Should I lie to make myself sound like less of the impulsive, slutty, red-head-case that I am or should I be honest with both myself and you? I bet I could tell you a lie right now and you wouldn’t be fooled. Let’s try. As I write this, I am not sitting naked, touching myself in reverie; my exposed nipples are not standing at attention. I haven’t edged myself over each memory; I haven’t had any orgasms. All lies.If I were lying to you, I’d tell you that I dressed for the Renaissance Faire intending to thrill, to flash, to surrender my impulsive and overly-emotional psyche to the excitement and delight of arousing complete strangers. That isn’t exactly a lie; it’s an incomplete truth. The complete truth is that on that warm and sunny late spring day I was hoping to get laid, well not even laid; I needed to get fucked into blessed oblivion.I had all but given up on men. My last boyfriend, he was “the one”. That was the lie I told myself for far too long. He was “the one” for many other things. He was the one that got jealous when I acted like myself, the one that constantly hurled accusations of cheating or the onerous cardinal sin of flirting. He was the one that destabilized my already unstable emotions, the one that made me loathe myself even more. He was also the one that I broke it off with by the swinging of a Louisville Slugger, a prized gift from my father.My discrete affairs with a litany of stop-gap lovers had dried up; the Ren-fair seemed like a prime hunting ground to indulge in pleasures of the flesh. I envisioned an endless sea of nerdy boys playing at knights and myself as the rare, blessed unicorn amongst them; a scantily-clad redhead with a nice ass, high and perky breasts, wearing the sexiest, deadliest combination of clothing that always brings men to their knees—no bra and no panties.Alas, I was overdressed and outclassed. My fiery hair, pert nipples pointing skyward, and skinny legs were no match for the buxom beauties showing acres of cleavage, miles of leg, leagues of thigh, and cavorting in chain-mail bikinis. The men were not the geeks-so-sweet I had envisioned; they were fun, stout, manly men also dressed to thrill. Muscles and hair, pecs, and smiles greeted me at every turn. It appealed to the hopeful romantic in me.All my life I’d dreamed and fantasized of a charming and handsome, stalwart knight to come and sweep me off my feet. My mother’s endless supply of steamy romance novels, with the corners of the pages conveniently folded down to mark the beginnings of the hottest sex scenes, in case I needed to “flick the bean”, had filled me with such masturbatory fantasies.My match-making, good deed for the day completed, having thrust my friend and coworker, Marcy, into the arms of her crush, I went off in search of my own Prince Charming, my hero ready to seduce onto my back. What better place to find the knight of my desires than beside the very battlefield where the knights were dueling with each other?I didn’t find my hero; instead, I stumbled into the presence, the life, of the anti-hero of my dreams. This is the story of how I met my Glade—mitts of, he’s mine—and how I seduced him…or maybe he seduced me. I don’t know who seduced whom; perhaps it was mutual. I resisted, he didn’t seem to try. All I know is that I went off the rails over him.One would think that watching armored knights duke it out would be fun and exciting; one would be wrong. The images in our minds, or on the big screen, paint armored knights in combat as flashy, filled with fancy footwork and dazzling swordplay. Axes swinging wildly, candlesticks falling victim to keen edges as the knight’s trade quips and smiles, while their swashbuckling acrobatics drift throughout the entirety of the castle. Yes, their armor gleamed in the midday sun, their feathered plumes and bright crests were a visual joy; they mostly stood toe-to-toe and swung their weapons at each other. It was almost boring. In fact, the three young women, obviously a part of the group putting on the Ren-fair, were far more interesting than the mock-excitement the combat güvenilir bahis produced.I was standing right beside them, having exchanged polite pleasantries and received compliments about my hair. Their little group consisted of a bleached blond wearing a medieval bodice, full-skirt dress showing plenty of delightful cleavage; a raven-black dyed hair, lithe and athletic young woman wearing a fur loincloth and bikini top; and one dressed in a blowsy top and pirate pants complete with folded boots whose hair was dyed a deep wine color. All three looked sexy, hot, happy, and provocative. I had thought about leaving their proximity because they outshined me with their obvious youthful vitality. But their conversation intrigued me.They were excitedly chatting to each other about either some air freshener, a copse in the forest, or cans of shaving gel. Now I tend to overreact, but they were going insane talking about this mysterious Mr. Skintimate or Glade. Eavesdropping, another of my hobbies, brought a bit of understanding.Glade was the name of some guy in their group, they were waiting for him to fight because he’s supposedly very entertaining to watch, two of the three had slept with him, all the ladies wanted him, he doesn’t chase women but is chased by them, the two that had already sexed him up thought he was the best lover ever, all three of them were hoping to catch his eye, and his cock is as long and big around as a can of shaving gel. Talk about gushing fan-girl bullshit!They also mentioned to the one that he hadn’t yet bedded that if he does, “You’re in for a treat. He’ll fuck you unconscious. “The “Three Slutsketeers” began primping themselves and shoving each other out of the way so they could be the first one he saw. I was embarrassed for womankind the world over and couldn’t wait to loathe this Medieval womanizing Lothario, obviously so damn full of himself. I hadn’t even seen him and hated him already. Then he took the field. Their ear-piercing shrieks vibrated my eardrums and drowned out the announcer’s voice. Despite my negative predisposition I had to admit that he was pure eye-candy, a sight to behold.The other knights decked themselves out in combat boots and shiny metal armor, adorned their chivalric chromed helms with plumes, and wore tabards with their crest of arms upon it. This Glade character, not so.“Is that him?” I asked the blond one.“By the Goddess, yes. Isn’t he dreamy?” she responded to me as she smiled and adjusted her serving wench getup to expose the barest hint of her areolas.“Look! No favor,” the barbarian, fur-clad one exclaimed. “He’s not with anyone tonight!”The sluts!I don’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t him. He was obviously left-handed from the way his sword hung and the fact that he carried his black shield on his right arm. Eschewing glinting steel, he armored himself in black suede with chrome rings sewn over it. His obviously muscular, sinewy arms were covered in a few small plates with bracers to match the armor. He wore leather pants, not shining full-leg armor like the others, with only his knees covered by metal, all painted black and trimmed with gray. Knee-high moccasins, fringed at the top, covered his feet. In his left hand, he held a black and gray painted, full-faced, helmet, very un-knightly. It bore the face of a demon with sloped, upward-curving eye slits and a fanged maw instead of breathing slits. Rather than feathery plumes in brilliant hues, his helmet was topped with a spiked black horse main, giving it a Mohawk effect. The long tail of his mane trailed in the dirt behind him.Despite my desires, my heart caught in my throat, not due to his demonic and spiked attire, but because of him. He had leaped straight off of a romance novel cover. He was short, much shorter than the other towering knights, standing at maybe five feet, eight inches, or so. He looked like an elf. Dark blond, fine hair cascaded off his head in gently flowing waves. That hair framed a muscular, toned face, accented by exposure to the sun, that sported high cheekbones, güvenilir bahis siteleri hypnotic eyes, and slightly plump, barely-pouting lips that were twisted into a mirth-filled smile. His lips smiled, his face smiled, his body language smiled.His trio of suitors shrieked again; then it was announced that Sir Maris would be his opponent. The bottled redhead told me that Sir Maris hates Glade and that this would be a great fight.When prompted to “Salute the crowd” by the announcer, this Sir Maris held up a hand, turned perhaps twenty or so degrees, then stood stalwart and immobile. This Glade, fulfilling my expectations of being a showoff, threw down his helmet, roared to the crowd, and then gleefully went around the entire perimeter shaking hands, kissing ladies’ hands, and squatting down to chat with the very few children in attendance. He’d hand them his sword and let them slay him, giving the appropriate joyful death throes.Sir Maris looked on, bored. I immediately nicknamed this laughing, childish idiot “Rock Star Knight”. As he drew near, I could hear his voice. His voice was pleasant, seductive, filled with humor, and it made me fucking wet. Damn him! I wanted to hate him.“No, I’m not taken,” he said to a lady guest. “No, “ he laughed to whatever she whispered to him. “Those that do not have it wield in battle. Compensation! See the size of Maris’ sword!”Those that heard laughed.When he approached my area, he greeted his three suitors all by name and with pure delight. He seemed to be having the time of his life. He waved off their obvious slutty advances, promising each one of them that he’d have time later after he trounced Sir Maris. A glance told me that this Maris person could hear and was very obviously displeased.Then he approached me. He reached to me. “Greetings, my lovely lady, I’m Gla…”“Yes, Glade,” I sighed, letting my failure to be impressed show. It was the first of many lies I told myself about Glade. I was actually very impressed and instantly hornier than I ever recalled being.The reality of it was that as soon as I saw his eyes, I was smitten. His eyes were a lovely shade of hazel, rimmed with gray. It wasn’t so much that his eyes were hypnotic and perfect, or that his wide shoulders tapered down to this tiny waist, or that his black leather pants showed an impressive bulge. It wasn’t the fact that he was exactly the type of guy that I’d stare at but be afraid to approach, just masturbate over later.There was some instant “something” about him that made me want to throw him down, right there in the dirt, in front of everyone, and claim his body. Making it even worse on my poor, dripping pussy, he didn’t seem to be as full of himself as I had hoped. I got the immediate impression that he knew what a joke he was making of himself, that he loved playing the part, the cosmic jester that should be headlining at Chippendale’s.He was sexy and roguish, built like a martial artist and dangerous, a bad boy but instantly lovable. His charming, roguish, asshole, elfin, self reached out to kiss my hand.“Don’t you fucking dare!” I exclaimed pulling my hand away with immediate regret. I longed to feel those lips on my flesh, even my hand would do…for now. I couldn’t let it show! My mind warned me that he’s just like every other man in the universe. My body alerted me that my mind was full of shit.“Oh, I do dare, I do,” he laughed out to me. Giving me a simple wink and crooked smile that brought my previously-stopped heart back to life with all the thunder of a tempest and my nether regions gushing with all the wetness of a monsoon, he danced away, reclaimed his helmet, slapping Sir Maris on his butt as he passed.I was raised pagan and I can read the portents in the ether. The gods wanted me to see this. That’s another lie; I wanted to see that. I half wanted him, half wanted to see him get his cocky ass kicked. I totally forgot that I wasn’t wearing panties and propped my leg up on a nearby hay bale. The fight began.My initial thought was that it would be over quickly; this Glade was obviously no iddaa siteleri match for Sir Maris, a musclebound giant. Saying that it was a David and Goliath pairing wouldn’t do it justice; it was more like Hercules versus a Keebler elf. Even their weapons edified this contrast. Maris’ great sword was huge, nearly as long as I am tall; all shine, gleaming in the sun. Glade’s weapon was a lithe and light, small sword that reminded me of the types you see elves carrying in fantasy art. It would be like trying to ward off a tree trunk with a toothpick. I was very wrong.Before the announcer had even vocalized the “T” in “fight”, many things happened and became evident.What happened is that word had spread through the Ren-fair that Glade and Maris were fighting. It was as if Paul Revere rode through their grounds announcing it. Cosplaying enthusiasts came running from everywhere, announcing the battle.I overheard, “Glade’s going to fight, he’s fucking crazy,” “Oh! Maris! This will be good,” and, “Remember what happened last time?”Because of their unanimous excitement, the ranks of the audience swelled. Glade’s groupie mosh pit also grew exponentially; they were shoving each other out of the way to be in the forefront. Another thing that happened is that the tepid audience came alive. They clapped and roared.The things that became evident were that this diminutive Glade was as fast a striking cobra, light on his feet like a startled feral cat, and he obviously had a death wish. I mentioned before that watching the other dueling knights was blasé. Not only was he armored unlike all the others in black leather and chromed rings and spikes, but he also fought like, well, a demon. He was a true swashbuckler and he danced around his towering foe, taunted him, tumbled, rolled, jumped, and danced all over the battlefield. He was a delight to watch! A showboating delight. My rock star knight was playing to the crowd, making the flow of the fight take him to the edges of the crowded and now-overjoyed observers. It figured that he’d show off for the crowd. The crowd did, indeed, love him, as did all the women in the Ren-fair group, almost as much as he seemed to love himself.I began to see that as energetic, flashy, and stunningly skilled as he was, that maybe he wasn’t the huge ego with a sword I initially assumed. I began to understand that he was playing, having a great time. The thought of having musclebound barbarians trying to kill you with real weapons was fun had never occurred to me.I won’t bore you with details of him somersaulting around, dodging death-blows at the last fraction of a second, or the excitement. It was, however, better than Hollywood. I’m not a violent person and such displays of male bravado do not impress me. He impressed me.Their bout took them close to me and I could hear them hurling taunts, venomous insults, at each other as they fought.“Fuck you,” Maris screamed at him.“Fucketh thee back!” Glade taunted.“Your mother’s a whore,” was the retort, followed by a fell blow of such force that the impact vibrated the ground as Glade barely shifted his shoulder, causing the blade to miss him by a millimeter.“My mother’s dead,” clang, ting, swoosh.“I’d never,” clang, thump, bang.“Insult your mother, such a lovely woman.” Crush, thump, smack.Their spinning attacks brought them within yards of me.The elfin vision of man-meat continued. “She’s also multi-orgasmic,“ thrust, parry, kick, clang.“We discovered that last night, right after she espoused the virtues of retroactive abortion.”“Enough!” Maris bellowed, obviously enraged.Glade had been ducking under then jumping over Maris’ blows, but he either lost his footing or miscalculated and the great sword connected. It landed solidly on his shield with all the power of Maris’ anger behind it, causing a thunderous clap, startlingly loud. The force of the blow lifted Glade off the ground and sent him reeling through the air towards me. He grunted, as if in pain, as he spiraled towards the ground. The blow landed with such fury that it creased Glade’s black and gray painted shield, the sword tip sliding off the mangled metal barrier and rending an armor plate on his left bicep. His damaged armor flapped as he hit the ground, dropping his sword, rolling towards me. He barreled towards me and landed between my legs.