On one of those heritage-washed-down-with-a-cream-tea sort of days out, showing visiting pals a local castle, I spy you wandering around the ruins with your own group of friends. I hadn't expected to see you here, but the history between us means there's no need for anything to be explicitly signposted; a glance exchanged at a distance and a slightly cocked eyebrow is enough. We make our respective excuses to the people we are with, and I discretely follow you to a quiet area in the shadow of the keep, roped off to visitors.
The moment we are out of sight, the chatter of day-trippers still audible only a dozen yards away, you grab me and pin me against the castle wall, demonstrating your superior strength in one thrilling manoeuvre. Your hands invade my jeans and our tongues wrestle in close combat. I can feel how ready you are, your steel-hard dick pressing into my thigh through our clothes. Despite my token resistance, in this moment I am certainly no damsel in distress; my blood is up, and I am as battle-hungry as you are.
Having reconnoitred the terrain and found conditions to be ideal, you prepare for attack. You turn me round so that the side of my face is pressed against the rough stone, yank down my jeans and knickers, and pierce my dripping cunt, your hand clamped over my mouth to stifle my moans. You stab me with quick, hard, urgent thrusts that bruise my cervix and my body as I convulse, trapped, between the immovable edifice of the castle and your irresistible force. I have to fight back the gasps and giggles as I am overwhelmed by waves of orgasm. A few minutes is all we have, but a few minutes is all we need, and after a final push, you cum too, spurting your hot load into me. I feel it trickling down my thighs as you soften inside me, breathing hard in my ear. My cheek is grazed from where it rubbed against the wall, I realise.
"Good slut," you growl, zipping up your fly, then my more-erring-than-errant knight in tarnished armour is gone, and you are heading back to your group, an innocent tourist once more. I remain leaning against the ruin for a moment, dismayed and elated by how easily you seem able to breach my defences and lay waste to my strategies to resist you, though I suppose if I will keep lowering the drawbridge...then I pull myself together, and pull up my jeans.
I make my way back to my friends and invent some excuse about having stumbled on the way to the toilets, to explain the mark on my cheek. I must not do this with you again, I admonish myself, but the puddle in my knickers, a souvenir of the day far more evocative than any overpriced trinket available in the gift shop, tells me that history will almost certainly repeat itself.
