A Knight's Dance

"Saxon slaves! Yellow-haired Saxon slaves!"

Donaire turned at the slaver's shout on the back of his horse, with the sound of well-worn leather creaking. The heavy iron helmet he wore shortened his view to the side. Yet, he did glimpse the thin silhouettes of ragged blond-haired slaves atop a thick wooden block. Four . . . nay, five and the last two were women. God's balls, he'd not had a woman in ages—nay more, and a decent meal in longer. He thought about the two gold pieces he had hidden in a woven flax bag stuffed into his braies. He'd had to run off eight sniveling brigands, killing three of them, to earn those two paltry gold pieces from an obese and greasy-haired lord. Pantrow was the lord's name and the miserly lord had owned a dilapidated wooden keep, with wormy bread, and just smelly old women to offer. That had been a fortnight ago.

By the rood, Donaire thought, he had always wanted a slave woman, and what was he doing now, but wandering aimlessly in the hopes of finding another place to swing his sword for a few gold pieces. Mayhap, he would just turn about and have a look. Sure as the little used shriveled prick in his hose, the two wenches would be as ugly as mules, and he could save his gold.

Anagold tried to kick the crusty old slaver's shin with her dirty bare foot, but the slaver was strong for all his gnarled bones. Her struggles did not stop the wretched slaver from ripping her thin shift down the front. "Nay," she cried trying to gather the tattered pieces together.

The slaver slapped her cheek with a hard calloused palm and before she fell beneath the blow, he grabbed her from behind holding her upright. Then he ripped the shift down off her shoulders, until her dirt smudged breasts sprang free, jutting naked into the sunlight. Anagold gasped, struggling to escape, yet the slaver held both of her arms and around her waist as he stood behind her.

"Young with fat tits!"the slaver shouted, then he began to jiggle her from head to foot, making her naked breasts pitch heavily. Anagold clenched her eyes tightly against seeing the crowd of men staring at her nakedness. In the glimpse she had gotten despite her best efforts, she saw that each and every one of them had looked old, fat, or lame.

"One gold piece stands for ten heartbeats, then I move on!"

Anagold cringed at the tenor shout offering to buy her. She prayed to be sold away from the slaver with his grouping hands, yet at the same time she prayed not to be, for who wished to be a slave.

"Done!" the slaver shouted.

Anagold panted sharply, at least her fate was sealed now, then she dared to peek through her eyelashes to see who might have bought her. The shadow that she saw was large. Truly, all she could behold was chain mail and a black iron helmet atop a large black stallion. Twas a knight! A warrior knight had bought her.

Donaire looked down on his slave from astride his war horse. The wench was a scrawny affair with boney hips and a tangle of dirty blonde hair that fell to her arse. Truthfully, he could not see the woman's face through the hair falling wildly about her small frame. Yet, her breasts now, they struck free from the scraggily blonde skeins of hair. Bulging outward, young and firm. They were solid balls of flesh with tan-colored nipples, and in the center of these shaded nipples were darker colored spikes, puckered and distended. By the rood, the wench would do for a fortnight of swiving with titties like those. And if she was ugly, well, he would just throw a sack over her head. The wench was after all, his slave now.

His slave woman came with a set of shackles around her thin ankles and he declined the slaver's offer to remove them. He was not going to let a whole gold piece hare away, he would work around them. With the deed done and his gold piece gone into the greasy pocket of the slaver, Donaire merely nodded his helmeted head to seal the agreement. Then with a wide calloused hand, he grasped what he could of the wench's thin tattered shift in the back and he hauled her up over his horse, belly down. He was pleased to see that she was properly docile over this, as she lay limply where he had dropped her in front of him. Only a small gasp escaped her as he lay his square palm to her thinly covered arse and kicked his warhorse into a slow trot.

"Ouff. Ouff." The slave woman panted with each healthy trot his stallion took.

Donaire slapped her plump arse sharply with his palm. "Silence, wench," he ordered curtly and from thereafter, his slave became blessedly silent.

Anagold turned her gaze to the knights strong left calf, held against the side of his black stallion. She watched in dread as the muscular limb tightened, then flexed, for every time it did, she would receive a sickening jolt to her belly. Oh, how she wished that she were brave enough to beg the knight to allow her to ride behind him instead of in this dizzying and painful position. Her long hair nearly touched the ground with each powerful trot that the stallion took, and her legs weighted by the chains and manacles around her ankles ached unbearably on the other side. Yet, her most anxiousness came over the knight's hand on her buttocks, and the way it moved over her bottom groping her cowering flesh.

Anagold tried hard not to make a sound, but when she felt the edges of her shift being pulled upward to bare her buttocks, she could not stand it. "Nay," she screamed, erupting into motion. She tried to lift her hands backward to grab the hem of her shift, to stop its upward motion. Then suddenly beneath her, the stallion jolted and her belly lifted from the stallions back to slam down again as the knight cursed foully. She screamed again, losing the air in her lungs, with a punch to her belly of the stallions back. It happened again and again, until she knew the stallion was galloping uncontrollably. She yelped at the pain as she was thrown about helplessly and if not for the knights strong hand on her bared buttocks, she would have been thrown off. Then suddenly, she was thrown off, but it was by the knights own hand. She heard and then she felt the water before she saw it as the stallion lunged into a stream. The knight's hand lifted her, tossing her off the stallions bucking back, and into the cold water. The iciness of the water was a shock against her heated skin and she screamed again, going under the river's surface. Anagold, thanked god a moment later that she was not afraid of the water as her heavy manacles weighed her down. Yet, she did not panic enough, to gulp in the cold water, but held her mouth and nose closed. Suddenly, there was a great upsurging of the water and bubbles around her and it so startled her that she opened her eyes. What she saw was the heavily armored knight hitting the bottom of the river on his back.

Certainly, she expected him to rise after that in a surge of power, but instead he just lay on the bottom struggling with his helmet. Then it finally dawned on her, the weight of the armor he wore and the predicament that put him in. No less than her heavy manacles, Anagold thought as she pushed off the bottom toward the knight. Her frantic mind argued with her that she should leave him to die a watery cold death even as her fingers reached outward to help him. It could be that she could push herself out of this river with her heavy manacles, but the knight had no hope with his weighty armor.

As her fingers groped for the leather ties on his chain mail vest, she saw the knight finally release his head from the iron helmet he wore. Long black hair, as lengthily and thick as her own, cascaded from beneath the knight's helmet to float around his head. Then his fingers were beside her fingers, swiftly undoing the other leather ties to his chain mail vest. Anagold got two of them and the knight managed the last three, but the need inside of her to gulp air was becoming agony. The decision to leave the river on her own was now beyond her and in her panic, she frantically groped at the knight's wrist just as he came free from his vest. The knight hooked his forearm around her waist and they both shot upward toward the surface, landing at the river's edge, in the shallow water, beached like two great whales.

"Heavens above!" Donaire hissed as his tripping gaze came to rest on the Saxon wench standing in the water at his feet. Where he lay gazing up at her like a fool. "Tis gold," he uttered, looking at the woman's hair of light coppery gold tints. He had never seen hair of such beautiful color before and what's more, the wench's face was more exquisite than any he had laid eyes upon. With the dirt washed away, the truest prize shone brightly. A button nose, sky blue eyes, lips like a small red bow and further there were breasts bared, wet and clean, with cherry blossom colored nipples, frigid and thrusting outward. The wench's thin shift, barely hung on her wrists and over her hips as it clung to a sleek hollow between her thighs. Her belly protruded slightly, soft and tender, with a belly button above that was a dainty smudge.

Christ's balls, what had he gotten himself into? He was naught but a hardened rough knight and this wench, this woman, was a princess. He could do nothing but lay in the water at the river's edge and glare at her. His golden, Saxon slave.

Anagold could not seem to lift her gaze from the young knights, sinfully long black hair. It reached clearly down to the top of his large chest. Black was a druid's color and certainly this man was bewitching with his thick coal colored eyelashes on top and bottom of his earthy brown eyes. The druid knight had a gruff shadowed chin with a solid cleft in its square expanse. Healthy muscular stock this knight bred from and he was taller than most. Certainly a male siren sent to tempt her very soul!

"Name," he muttered, looking up at her.

"A-Anagold," she whispered. Her name seemed to startle the knight.

"You are a witch," he accused her with a mutter.

Anagold's eyes widened and she blurted, "And you are a black druid knight!"

He laughed. Anagold glared at the swarthy knight intently, listening to the deep rumble of his chuckling. She could not help it, she smiled, "We are a pair," he assured her.

Anagold smiled more, nearly giggling. "A witchy pair," she quipped and then she did laugh. The knights gaze shot downward and Anagold realized suddenly that her shift covered only her hips. She gasped, thinking to cover her breasts with her hands, but her gaze collided with the knights again. His shook his head slowly and her fingers curled into fists at her side.

"We are a pair," he murmured and Anagold nodded her head slowly. She would not defy her fate, it was foolish to fight, he owned her. She could perhaps embrace this fate willingly too, yet she was not so timid that she would not try to secure that fate.

"I saved your life," she said boldly. Her comely knight grimaced.

"Aye," he nodded his head as though that were the end of it.

Anagold lifted her chin and placed her fists onto her hips. "I deserve a boon," she challenged. "Several, boons," she added. "For so worthy a life," she finished.

The knight tilted his head to the side with his eyelids narrowing as he peered at her. He was very nice to look upon. "I paid an entire gold piece for you. I deserve at least one full day unchallenged," he muttered.

Anagold pursed her lips, he was witty this knight of hers. "One day," she agreed. "Then we will speak upon my 'three' boons."

"Three," the knight growled, sloshing in the water as he leaped quickly to stand. "Two," he uttered.

Anagold nearly stumbled backward at his swiftness. "Three," she squeaked. But then the knight was in front of her and before she realized what he was about he had bent and tossed her over his shoulder. His wide hand landed squarely on her buttocks as she threw her hands outward to brace upon his back

"Three it is," he muttered as he turned and began to climb up the bank "But this day is mine!"

Anagold was amazed as her knight continued to carry her without straining his breath. He found his war horse and he used the reins to guide the black stallion to a clearing. He grabbed a fur off the stallions back and he laid it out beneath a tree. Then he bent and set her upon it.

Anagold scrambled back against the tree trunk as the knight crouched before her. "Take off the rag, and cuddle yourself in this fur," he said looking down at her shivering breasts. "I will start a fire."

"What is your name?" Anagold asked in a whisper, just as he was turning away.

She watched him stand, as he said with his back to her, "Donaire." Then he was away searching for wood.

Anagold gladly took off what was left of her shift and snuggled on top of the fur with the other half folded over her. She tried not to think about what was going to happen. Whether the druid knight would be gentle in his coupling . . . or rough. Whether he was skilled or not. He looked too young to be skilled, but she would not know, she had been used but four times in her life . . . and all were not easy memories. Yet, she had heard talk of wonderful lovers, and she dreamed for a moment that Donaire with his sinfully long black hair was such a man. He would be her youngest and strongest ever and that she could appreciate.

When Donaire had started the fire and then he returned to her side, he was barefooted and bare-chested. Anagold's eyes widened as he crouched before her with a spike and mallet in his hands. He must have thought that she looked at him so foolishly for what his hands carried, but the truest cause was his broad hairy chest.

"Give me your ankle," Donaire muttered.

Anagold complied, unable to take her gaze from Donaire's handsome muscular torso. He was not boldly built, but strong and wiry, with defined ropes of sinew shaping his shoulders, arms, and chest. Anagold sighed happily, watching Donaire's drying black hair swing around his muscular frame as he struck the manacles from her ankles. Then he set the tools aside and he looked at her for long moments with his deep brown eyes. "Have you fucked a man before, little Anagold?" he asked.

Anagold's eyes widened at the word he used, but she answered truthfully. "Aye, Donaire."

"Not many," he muttered, standing to take his braies down.

Anagold kept her sigh of relief hidden as she boldly looked at Donaire's manly root. It was not so bulky and overlong that he would split her asunder, and it was fleshy pink, not red and striped with veins. She could look upon this organ for a goodly time, she decided. The black hair surrounding it was soft looking and Donaire's male sacks were small and tight, between his sleekly muscled thighs.

Donaire looked down at Anagold gazing at his cock so openly. His prick stiffened more, curving to the left, in answer to her gaze. He wondered what he should do first with his lovely slave? There were so many wants inside him. "Do you dance, girl?" he asked, watching Anagold's startled glance lift from his strutting prick to his eyes. By the rood, he would savor this dream, never would he have expected to have one so comely. A young healthy sprite, fulsome, and glowing.

"Dance?" Anagold asked, whispering her question.

"Aye, the Saxon way. I have seen it before," Donaire replied intently.

"But, I-I am . . . naked," she whispered with incredulous intention.

"Aye," he murmured. "And the day is mine," he reminded her.

Anagold's starry blue eyes darkened, and Donaire saw her hesitation, perhaps her embarrassment, but mayhap her curiosity. The evening shadows were deepening and the fire he had built was sending orange flames into the night sky. A perfect back drop for Anagold's handsome beauty, Donaire thought as he murmured a tease of encouragement. "Three boons, sweet Anagold."

Anagold's glassy eyes flared with the starry pupils becoming pin points as she slowly lowered the fur that she had been clutching to her waist. And then she began to rise with a whisper on her lips. "You'll not think me daft—or laugh?"

Her innocent struck Donaire instantly as he said, "I vow on the heavens above that I'll not laugh at you. And as for being daft, well then, you and I will be daft together over how much I will enjoy this sight."

Anagold sighed with an airy sound as she rose before him naked with her pale white skin shimmering in the firelight. He avidly took in all of her soft curves with his gaze, and he was pleased—or daft as she had spoken. He was daft on lust for the feminine splendor she presented him as she turned away from him toward the firelight and began her Saxon dance.

Anagold felt the cold air touch her exposed nipples and caress her naked loins as she twirled around the fire beneath Donaire's intense gaze. She had never had a man admire her as Donaire's obvious gaze was admiring her dancing nakedness. The gaze in his dark henna colored eyes, emboldened her, and she realized that she had never felt so free. It lifted her firm breasts and arched her toes, shivering up over her naked buttocks. Then, deep inside her, a warm glow began, centering in her sex, and she longed to touch herself between the wetly clinging lips.

"Dance, sweet witch, dance," Donaire uttered in a low husky voice as he stepped closer to her and the fire.

The wind lifted his long black hair and then her golden hair, sending red sparks from the flames into the night air, as she undauntedly called back to him, "Dance, handsome druid, dance."

Donaire came forward instantly at her beckoning, catching her naked body in his arms. Anagold gasped at the raw intensity of their skin stroking together. Hot solid skin, touching soft pliable flesh. His chest did not yield to the pressure of her breasts and his jutting root merely slid up her belly. The hair on his thighs rasped against her thighs, while he turned their bodies in a new dance.

One of Donaire's hands caught her hair from behind, pulling the long mane to turn her face up to his, as his other hand settled over the bottom curves of her naked buttocks. A senseless sound escaped her lips at the feel of his wide hand clasping her flanks, while he continued to turn their bodies around the fire. His irises were black and heated as his lips lowered toward hers and he whispered a tenor command. "Give me your lips, sweet witch."

Anagold had never been kissed before, not by any that had struck their heavy male roots inside her. A yearning like none she had ever felt before rose within her, as she lifted her lips eagerly to Donaire's command. When his lips settled over her lips, she sighed happily, lifting her hands into the weight of Donaire's long black hair.

Donaire's dance came to an unconscious halt as he slanted his lip over Anagold's sweet warm mouth. Enthralled with her lips beneath his, Donaire lifted Anagold's curving woman's body up his strong frame with only his hand cupping her rounded arse. He could not remember the last time, or if ever, he had kissed a wench, and his mouth demanded that he learn every dewy inch of Anagold's silky mouth. Yet, there were other things wrestling mightily with his lust. A fragile wet slit astride the base of his randy prick, just above his balls, and least not forget where his fingers played, inside the hot furrow of a fulsome behind. Hot swollen nipple points poked his solid chest. Followed by the firm mounding of breasts, rolling against the hairy expanse, as little Anagold ardently kissed him evermore passionately.

He had both of his hands on her buttocks now, as he lifted her upward to smear her juices over the curved length of his stout prick. The feel of this, snatched a bass groan from his throat as Anagold murmured excitedly. Anagold was lusty and warm, ripe for his picking, and wet, the sweet wench was so wet for him. He raised her higher and to the left, to rub the sensitive crease in his prick deep into her welcoming snatch.