Knightly Pleasure

© Carole Cummings

(Rated Adult; you must be of legal consenting age in your country of residence to read this story.)


NOTE: This was a prompt story, meaning I wrote it specifically to go with a particular picture-prompt on Cryselle's blog. You can see the pic HERE, should you be so inclined. I don't know if it'll add to your reading 'experience', but it sure added to my writing experience.


“Piper… oh, God.” Cynric set his teeth and thought quite forcefully of Gran’dam in her knickers. Because if he let himself concentrate on what Piper’s hands were doing, this would all be over before he had a chance to do much more than shove Piper into the wall and rut against him like a feral tom. He snatched Piper’s hand away from its torturous wandering, Cynric’s fingers digging in to the tendon and bone of Piper’s wrist a little harder than they should be doing; but Piper only smirked, set the tip of his tongue to his upper-lip and gave it a long, slow lick, white teeth flashing. Cynric couldn’t help the groan, nor the way heat fizzed from his thighs to his groin and all up his backbone. “You,” he growled, low and as fierce as he could make it, “have the devil in you.”

Piper merely crooked that scimitar grin, all sly and wicked. “Yes, and that’s all I’ve in me.” One dark eyebrow rose up into the heavy mass of straight chestnut fringe that hung askew over his brow. “Plan on fixing that any time soon?”


It was the look in those brown eyes that did it—that chill intent, that ‘Yes, I’ve beaten you and we both know it,’ that… that subtle power that could afford to be subtle, defied you to doubt it, because Piper had the skill to back it, and he didn’t care if you knew it. Didn’t care, because if you dared test it… well. Piper had always enjoyed a test.


Gran’dam in her knickers, and with Gran’da’s bony arse between her wrinkled thighs.

Cynric winced a little, but it did the job—he managed to keep himself from messing his drawers long enough to get them off and fling Piper to the bed. Piper landed with that evil little chuckle he trotted out when he was trying to prove he had the edge, and though Cynric would certainly concede the point when they had weapons in their hands, in here the edge was never a given.


Thrust through the forward attack then parry the sideswipe. Try not to get dragged in by that look, that face, the way the setting sun wove russet and smears of gold through rich chestnut. Deflect the advance and feint in with a compound attack then spin through the dodge and cross. Try not to note the way shadows spilt themselves over the angular face, anointed it sharp and transcendent, almost sanctified, like even they couldn’t resist the touch.


Gran’dam without her knickers, and Gran’da—

No, not helping.

“Cyn,” Piper panted. “Cyn… God, yes, that’s…”

Long, strong legs wrapped about Cynric’s ribs, squeezed. Deceptively slender arms slid about his neck, pulled him in. Cynric dipped down obediently, sank his teeth into the thick muscle that ran from Piper’s neck to his shoulder, and groaned as Piper’s hips snapped up and back, Cynric’s own following helplessly. He’d wanted to keep the rhythm slow, wanted to draw it out, make it last, torture Piper just as ruthlessly as Piper had tortured Cynric in the tournament, but he couldn’t keep from sinking deep, over and over again, long, slow strokes turned to faltering drives from one moan to the next.

“Yes, yes, Cyn, bloody fuck, so good, it’s… you’re… God so—”

“Piper,” Cynric groaned, breathless and desperate, “shut up, I can’t—”

Cynric gave up on making sense of the demand—plea—and just shut them both up with a kiss, because it was fast reaching a point where ‘control’ was just another nonsensical word inside the tempest of heat and sweat-slick skin and brutal sensation that was Cynric’s world right now.

Can’t hold out when you beg like that, can’t keep from fucking you so hard neither one of us will be able to sit a horse for a week.

The muted squeak of the bed’s rope supports, the thin whine of the mattress’s ticking—a weird, cacophonous discord that wound through Cynric’s head and melded with Piper’s gasping groans, his whispered supplication. Met and twined through the sensation of Piper’s body, against and around, rocking up and back, swamping Cynric’s senses and pummeling them into nothing but animalistic need.


The glint of the sword, the honed tip leveled right at Cynric’s throat, the failing burnt-ruby of the sun slanting off its silver-blue edge like a stain of blood. Cynric stubbornly set his gaze to the leather bindings of the vambraces, the stitching of the gauntlets, the dip and curve of chest-plate and hauberk—anything but those eyes and what he knew to be waiting behind their cool invitation, that mouth and its flat challenge:

“Do you yield, Sir Lindley?”


A sharp cry slid up Piper’s throat, and he arched, head thrown back, eyes locked to Cynric’s and anything but cool—a welter of warmth and passion—before they closed and Piper came. “Cynric… Cyn… ah!”

Cynric watched for as long as he could, rapt with the sheer beauty of abandon, the heady possession, the surrender, before he had no choice but to follow. Bright-white fire closed him in a tight fist as his body pulsed and thrashed, throat grinding out graveled curses, and Piper wrapped about him, holding on, tricking a few more shudders and jolts loose with a wicked twist of his hips.

Piper’s hands on his back, stroking, and Piper’s voice in his ear, whispering— “So good, Cyn, love you so much,” —and Piper’s body beneath his, a firm line of sinewy muscle strapped directly to the bone.

Do you yield, Sir Lindley?

Oh, God, yes.






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