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True to his word, Dunk was at the blacksmith’s tent at the crack of dawn on the morrow. The satchel of coins hanging from the rope at his waist that he used as a belt, and heavy with the promise of food shortages for the short days to come until the Ashford tourney. Or maybe not. Egg was a bright enough kid, and he was sure the both of them would be able to snatch some scraps here and there under the guise of inebriated knights and exuberant high lords.
A heavy sigh left him as he braced himself. He knew he could win, but he needed an armor if he wanted to participate in the tourney.
He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it further, a large hand coming up and pushing the tent’s flap aside as he took a step inside the tent. “Sir? I brought the-” Dunk’s tongue halted halfway as his blue eyes landed on someone else, a figure much smaller than the bulky bearded man he had met yesterday.
You stand up, brushing off ash from a pair of discolored pants as your gaze turned to him. Dunk notices the way your eyes widen a fraction at the sight of him, the way most people do. The sheer size of him inside the small tent must be overwhelming, specially for a little lady like yourself.
“Aye, my lady” He rasps with a rough nod of acknowledgment, considering for a second he might have gotten the wrong tent “I’m looking for Steely Pate” He remains standing awkwardly by the entrance of the tent, as if not allowed to come in yet. He is painfully aware of his size, and he doesn’t want to scare the lady.
You nod, giving the pants you were holding another vigorous shake before draping them over the back of a nearby chair. “My father was called away, Ser.” Dunk frowns, the idea of wandering through the camp looking for the man and potentially coming across those whores from yesterday making him cringe.
Dunk doesn’t notice you rummaging through some boxes until you are standing directly in front of him, holding a measuring tape in your delicate hands. His internal turmoil is rendered short by your gentle voice and smile as you spoke. “My father warned me of your arrival, Ser Duncan.”
Warn? Dunk thought vaguely, barely registering the fact that apparently you were the blacksmith’s daughter and not some lost lady in the wrong tent. He was busier by suddenly becoming very aware of close you were to him out of your own volition.
“Would you kindly allow me to take your measurements, Ser? My father has a peculiar way of making armor, and I need to know what size will fit you best.” The garments you wore were not lavish or intricate. It should have been obvious from the start that you were not the daughter of a nobleman. This information, however, did not stop him from appreciating how the linen dress you wore clung to certain parts of your body like a second skin. The decorative chain around your waist absurdly small if he were to take it into his monstrous hands.
“Y-You?” The words flew out of his clumsy mouth before he could stop them. More out of embarrassment than anything else. And to his horror, your previously placid expression had contorted into one of indignation. He had offended you.
“I assure you, Ser” You looked at each other, your tone clipped but cordial enough to not be considered outright insulting and earn yourself a slap –in the best case scenario–. You knew better than to disrespect a knight. “I’m very adept at mending and fixing clothing and know my way around measuring. I know what I’m doing”.
Surprisingly, that was enough to shut him like a dog.
Dunk cleared his throat, nodding and standing up straighter than he ever has since his arrival. “R-Right! Of course.”
You let out a small breath of relief at his compliance, toying with the measuring rope looped around your fingers as you approach the knight. “Thank you kindly, Ser.” You decide to add gently. Somehow, the way this behemoth of a man is gazing at you not with contempt but obedience has your shoulders relaxing and your earlier frown softening.
You snatch a stepping stool with your foot and hop onto it, getting to work.
The next few moments are spent in a relatively comfortable silence as you measure Dunk. You gently ask him to lift or lower his arms, and you seem more invested in your quiet mumbling than engaging in lighthearted conversation with the knight. He has never been a particularly talkative or charismatic man, but at least he can tell you’re not disturbed by his lack of social competence as most people are.
This isn’t too bad.
He could get used to this, actually. To have such a beautiful lady fussing over him and hovering so close.
He is also delighted when he catches a whiff of your scent when you lean closer to measure his neck. The smoke of the camping grounds sits heavy on your hair, sure, but there’s also a hint of something sweeter. Flowery, almost. You, in general.
Women have always smelt better than men. He has been sharing his living quarters with his old mentor most of his life. But as much as he respected Ser Arlan for every trick and lesson he taught him, the old man didn’t smell like a poppy hill.
Not to mention, it’s the first time he’s spent so much time alone in the company of a fair maiden and not made a fool of himself. It must be his lucky day. Dunk opens his mouth, about to inquire more about your father’s location, when you beat him to it by kneeling before him of all things.
His blood rushes to his pale cheeks in blotched patches as he tilts his head at you, dumbly holding all his breath back, as if bracing himself for something involving your mouth and his manhood. “W-What are you doing?” His voice comes out uneven.
Your right hand rests on his thigh as you gaze up at him. And Gods, it is so warm and small… He feels more blood rushing south. He is definitely screwed now. “Allow me, Ser. I need to know the measurements for the legs too.” You give him a charming smile, as if this doesn’t affect you at all.
Dunk can feel his whole body coiling up as you start to trail your lithe fingers across his waist and hips, measuring the length down his thighs to his knees torturously slow. He knows he shouldn’t have these thoughts. That a true knight ought to exhibit more control over his loins in front of a maiden. But the sensation is entirely novel to him and nerve-racking. In all his life, Dunk has rarely been touched so gently, let alone by such gentle hands. He vaguely recalls a fleeting kiss and some under the belt fondling behind some stables with a village girl whose face he cannot recall. But that was when he was a boy, and he never even drew his sword out…
You, on the other hand, are paying no attention to the knight’s discomfort as you proceed to tightly wrap the rope around his bulky thigh. A rebellious side of you found this exhilarating. But you refuse to acknowledge it. Being alone with this mountain of a man should have been scary, but the way Ser Duncan looked down at you and followed every little cue like a pup of all things made you silently smile to yourself as you worked.
Father never let any of the men at camp get near you. Reared among forges and metals, he was more than familiar with the average lord who frequented these tourneys. Most sought quick relief, to empty themselves inside any wench and move on. That said, dear papa could not always be there, and more than once you had succumbed to the temptation of some handsome nobleman.
He did allow you to mend the odd shirt or breeches for the extra coin, though. He was no fool to deny money. But he had very clearly told you to dismiss Ser Duncan if he did show up that morning.
I’m not a blushing maiden, I can handle the work just fine. You thought to yourself, wishing he would stop shouldering every burden and rely on you more.
You let the rope slide off his thigh and lean back on your hunches, giving his thigh a parting pat. As you do, you come face to face with a sizable tent poking out towards you, straining at the fabric of his breeches.
A strangled gasp escapes your lips as you quickly spring to your feet, taking a step back and looking away out of courtesy. Dunk is mortified, deeply ashamed of himself. Massive hands tug at his shirt in a clumsy attempt to cover his erect manhood from your view to no avail, the damage has been done.
“I-I apologize! I didn’t mean-” Dunk chokes up, and you flash him a reproaching glare that makes his cock throb harder and causes him to nearly whimper.
“It’s fine” You try to say, your voice drown out by his rambling words of regret.
“I’m so sorry, my lady” Dunk raps.
“Ser, it’s quite alright.” You try once more.
“I didn’t mean- I couldn’t-” Dunk shakes his head. “Y-You were there, kneeling, and it’s been so long since-” The knight is looking everywhere but you now, knuckles white from how tightly he is gripping his shirt. As if he could simply will his erection to go away.
“Ser Duncan!”
“I’ve never properly laid with a lady before” The confession slips out before he can stop himself and his godforsaken tongue. For a few agonizing seconds, they just stare at each other in utter silence, the forge furnace creaking softly behind them.
“Never?” You ask tentatively after swallowing, keenly aware of the heat inside the tent despite your thin linen gown. His looming figure is hunching over to appear less intimidating, shoulders drawn in towards himself, and you drink it in.
Dunk contemplates giving up on becoming a knight. He seriously considers taking his coin and settling someplace hundreds of miles away. Maybe down south. And become a potato farmer. Surely that is an easy enough job for a meathead like him “Aye.” He speaks quietly, embarrassed. He is reminded of the prostitutes again, bracing himself for the crude remarks and mockery that will follow his humiliating confession. You had been so perfectly sweet to him up until now. And he had thoroughly enjoyed admiring your pretty face as you carried out your tasks. But as usual, he had spoken more than he should have.
“How’s that even possible?” You press further. Not condescending, but genuinely curious.
Dunk ducks his head. “Always been with my mentor. There have been times when I could have offered coin, but…” He takes a long breath. “It don’t feel right. I want the lass to enjoy it too.”
He sees you take an involuntary step forward, his blue eyes locked on the dip of your waist and flare of your hips as you move. It makes Dunk blush harder, his cock twitching in response. By the Old Gods and the New. You want this man.
“So you’ve never seen…” You trail off, tilting your head expectantly.
Dunk shakes his head, dirty blond hair whirling around.
“Would you like to?” The sultriness in your voice is jarring even to yourself.
Something in his chest flared at the soft, whispered words, his blunt fingernails digging just a little tighter into his calloused palms. The thought of your undressed figure, your legs wrapped around his waist, your hands tangled in his hair as he took you… The knight’s head snaps back up to meet your eyes, hands clenching and unclenching. “My lady…”
You peered out through the canvas flap of the tent, looking back and forth at the empty campsite. It is still too early, most noblemen and knights are still sleeping off last night's excesses. It would be fine, you told yourself. Your father would never find out if you were smart about this.
Your eyes return to Ser Duncan, the man captivated by your every movement and nearly vibrating in place, patiently waiting for you to speak next.
“We must be quick, Ser. Before my father returns”
Dunk whined softly, the noise more of a pleased rumble deep in his chest as he finally was given permission to act. He wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you up with ease, the action entirely instinctual, as if the most natural thing in the world. He scooped you up and unceremoniously hauled you onto a nearby table, your father’s discarded armor and tools rattling softly.
Dunk swore he heard you yelp, and in other circumstances he might have chuckled at the startled noise. But right now, he was too preoccupied with the wonderful feeling of your soft body against his. You were so small, it was ridiculous.
“You smell heavenly.” He groaned against your ear, hands trembling on your waist. He pressed his brow against the crown of your hair, barely holding back another groan as he breathed you in. “Please, my lady. May I touch you?”
You shivered at the plea, your lower stomach lurching at the feeling of his massive frame pressed against you. Dunk groaned as you voiced your approval. He was extremely hard in his breeches, the fabric of his pants feeling almost painfully tight against his already aching desire.
His cock was hot and rigid against your thigh as he began to rub himself against you, desperately trying to find some friction. The feeling had you grow slick in your undergarments, starting to soak through the smallclothes.
Dunk was aware that the way he was acting was unbecoming, humping you on the table like a hound in heat. But he did not care. Not right now when your breath was hitching against his neck and such lovely sounds were leaving your lips.
His heart skipped a beat as your legs clumsily encircled his hips, the intimate position causing desire to pool low in his stomach as he rutted directly over your clothed cunt, feeling the soft mound give under his insistent thrusts. You moaned at the feeling, your hands gripping your thighs, his shoulders, his arms—unable to decide where to hold onto as he pretended to fuck you onto the table.
A goofy grin tugged at Dunk’s lips as he moved, delighted to see you so willing and receptive to his touches. “Ser Duncan” You shiver as rough palms glide over your thighs, kneading at the meat there and bundling your gown up in the process.
“Dunk” He rasps, his index fingers prodding at the apex of your thigh, testing to see how much you’ll let him indulge.
“Dunk?” You quiver at his touch.
He huffs, tugging the soaked smallclothes beneath your skirts to the side to expose your cunt. “Aye. That’s my name” Dunk runs his finger along your slit tentatively, groaning at the slick dampness he finds there “By the Gods, you’re fucking drenched…” The profanity makes you squirm, but it loses all significance when Dunk starts rubbing two of his thick fingers over your cunt, smearing your natural lubricant.
“O-Oh Gods!” You cry out, the feel of his calloused fingers toying with you sending sparks through your whole body. You can’t remember the last time you pleasured yourself, let alone laid with another man. Your cunt is overly sensitive and dripping all over the knight’s fingers at an unprecedented rate.
Any shame leaves your body as you roll your hips into the touch, chasing your own pleasure. It doesn’t matter if you are caught, as long as this gentle giant stretches you around his battle-honed fingers.
You stir, a small frown on your flushed face. “S-Ser… Dunk” You heave “Your fingers…”
Dunk's entire body almost jerked at your words. The thought of his fingers inside your cunt nearly made the blood in his veins boil over. Ever so gently, he slides a finger inside you, groaning a low curse at how easily it slides right in, feeling your velvet walls tremble and clench around it. “My lady… You feel so hot inside… May I add another?” He just about pleads, the blue in his eyes nearly swallowed by his pupils.
You nod, leaning back on your elbows as you look at him working you over.
A second finger slides just as easily, making you arch and part your lips in a silent moan of his name. You are not used to this kind of stretch from finger alone. If this is how he is making you feel with just his hand, you cannot bear to imagine how full you’ll feel with his cock inside you.
“You just fantasized about something naughty” Dunk exhales above you, gazing at you with nothing short of adoration in his eyes. Such a debauched and affectionate expression that it shouldn’t be possible after having just met you.
“Am I right?” He insists “I felt you tightening…” To prove his point, he draws his fingers back before plunging them back in, pressing his palm down on your swollen clit. You nearly cry out and thrash beneath him, but you don’t have it in you to complain. This inexperienced knight is handling your cunt with the same mastery he would a sword, and you want him to keep going.
You’re about to ask him to stop beating around the bush and stick his cock in you, but before you can utter a word, Dunk has fallen to his knees before you. His broad shoulders nudge your thighs further apart and his adept hands push at the fabric of your gown until it pools around your waist, exposing you completely.
A piece of fabric tears, and you realize with regret that it’s your smallclothes that Dunk has just torn to bare you fully to him.
He finally settled down, broad hands grabbing the backside of your thighs and shoving them back towards your chest, manhandling you into position. His breath is hot against you for just a second before his tongue finally licks up the length of you.
The sound that escapes both of you at the contact is raw and unfiltered with desire. His is something between praise and worship, like he had been waiting for this since he laid his eyes on you. Yours is choked and breathy, still finding it hard to make sense how you two even got here.
The feel of you writhing and tensing under his tongue sends a hot wave of arousal and confidence over him, his hands gripping you harder as he buries his face against you. His tongue lapped and prodded about, tasting every inch of you hungrily, like a man dying of thirst. Or in this case, a man tasting his first cunt.
He drew back after a few long seconds, panting heavily as he looked up at you, eyes black and desperate for approval.
“Like that?” He grunted “Does that feel good, my lady?”
The question is barely out of his mouth before you nod your head in agreement, wishing he would put that tongue back in you.
A low, ragged moan escapes from between his lips at the state he has you in, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of you. Gods be good, the sounds she makes… Dunk thinks faintly as he leans back down again, tracing lazy circles with his tongue for one last moment before plunging two of his fingers back inside. He pumps them in and out at a steady rhythm, his lips wrapping around your tiny bud and sucking hard.
You scream like rapture under him, hips twitching in a futile attempt to break free from the onslaught of pleasure he is bringing you, your thighs tense and shaking against your chest.
Dunk’s slow brain faintly considered you might be cold. But then he remembered you were inside the blacksmith’s tent, the forge hot behind you and his tongue stuck between your legs, so he figured he must have been doing something right down there.
Every muscle in his body is trembling with need at the sounds you make, a desperate, feral want crawling up his spine and making his engorged cock throb harder, breeches covered in his own arousal. He would go mad. He would go insane if he didn’t take you right this very moment. But he also considers feasting on your cunt for a while longer. He moans around your clit, shuddering with shame as he realizes he could probably finish in his breeches just by eating your sweet cunt.
Your persistent sobs and prayers to the Old Gods and the New give him a reason to stop, however, as he feels you start to tug more insistently at his dirty blonde hair, the pleasure overwhelming you in the best way.
He relented for now, licking his lips and standing back up to loom over your sitting form once more. Dunk stares at your flushed face for just a moment and pulls off his tunic, revealing the expanse of scars and muscles that adorned the skin of his chest and arms.
You tearfully blink up at him, slightly out of it but responsive enough to raise your arms as he starts to undress you too.
Dunk exhaled sharply through his nose as he peeled the thin gown off your body, his calloused hands rough but careful, painfully tender as he revealed you to his hungry eyes. His gaze raked over your bare body, lingering on the swell of your breasts and hips. He found himself smitten with every dip and curve, finding every womanly feature lovelier than the last.
“Gods. I don’t deserve to take you.” The words came out like a painful epiphany as he sets his hands on your hips, yanking you to the edge of the table. “I don’t deserve to take you. But I fucking want to… Please.” He swallowed, pressing his damp forehead to yours. “Please, let me make love to you.” His whimpers are music to your ears, your walls clenching around nothing.
The firelight licks shadows over the scars and soft muscles of his body. He is a tableau of battle-worn strength, each cord of sinew beneath his pale skin a testament to his years of training in the art of knighthood and fighting. His eyes never leave you, even as he brackets the curve of your waist with his hands and starts to tenderly brush his thumbs over the underside of your breasts. Always hesitant, always extra vigilant not to hurt you.
His gaze is so heavy with longing and his touch so reverent that you’re rendered mute, staring at him. Your previous encounters with other men had been hasty, and the majority even unpleasant to some degree. None of them had ever been so attentively focused on you, so devoted to your well-being and pleasure. Hells, none of them had ever taken the liberty of pleasuring you with their tongue the way this big lad had just done.
Men had fucked you. Dunk wanted to make love to you.
You answer not with words, but actions. Cradling his face in your hands with a gentleness that is foreign to Dunk, you pull him closer to you. Your lips touch his, and it's as if a dam has burst.
Dunk’s hands begin tracing the shape of you as he passionately claims your mouth with his, a poorly executed clash of tongues and teeth that makes you quake. His is licking into you next, and your eyes roll back as you taste yourself on his tongue. Hands begin tracing the shape of you. His fingers, rough and faintly damp with your arousal, trace lightly over the soft skin of your shoulders and arms, your breasts and stomach, squeezing greedy handfuls of your mounds. He tests how heavy they are in his hands, a pleased growl tearing from his throat when he pinches at your nipples and you gasp.
“You are so quiet… Let me hear you, my lady.” He trails hot wet kisses down your neck “I know you’re so sweet. Let me hear your pleasure.” He bites down on your shoulder.
Everything it’s too much. His broad frame pressing you against the table, the heat of him and the fire, his masculine musk.
“Take me, Dunk” The knight moans. “I need… I need to feel you inside me, quickly” You urge him, trembling hands tugging at his soiled breeches.
He wrenches your hands off him, and for a moment you think you’ve said something wrong, but then he slowly reaches down to start unlacing his breeches, eyes never leaving you.
“I’m going to fuck you.” He was breathing even harder now, soft dark hair disappearing where his clothes hung low on his hips. “I need you so bad it hurts…” He finally frees his manhood with a quiet hiss, his cock throbbing and arching slightly up towards you.
The tip was an angry red from having been neglected so long. Beads of his seed trickling down the slit and coating the whole length with his own arousal. Not only was he large, but the girth made your breath hitch. Your cunt clenched at the sight of a thick vein running up the side of his shaft, wondering how it would feel rubbing inside you.
One of Dunk’s hands slid up to grip your hip, anchoring you to the edge of the table as he guided himself between your legs. The moment his tip make contact with your wet slit he was seeing stars, knees nearly giving out under him.
“Fuck,” he hissed, shooting you a last imploring look before finally, finally pushing inside of you with a slow, agonizing thrust. The feeling of his cock entering you is overwhelming. You were slick and ready, but it was still a challenge to accommodate such a large man.
He paused the moment he felt the initial tension in your body, his head dropping to nudge his forehead gently against yours. "Is alright," he murmured gruffly, his hand cradling your neck. "Breathe, my lady. Let me in."
He pressed kisses against your cheeks, your jaw, your throat, everywhere his mouth could reach. Anything to distract you from the feeling of him slowly shifting deeper inside of you, forcing you to open around him. He continues to whisper sweet nothings into your ear as he works himself inside you with shallow thrusts, wetting himself with your arousal to ease the glide.
You nudge him back, arms tight around his shoulders as he impales you on his cock. “Dunk… Ser Duncan”
The man above you grunts, his breathing hot and heavy against your neck as he starts to fuck into you slow, pulling his cock out to the tip just to force it right back in. Each thrust leaves you breathless. Dunk takes you ungainly and without any apparent rhythm, just a primal need to feel more of you around his member. Your lips hang open in quiet gasps as his cockhead pushes against your deepest part, carving his girthy shape into your cunt.
“Tell me.” He suddenly rumbles just above you, stormy blue eyes locked on your swaying breasts as he pounds into you. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me I’m doing good, my lady.”
You want to cry. You want to scream and claw at his back for the way he's pushing your body to its limits and has the audacity to ask for praise. But more than anything, you want to strike him for not moving faster.
As a hedge knight, he is surprisingly good at following orders, so you decide to do just that “I need you to take me harder, Ser. Need to-” You can’t even finish your words. Calloused hands grab at you and Dunk shoves you back against the table, one of his thick arms cradling your head to keep you steady and prevent you from hurting yourself against the hard wood. “Aye… As you wish…” His other arm grips your shoulder tightly, pinning you like a doll as he begins to ram his hips against yours.
You shamelessly moan as Dunk shifts even more of his body weight into you, cradling you on the table and setting a powerful and punishing pace. It hurts in a way that is so familiar, and it is the best thing you have felt in months since traveling these wretched lands. Your cunt seizes and Dunk sobs, latching onto your nipple to occupy his mouth and stop any more embarrassing sounds from coming out.
You almost wish this could last longer, but you can feel the telltale signs of Dunk’s approaching release. The way he tries to shove himself deeper in every thrust, the uneven breaths and grunts. Soon, it will all be over. Dunk will take his armor, toss some coins at you and forget he ever met you.
“P-Please” Dunk swallows, growling in frustration at himself for stuttering “Let me empty myself. I want it to be inside you, my lady” He licks his dry lips, fucking frantically into you “I want you—I want to sire your children” The giant begs you as if you were someone, as if you weren't just any other wench at the tourney but a lady from a respectable house.
And how could you be anything other than a benevolent leader?
A few more hard, deep thrusts and then he was coming, heavy balls draw up tight. Dunk let out a loud, guttural moan as his cock throbbed and pulsed inside you, spilling his hot, thick seed deep in your womb. He could feel it coating your walls, unlike anything he had ever felt, filling you up just like he promised.
Neither of you could speak, gasping for air, the abrupt silence in the blacksmith's workshop was almost deafening.
After a few long seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity, you opened your eyes to see that Dunk was already staring at you. That awkward but earnest smile of his on his sunburned face. And for the first time since he arrived, Dunk dared himself to take without asking. Thick fingers grabbed your sweaty face and tilted your head up, and he was kissing you with the grace of a novice but the determination of a knight. His kiss was all clumsy tongue and too much licking, but you had had worst.
“If I win the tourney.” He whispered against your lips, your scent lingering there. “Could I do this again…? With you?” He was cradling your face as if you were something precious, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
Somewhere outside a cook’s fire crackled awake, iron pots clanking as they were set in place, a few crude words and stifled laughter exchanged between squires as they readied their lords’ morning meals.
You found yourself smiling at Dunk, leaning into his palm. “We haven’t found you an armour yet, Ser Duncan.”
Perhaps you should take his measurements again. Just to be certain.