The three of them were most unfairly ganging up on me. Directly across from me, my nemesis was cruelly chastising me. Venom dripped from her words.

“Just look at you, dressed like a slutty skank half your age. Do you even own underwear anymore? Your nipples can be seen from space through that thin top, and you should be ashamed of yourself, whoring yourself out to him like that. You’re dressed like a prostitute in some low-budget porn movie.”

She was a vile, malevolent, psycho cunt-beast, but the bitch in the mirror had a point. Although my reflection had packed on a few pounds, in all the wrong places, she still looked sexy as fuck. I couldn’t have responded to my mirror image even if I’d wanted to. The other two were having a go at me.

“Just think about how you’re acting,” the manifested voice of my doubts and insecurities added. I named her Winter because she’s pale and timid. Her last name is, obviously, “of my discontent.”

She droned on and on, her voice a morose, whining agitation inside my head. I truly hoped my real voice didn’t sound like that. “You’ll never fit in anywhere if you respond to everything by throwing your pussy at it. You’re doing it again,“ she reminded me. “You go completely off the rails, convinced that this time it’s real love, and they’re ‘the one,’ and you screw it up by being your stupid-bitch self and fucking and sucking everything in sight. Let this one go; you’ve already fucked it up. Just be normal and someday you’ll find somebody right for you.”

My naughty side was even chiming in. “I know the sex is mind-blowing, and he’s so hot and has that huge, magic cock. But, my spider-sense has been tingling since we first laid eyes on him. Nobody, especially a man, is that perfect all the time unless they’re hiding something. And where does all that money come from? He has to be a drug dealer, in the mafia, or something shady like that. Showering you with gifts and thoughtful gestures? Always saying and doing the perfect thing? How the hell does he know what you want before you do? Something’s wrong, here. No sex is good enough to blind yourself to all the red flags.”

Yes, it was! I faced them all, my Id, Krystal, and Super-Krystal. My Freudian slip was metaphorically showing. “Shut the fuck up,” I screamed, ignoring the other ladies staring at me as if I were a candidate for a padded room. “You don’t understand…”

“You don’t understand,” and, “you have no idea,” had been commonplace phrases, constantly uttered to my friends about all things Glade. It had been a year, an entire year, to the day, since I met Glade. We met at last year’s Renaissance Faire, held at this very location.

He's a member of the medieval re-creation group that puts on the festival; I’d been willingly absorbed into his quirky and amazing life. What followed can only be described as every woman’s fantasy, fairy tale life. When we’re young, we all dream about Prince Charming, our knight in shining armor, swinging in to sweep us off our feet, understand and appreciate us, and make us feel like the luckiest fucking bitch on the planet. If you add in constant adventure, sexual adventure, and being showered with seduction and romance, that would describe my life. Before I even saw him, I’d noted that several of the other women in the medieval group were fawning over him. They were slutting it up, actively competing against each other to catch his eye. They just wouldn’t shut the fuck up about how amazing he is. The revelation that I was not only behaving exactly like them but also worse than all of them put together, had been slowly creeping into my consciousness.

To try and put it succinctly, Glade is the kind of guy that can split you in two, sexually abuse your body, defile you, drain your bank account, then leave the toilet seat up, and all you’ll say is, “so, does tomorrow work for you, too?” The gods designed him to be addictive catnip for women. On top of that, he has this amazing aura about him, all sincere, all the way in.

Do you recall that feeling when you meet somebody for the first time, and you’re instantly convinced that they’re the man, or woman, of your dreams? Imagine each and every second, thereafter, being custom-tailored to convince you that they are. That’s Glade. Within seconds of meeting him, I wanted, needed to fuck him. Hours later, the thought that he was the best man I’d ever met was screaming in my mind like air-raid sirens.

The next morning, after experiencing the best sex I’d ever had, I was convinced that he was the best man I’d ever meet. Time went on, and my opinion changed. He became the best man on the planet, then the best man to have ever lived. Even if he sucked in bed, I’d have fallen for him because of the way he treats me. He could treat me like total shit, and I’d still crawl back to him, naked and on my knees, because the sex is that amazing. Luckily, he treats me, and everyone around him, like pure gold, and he fucks me like a whore. There's something to be said about a man who appreciates you for your brains and fucks them out of you.

Every day since I met him was a repeat of that magical feeling. I’d been living for an entire year in the middle of a fairy tale on repeat. Gestures from the simple to grandiose, always making me cry, were my main staples. He owned my heart, my mind, my soul. Nearly all of me belonged solely to him, but my cunt remained community property. He even loved that about me, taking pleasure in my pleasure. For an entire year, I railed against the knowledge that I would say or do anything to keep him in my life. I had everything a woman could ever want, especially real, true happiness, despite my bickering alter-ego-bitches constantly trying to convince me to torpedo the relationship.

The only thing I didn’t have was the ring. The day we’d met, I swore to him, edifying my resolve, that I’d never get married again. I quickly changed my tune, much to my friends’ chagrin. Joking about how other women go insane over him, I labeled the phenomenon "Glade Fever." I had it bad. I was totally off the rails, trying to follow my friends’ advice to “cool my jets” but wantonly failing. All I’d do was talk about him, dream about him, and masturbate over him and the crazy, wild sex without limitations that became my love life. You know the sex is fantastic when, the next morning, you have to masturbate to orgasm because thinking about what you just did gets you all worked up. Total honesty, no judgment, and a perverted, kinky streak just as big as mine, were just bonuses to the way this man made me feel.

“Did he really buy you a star?” one of the women in the medieval group asked me, ending the debate between me and my psyche. She was a sweet woman, calling herself Marion, dressed in period finery.

I nodded to her, smiling. “Two, actually, as well as some land on the moon because he sometimes calls me his ‘moon and stars.’” It was true. As a prelude to us having met a year ago, he bought two stars in the Scorpio constellation because I’m a Scorpio and named them “Krystal Star” and “Krystalis Perfectis.” His idea of romance is just on a whole different octave.

“You are one lucky, fucking bitch,” Marion replied, hugging me. “Do you think he’s ever going to pop the question?”

In that single question, all my hopes and dreams, the very same ones the bitch in the mirror, Winter, and my naughty side were warning me against, we openly laid out. My parents and the entire coven were all Team-Glade, my Lush friends were telling me to not worry about it and enjoy the ride because most women, and I quote, “would give their left tit” to be in my position. The hope had consumed me for weeks, months.

I knew better, anyway. A man like that is not to be tamed; he is to be loved, completely surrendered to. In his medieval group, mine now by proxy, he refused knighthood because he wouldn’t bend a knee and swear fealty to the king. Although able to claim the crown for himself by right of arms and honor, he had refused, championing the crown rather than wearing it. It was my second, ever, ren faire, my first as one of the people running it. The rest of the universe, however, was conspiring to ruin our one-year anniversary, brutally murdering any hopes or dreams of him bending a knee to me. I couldn't even get fucked.

“What are you going to do, Kryssi?” the dark triad of my psyche, my nay-saying chorus, said in unison. “Are you going to give up your nice, big house in the country and keep shacking up with him in his castle?” My inner demons just didn’t understand. YES! Breakfast in bed every morning and that huge, thick cock every night is quite addictive.

“You look great,” my blond friend, Sylva told me, grabbing my hand. “Let’s go get ‘em.”

“Why did you make me wear this slutty getup? It’s fucking white; I never wear all-white. I look stupid.”

“You look hot and sexy. The guys at the kissing booth will drool.”

The universe was not only actively plotting to ruin my one-year anniversary, it and its scheming ally, Mother Nature, were doing everything they could to ruin the ren faire. Yesterday’s opening day was mostly rained out. The event site was a sloping park-like area, a large meeting hall with classrooms at the top, sweeping down towards a small river. At least the entire site had wireless internet. A deluge caused flooding and mud, wrecking several tents and merchant kiosks, and sending most of the visitors running for the dry indoors. Rather than camping in pavilions and reveling around open fires, the previous night was spent with us packed into the shelter, making the most of it. To the group, it didn’t matter that the cost to put on the fair was more money than we had. Ruined tents and equipment and the lack of paying guests to offset the crippling cost didn’t seem to matter. They were going to have the time of their lives, and that was final.

I’d packed sexy lingerie to wear as a surprise for my boyfriend. It was stowed in my bag in the ladies changing room, unused. Rather than a night of horny debauchery, it was a night of fun, streaming the Mandalorian on one of the big television screens in the meeting hall, talking, and cruising the internet. It was most definitely not the medieval Utopia I’d planned on, but I love these people, so I was enjoying myself. I’d also kept myself in constant contact with my friends, still hoping for him to pop the question.

To help raise funds to pay for the event, I was bamboozled into staffing a kissing booth. The outfit Sylva picked out for me made me look like a tasteless, cheap whore. I was wearing a thin, white, cotton midriff, sleeveless vest-type top that tied in the front. It was cute but extremely slutty. The cotton was so thin that you could see the curve of my breasts and my skin tone through the cloth; my nipples might as well have been fully exposed. Little lace ruffles accented the neck, hem, and armholes. For a skirt, I was wearing a white, long skirt, so thin that it was nearly diaphanous. If there was any light, anywhere, one could easily see the contours of my nude body beneath the skirt. With no waistband to speak of, it rode low on my hips. To make matters worse, Sylva put a gaudy, silvery heart pendant, as big as my fist, around my neck. I looked like a medieval slut, a wanton whore.

Sylva, a young, buxom, sexy blond with a mischievous demeanor, was decked out in a cleavage-revealing vest, belly dancer skirt, and wide cinch belt. As always, she had plastered on pale pancake makeup, overdone the eyeshadow, and had a quarter-inch of lipstick piled on. For our purposes, it was perfect.

The sun came out, people began arriving, and the Ren Faire seemed to be a runaway hit. With a kiss starting at five dollars, up to twenty-five, we pulled in a ton of cash. That was good, as the group was a few thousand dollars in the red. An odd side effect was my growing, horny need. I had been on a sexual gluttony kick to begin with, doing things so wild and perverted that the bitch in the mirror couldn’t meet my eyes the next morning. I had been all hyped up with the excitement of sex last night, my hopes dashed by the rain. I was so horny that even walking became a distraction, so much so that I dropped and broke my cell phone.

Not all of our customers, but enough of them, were good enough kissers, or nice and cute enough, to get me riled up. My lust began boiling over when a rotund pervert bought enough kissing tickets to pay for Sylva and me to kiss each other long enough to make out and get heated. We drew a crowd. Sylva was also teasing me into a sexual frenzy.

One woman paid me twenty dollars to kiss her while her husband watched. As we kissed, hands roaming a good deal more than two strangers should be comfortable with, Sylva ran her hand under my skirt, caressing my thigh and soaking her fingers in my pussy. I got my revenge, licking her pussy while she had to kiss some gross pervert.

The day went on, with me beginning to enjoy myself, growing hornier all the while. Now and then, Glade would show up, usually with tickets in hand, to steal a kiss or four. He was scheduled to fight a challenger to the crown, Sir Reginald, later that day. Reginald, a knight, had formally challenged the king for the crown. Glade, being the king’s champion, was to defend. By their bylaws, if Glade won, he could claim the crown for himself, or not. If he lost, then we’d have a new king. My friend, Kiera, was not overjoyed at the prospect. She’d been recently crowned as queen, being King Tim’s girlfriend.

Thinking I knew everyone in the group, I was surprised to see three cloaked people walking about, occasionally. The trio wore long cloaks with the hoods pulled up. When I asked Sylva who they were, she shrugged and mused, “maybe just some guests, you know how they like to dress the part for a ren faire.”

Finally, with hard nipples, bouncing breasts on display, and that thin, slutty skirt painting my already-pale ass white, we made it to the battlefield for the big event. The number of people there surprised me. Glade usually wears all-black, demonic, leather armor with a matching, demon-faced helmet. This time, though, he put on his “Sunday best” armor. A royal tabard covered his shining breastplate, articulated pauldrons and arm protection gleaming down his muscular arms. A plumed, knight’s helmet cradled in one arm, his blackened sword in his left hand, he was ripped right off the cover of any sappy romance novel. In other words, he looked like the man of my fucking dreams.

I, being the champion’s lady, was seated to the left of the Queen, Sylva, and my friend and coworker, Marcy, on my other side. I had a nice, comfy chair; Sylva and Marcy sat on a wooden chest. Kiera, the queen, and I gossiped a little and watched the duel. It was dramatic, filled with flashy swordplay, quips, and tense moments. Glade, a natural, charismatic showman, won both the crowd and the battle. Reginald fought well but ended up with a wounded arm.

In his typical dramatic flair, Glade threw down his helmet and tossed his sword aside, shaking out his hair and strutting his pussy-drenching, eye-candy stuff as he approached the throne. The king, using the very medieval and Merlin-approved PA system, thanked him for defending the throne and offered him anything he desires.

Glade responded, “Just the microphone for a moment and the twenty dollars you owe me.”

He walked out to the middle of the field and told the onlookers that what they had just witnessed was not part of the entertainment, but something real in their society. He explained what was going on and said, “it’s our way.” Because of the night before, everyone started shouting, “this is the way,” referencing a mantra in The Mandalorian. Glade addressed Kiera, “my queen.”

She got up, pulled me out of my chair, and hugged me close as Marcy and Sylva pulled out some baskets from the chest and started tossing flower petals in a path on the ground between Glade and me. From one side, the three people in cloaks entered the field and stopped about ten feet away from Glade.

He addressed me, talking on the microphone to the crowd. All I could think of was how sexy he was. “Today, my sword swings for the king, but every day, my heart beats for another. Exactly one year ago, to this day, on this very spot, I met the woman of my dreams. My heart pounds for her, and my blood boils for her. Forgive me, good people, but there’s something I have to say to her.”

Kiera began slowly walking me up to him, her arm hooked in mine as we trod upon the path of flowers. This was when I noticed that she, Marcy, and Sylva were starting to cry. Let’s just say peer pressure made me do it, as well. Glade held a cloth bag with wide leather straps, and he opened it as he talked.

“You know exactly what I am, know that I live each day as if it will be my last. Because of this, I follow my heart and hold nothing back.”

“I can vouch for that,” Sir Reginald shouted out, causing much laughter, holding his hurt arm. Like everyone else, I looked over, laughing.

When I looked back to Glade, he had dropped to one knee and had pulled the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen, in my biased opinion, from the bag.

“I promise you that no matter what you say, nothing will change between us, ever. Will you honor me by walking by my side, as my wife, on this last day and every last day to come?”

We already know I’m an idiot; I proved it by standing there like one, tears flowing, unable to form words. He asked again, then again, and said that I could say “no” and nothing would change.

Somebody shouted out that they’d marry him…more laughter. I finally found the ability to nod, then I sobbed out a “yes,” and could finally say it. He stood up, put the ring on my finger, and kissed me, even grabbing my ass.

Then he pulled back, giving me that smile that’s like Kryptonite for women, and said, “Marry me. Right here, right now.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s get married right this second.”

“Oh, God.”

My mother's voice rang out from behind me. “You mean, oh Goddess, Kryssi.” I looked to the source of her voice, stunned.

The three cloaked people lowered their hoods and I saw my crying mother, my crying Goddess-mother, Linda, and my beaming father.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Yes, over the PA.

Linda said, “I’m here to perform the ceremony, so you’ll finally shut up about it.” She’s a bona fide priestess.

Remember, way up there at the beginning of this, when I said that he does romance on an entirely different level. That fucker had the wedding already set up, planned, and even smuggled my parents and Linda into the Ren Faire to surprise me. Covering all bases, the caterers he hired had two banners at the ready. One, the one they ended up using, was a “Congratulations” wedding banner, the other a “Happy Anniversary” one, just in case.

My father and the king gave me away, dad commenting that my husband-to-be was a badass. My Goddess mother performed the ceremony in front of hundreds of strangers, surrounded by knights in armor and my closest non-Lushy friends. I think I had the shortest engagement in history, outside of Las Vegas.

To be honest, I was stunned. It wasn’t the wedding I had imagined, but it was still the fairy tale wedding of my dreams. Rather than relax, having gotten my heart’s desire, I ran up the hill, away from the fair, and hid in the women’s changing room, crying my eyes out. As soon as I came to my senses, I pulled out my non-Merlin-approved laptop and messaged all my friends. Yes, they all thought that I was just as silly and stupid as you do, right now.

The rest of the day was a blur, a dream, me walking around in a daze. Although my parents and Linda had met some of my medieval friends, they got to meet them all. The sun had sunk before my head came down from the clouds. I was married, shocked and surprised, but married. The day we met, he stripped my red sash off my body to bind his broken armor. It had become a fixture on his armor, a splash of red amid all that black. We were forever bound together with that very cloth, had-fasting us to symbolize our union.

With my parents gone and the guests finally filtering out, the real party was about to begin. Sporting a two-carat combination wedding and engagement ring, still wearing that slutty, white outfit, my husband and I were the guests of honor at a wild party. That bitch in the mirror spent most of the morning chastising me about being an out-of-control slut. I proved her correct, and then some, that night.

Here’s what happened…

TO BE CONTINUED.