.
It took a great force of will to be patient despite the feeling overwhelming him, telling him from the depths of his heart to enjoy this to his utmost, but even now he tried to be the compassionate knight, and so he waited. He waited until her posture was less tense and she began to sink comfortably into the pillows and sheets of her bed, and then he let his weight onto her, bucking his hips forward, then back, in a careful rhythm that nonetheless felt wild and unrestrained.
His hands were all over her, savouring every moment of this as if to burn it into his mind: how supple her ass was under the pressure of his fingers, how his hand slid effortlessly up her delicate waist, how her moans seemed to resonate in his ears like no sound he’d heard before.
Gripping her hips, he thrust more deeply into her, eliciting a cry from her throat as she pressed her face into the pillows, trying not to be too loud, almost biting her lip when he was particularly rough for a few moments. He could feel tears of sweat streaking down her body, making her thighs slick against his, pooling in the small of her back as she arched up as if to take more of him, to maximise the pleasure of this experience she worried could end at any moment.
“No wonder,” she breathed, pulling herself away from the bunched-up bedsheets, “they considered you… the best jouster in Camelot, hmmnh?”
Lancelot laughed, and his arm wrapped about her waist as he leaned in; he grazed the edge of her ear with his teeth, a sharp sensation she’d left herself open to, and then his deft fingers were between her thighs even as he continued his powerful thrusts.
Even a knight of the round table, however, could succumb to exhaustion, and this was the one foe he couldn’t defeat, fight it as he may.
“Show me how you ride, then,” he offered, his arms hanging by his sides, his breaths ragged and harsh, taking a necessary break that he wasn’t sure he could resume from. It took only the smallest push from da Vinci’s sweaty hands to bring him down, the only woman to truly defeat him so. He was on his side, then his back, and da Vinci swung over, holding him in her thighs, her energy seemingly boundless. Lancelot had to admire that, at the same time relaxing with his head rested on countless pillows, breathing in the heady aroma of sex that filled the bedroom.
“Gladly,” was her response as she sat over him, grasping his cock for a moment just to guide him inside her again, her thighs a vice-like grip on him. Her hair was matted down, her curls long since disappeared, perspiration starting to blur her vision, rivulets of sweat trickling down her face and chest with a noticeable tingle as she rocked back and forth.
There was no reason to hold back. She tried to stare deep into his eyes, but couldn’t quite make out the expression in his eyes, and so she let herself fall away into her own pleasure, one hand by her side to keep herself steady, the other more personally attending to her needs.
The intensity of the moment they shared together only grew, and grew, and grew, seeming to know no peak whatsoever; da Vinci took what she wanted from her lover, grinding her hips on his, knowing he was enjoying it just as much as her.
In the midst of this, her head feeling light and over-hot, Lancelot mustered the last of his strength like a knight in his final battle and took her in his arms, holding her upright, his lips on her breasts with kisses no less fervent than those he showed her before. For them both, that was all they needed in order to, all for one and one for all, take the plunge together and slip over the edge. His hands caressed her face, holding her blindly, his strands of stray hair sticking to his face as he kept her in one more kiss, this one surpassing every one that came before it.
All together they felt a rush through their bodies, one last surge of electric energy, and then - nothing.
They collapsed to the side, Lancelot’s heavy arms still holding da Vinci not because of his strength, but because of her lack thereof. She contented herself to lay like this, her breaths steadily, over seconds and minutes, slowing down just as did his.
Faces mere inches away from one another, too exhausted even to share a last and final kiss, they could see that the other was smiling with an elation they’d never known. That was enough, they thought, unable to conjure words to express what was in their hearts then. Perhaps they didn’t need to, not now: as long as they woke in the morning, there would be many more opportunities to try to define what they felt.
And so, like the closing of a book, no more words left to this story, they shut their eyes and let sleep overtake them, far more comfortable together than they had ever been alone.
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I'll never be satisfied with my writing style and am a terrible self-editor, but I hope that was a fun thing to read. Hopefully I'll finish the other three sometime! At least I have solid ideas for all of them, and they won't be quite as lengthy as this one, maybe.
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