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The best part of a living history event is after hours, when the public goes home and the re-enactors relax into a kind of limbo between their chosen historical period and the modern world. It probably looks odd to those more used to a world of tracksuits and take-aways, seeing all these people sitting around a campfire in thick layers of wool and linen, drinking ale flavoured with bog myrtle or coriander rather than the modern hopped beers, swapping stories of how they were killed on the tourney field that day.
In the small hours, when the ale and mead have done their work, you’ll see these half breeds perhaps singing a strange medley of current and traditional songs – generally out of tune – but hey, who cares amongst friends, right? Sometimes you even get liaisons of a kind you might only dream about tucked up safe in your warm centrally heated house.
This had been a perfect show in many ways. The weather had been sunny, the public free with their cash, and not too many smart-arses telling me how no-one ever washed in the middle ages or that everyone was short back then. I’d spent the day demonstrating natural dyes and herb use, and as usual, most of my conversations had been with older ladies who remember different ways of household management, and who all had stories of their own to tell.
The old men amused me, there was a generation out there that grew up on the silver screen historicals, when a girl in a wimple and tightly laced dress hinted at volumes, although all that the cinema viewer saw was the close lipped kiss as the violin played in the background. I actually enjoy seeing their eyes cross my body, see that moment of nostalgia as they remember the old films and the yielding heroines. It’s not a threat. I choose to see it as a compliment. I’d flirt mildly with them, always deferring to their wives with whom I exchange a knowing glance: It’s their age, humour them.
Most of the men my age were hardly worth the effort. The ones who come in as public visitors to the show were too detached from the past, too hung up on everything new. While, most of the re-enactors spend too much time on the ale and not enough time practising to wear the armour they tried to swagger around the tourney field in.
This year though, there was a new face, a new body encased in layers of quilted linen and steel. And he’s not your typical re-enactor. This one had the tent kitted out with replica furniture, the custom made suit of mail and plate, the banner and the collection of assorted weaponry. But he didn’t have the swagger, he didn’t have the hangers on or a girlfriend in an elasticised shift, he didn’t have a group to be matey with. He was an enigma, and I was intrigued.
I watched him surreptitiously today, out on the training field with the other wannabe knights. He trained hard, gave in with grace when he was beaten, showed no quarter when he’s got the advantage. After all these years I thought I was immune to the boys in the tin suits, but I have to admit I was impressed.
If I was a giggling maiden, I’d have offered him a favour to tie onto his sword pommel. But since I’m not, I just watched.
There were some strong fighters on the field today, and the bright sun made it hot going. Even though he was a skilled swordsman I can see him take a few batterings as the visiting public wander back and forth, believing that they are taking in history when all they were getting was themed entertainment.
Eventually they go home. The re-enactors disperse to their tents and gradually reconvene by the campfire. I sat, quietly watching the comings and goings, while drinking a glass pendik escort of birch sap wine. I felt as if I was waiting for something, but it was a languorous feeling after a long day on my feet.
Suddenly I can see him, buying a pint of ale at the bar. I realised that I was more than intrigued by this man. He’d been stripped down to shirt and hose, and with his sleeves rolled back above the elbow I was very conscious of the musculature of his forearms. This happened to be one of my favourite parts of a man, those strong muscles, the broad hands and the suggestion of hairiness. If the hair on the arms was too thick, I could tell that he’s probably a bit of a gorilla, but the hairiness was just right though. It told me that the possibilities were tantalising.
He sat down not far from me, finding a spare log to relax against. I could see now that below the collar of his shirt he’d received bruises and abrasions from the tourney earlier. The healer in me pushes aside my desire to watch him quietly.
“Looks like you took a few knocks today,” I said, nodding at him over the rim of my glass.
He smiled and shruggged, a gesture that charmed me more than any description of the days exploits ever could.
I pulled myself to my feet, then standing beside him, I suggested. “Here, let me take a look at those.”
His skin was hot against my fingertips, and I pulled aside the neck of his shirt to examine his slightly grazed skin. “Nothing serious, but you’re going to feel them in the morning, I suspect.” I probed the skin with my hands, feeling for the knots of muscle and tension, enjoying the scent of him, a pleasant mixture of hard work, campfires and the soap with which he clearly had a quick wash before coming to the bar.
“Mmm,” he leaned into my hands. “That’s fantastic, I didn’t realise I had muscles inside those aches.” He looks round and caught my eye. “I thought I needed a squire to help with all the armour, maybe I need a healer instead.”
His look said even more, underlying the genuine gratitude for a moment’s kindness was more than a flicker of interest. Just for a second I debated the wisdom of taking this further, then I realised my hands were still on his body, idly caressing the back of his neck, and the moment decides itself. “Right then,” I said, trying to appear nonchalant in front of the others round the fire, several of whom are watching this exchange from behind their drinks. “If you’re going to be fit for tomorrow we need to work these knots out. I’ve got a herbal oil that will help. Buy me another drink, and I’ll try to sort you out.”
I rushed off to my tent, wondering if I’d gone mad, and decided by the time I get there that if I’ve misread the situation I can still enjoy touching that torso, then go back to the fire later. I fetched a bottle of herb infused oil from my tent, and looked round to see him heading for his own pavilion with a couple of fresh drinks. By the time I get there, the place was lit by candles, and again I was impressed by the quality of his equipment.
Half close your eyes and you could imagine yourself in another time.
I was particularly impressed by the bed. Most of us disguise an inflatable mattress, but he had a proper wooden bed, with a canopied drape to keep out the chills, and his armour chest was placed to the side where it could double as a table. The wood gleamed softly in the candle light, and the rich colours of the drapes and bedding created a sense of luxury. Of course, we were still in the middle of a field surrounded by carousing re-enactors.
“Take your shirt kartal escort off,” I instructed him, shamelessly staring as he fluidly pulled it over his head.
I was right about the arms, and the rest was just as beautifully muscled with just the right amount of crisp hair across his broad chest. Now he was wearing just his hose and boots, and the fitted garment clung to the curves of his legs. The metal tipped laces at the top edges of his hose, defunct now but normally used to tie doublet and hose together, served to draw my eye to his waist – good, flat middle, nicely defined muscles, the trail of body hair made me want to explore further.
Sure I was flushing now, and aware that he’d seen the look on my face, I thought it best to brazen it out. “Would you rather sit or lie down for this?” I enquired politely, trying to keep to the first business at hand.
In answer, he sprawled face down on that bed, and I sat beside him to rub oil into his shoulders.
The herbal oil was green and aromatic, and for a few moments I enjoyed the sensation of applying it in long light sweeps to his back. I had mixed feelings of pride in my abilities to help with his bruises, but I tussled with powerful feelings of pleasure in touching this fine body. I leaned over him to apply a little more pressure, and was rewarded by a sigh of pleasure. Realising that I needed to get closer to apply more pressure I slipped off my shoes and straddled him, hitching up my skirt and linen shift to kneel across his waist. Kneading and stroking his broad shoulders, I could feel his knots of tension loosening. He had his face pillowed on his forearms, and his voice was muffled as he made it clear just how good this felt.
I could’ve stopped now if I wanted to, but I wanted so much more from this evening.
“Your back should feel much better now,” I said to him. “Would you like me to work on the front a little?”
Still between my knees, he rolled over so that I’m kneeling directly above his belt line. The feel of his skin and the cloth of his hose rasping against my sensitive inner thighs as he turns is exquisitely understated. Folding his arms behind his head he looked up at me and smiled again. For a man who doesn’t talk much he’s remarkably expressive. I maintained eye contact as I started to knead his powerful chest muscles.
“Move your arms, I can’t get at your shoulders,” I commanded, and he obliged by resting his hands lightly on my thighs, half on the skin, half on the fabric of my dress. I smiled back, my heart hammering in my mouth, and start rhythmically squeezing the powerful upper arm muscles. I can’t remember any more whether I’m doing this to ease his strains or for my own gratification.
His skin glows golden in the candlelight, the thin film of oil just adding to his beauty.
I’m increasingly aware of how little lies between our bodies, just his hose and my shift. In proper medieval fashion I’d been wearing no panties with this outfit. The thought made me wriggle against him, almost an involuntary movement, and I felt his body respond.
His hands stroked my thighs now, tracing the contour from knee to hip, sliding up under my shift. He too had realised that there are no other garments under there, and again, I felt him harden a little more.
He gathered up the fabric of my dress now, working it up over my buttocks. Leaving the shift in place for the moment. I pulled it up over my head, dishevelling my hair. Totally aware that the candlelight will be shining right through the thin linen undergarment and silhouetting my curves, I tossed maltepe escort my dress off to the side.
His eyes lingered on me, following the shape of my body before he pulled me down into a long slow kiss. Lying on top of him, the bulging of his cock was even more apparent, and I ran my hands down his body again, though not now with the intention of easing any ache but my own. I started to fumble with the ties of his hose, but he rolled me off of him and now leaned over me himself.
“You’ve had a chance to look at my scars,” he teased. “Don’t I get to look at yours?”
He started lifting my shift, sliding it up over my thighs, revealing the mound of dark, moist curls, then over my belly, then over my breasts. I felt my nipples hardening under his gaze, becoming erect and red, while his indrawn breath told me I’m having the same effect on him as he’s had on me. Quickly, he shed his own remaining garments, and I watched with fascination as his cock sprang to attention when released from the confines of his hose.
Lying naked beside me, he ran his hands all over me, slowly and lightly at first, then a little more urgently, as his palms skimmed over my sensitive breasts. I put my hands over his, guiding him, encouraging him to probe my most secret places. I’d been getting wet since the moment I first touched him, and now the throbbing between my legs demanded satisfaction.
I kissed him with more urgency, pulling away a little to nibble at his jawline, demanding with my lips that he respond more roughly. His breath came faster now, and his hands clutched at my skin, which was picking up the same oily sheen as his own. I pulled him on top of me, wanting his weight, wanting that wonderful thick cock inside me. I squirmed against him, trying to get as close as I possibly could to him and he laughed and held me away for a moment.
Pinning my arms above my head, he looked right down the length of my body for a second, then carefully guided his cock into my pulsating body. A moment’s pause, then all of those toned muscles were put to good use thrusting and withdrawing, using his weight to hold me down, making me unsure where one of us ended and the other began.
Denied the use of my arms, I wrapped my legs firmly around his waist, crossing my ankles into the small of his back. With each thrust I pulled him ever deeper into myself, squeezing my internal muscles to show him that I’m not the only strong one here. I was so wet I could feel his balls becoming slippery, and I buried my face in his shoulder and bit down. I ignored bruising his skin in order that I could keep from crying out too loudly.
I was so close, I could feel the growing sensation of endlessness that comes before the deepest orgasms, and I wanted him right there with me when the moment came.
“Harder,” I gasped. “I need you to come when I do, please!”
He thrusted more strongly than before, locking eyes with me, his chest hair rubbed deliciously against my engorged nipples.
The wave broke over us. For a second, we were outside time, then I felt his own heat spurt deep inside me in glorious counterpoint to my own spasms. Still wrapped in the exquisite pain of our release he let go of my arms and drew my head close against his shoulder, holding me in his arms as tightly as I held him inside my body.
Eventually we broke apart, though still curled together under his canopied bed in the candlelight. I could hear in the distance the sound of raucous singing from the campfire.
“There are two more days of this event left,” I thought to myself. As I snuggled against him in satisfaction, letting sleep steal up on me, I remembered to spare a thought for those poor aching muscles of his, and then I smiled to myself:
Oh well, I thought. If we’ve strained them tonight I’ll just have to repeat his ‘treatment’ all over again tomorrow, and maybe take a little more time over it.
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