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 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, 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 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.

I was wearing a loose white cotton poet blouse with blousy sleeves and ties in the front rather than buttons. I had on a long, green, thin gypsy skirt and had previously knotted the hem up high on my thigh to fit in with the seductive attire that prevailed here. Other than my comfortable sandals the only other article of clothing was a long, red sash wound several times around my waist. My hiked-up foot was still on the hay bale. I was primed for flashing my nudity but had forgotten all about that in the excitement of their battle. His roll stopped with his helmeted head against the bale, right between my legs. He was supine, looking up.

I looked down with genuine concern. His groupies stopped jostling each other out the way and gasped in unison with the audience. Where the sword had connected with his arm I could see the torn fabric of his shirt. Was that blood, was he really injured?

“Are you hurt?” was all I could muster.

With him lying prone like that, between my legs, I could see his leg muscles bulging through his leather pants. His manly bulge looked bigger than his waist.

Glade tore off his helmet, exposing that roguish handsome face of his; his hypnotic hazel and gray eyes instantly soaking my already gushing pussy. He had the wickedest, mirth-filled, roguishly crooked smile on his face and was laughing with delight.

He said something that I couldn’t hear.

“What did you say? Do you need a doctor or something?”

“Paradise,” he said more loudly.

He didn’t look hurt, he looked delighted.

His eyes stared up at me; wait, not up at me, but up my skirt! That cocky motherfucker was staring right up my skirt! It was infuriating because he wasn’t acting right. When a woman flashes a man, he’s supposed to be stunned and speechless, too afraid to move or speak, lest he spoil the moment and lose the view. This brazen asshole was openly appraising my neatly trimmed, red pubic hair and gushing lips with open desire and total acknowledgment; the nerve!

I quickly stomped my foot back to the ground. “Do you like what you see,” I spewed.

“Paradise,” he repeated with a charming wink as he hand-sprung up. His destroyed piece of armor clapped in response. He turned to the crowd and thrust up a fist in triumph and shouted out his barbaric yawp. The crowd went insane; I did as well. I was insane with fury over his reaction to me; my body was maddened with desire.

Glancing at his broken armor he turned to face me. “It was worth it,” he cheerily smiled.

I noted that it was, indeed, blood. He toyed with the broken arm-flap and then shrugged. His eyes wandered up and down me; his casual appreciation reddening my face and thighs with heat. Kicking away his warped shield he reached around my waist delicately, deftly, and softly but I could feel the strength in his gentle grasp. I gasped involuntarily at his touch and my groin muscles clenched and pulsed in primal desire. I decided that I needed to despise him. I couldn’t.

Looking through my eyes, into my very soul, he plucked at the knot of my sash and unwound it from my waist. Looking me over slowly, without shame, without threat or care, he took one end of my red sash in his teeth and tightly wound it around his damaged armor, tying it in place. One hand, his left, slowly reached out and lightly caressed my cheek. I stood there, unable to move, unable to protest, not really wanting to. His touch was electric.

Explosions went off in my core; my soul vibrated; he saw me, not my body, not my sluttiness, just me, all of me. I could feel my sex juice pouring down my thighs and my nipples grew so hard that they tingled. I sighed at his touch; my knees grew weak.

He chuckled with delight and self-debasement. “Thank you for the loan,” he patted my sash. “I’ll return this to you, shortly.”

“Aah…” was my witty retort. I guess I told him!

He turned to the crowd and laughed out, “Tis but a flesh wound!” The crowd roared as he laughed, at himself, I think.

He continued. “I have seen paradise!” The crowd applauded as he turned to me. “Paradise,” he repeated as his eyes went straight to my crotch.

My friend has a two-date rule. She refuses to have sex with any man until after her second date. Two seconds after I saw him, I wanted him. In less than two minutes of contact, I both hated and needed him. I hated that I needed him. I simultaneously wanted to punch him right in the face and sit on his face!

He boldly strode to his fallen steel, retrieved it, and struck a gladiator pose. “You hit like a girl!” he taunted Sir Maris. He readied his helmet. “Let’s dance, you and I.”

It quickly became obvious that Glade had been toying with his foe. The battle ended mere minutes later. The giant, muscular Sir Maris surrendered on his knees, his own mammoth sword in one of Glade’s hands, crossed across Maris’ neck with Glade’s own weapon in his other. Glade didn’t just defeat him, he humiliated him.

When it was all over, he helped Maris to his feet and they talked for a brief time and clapped each other on the back; parting as if they were dear friends. He wove his way through the crowd, complimenting his opponent, and taking their congratulations with grace. I stood there, fuming, in more ways than one.

When he caught my eye, he smiled that pussy-drenching smile of his and came straight towards me.

“I guess we know who he picked,” one of his groupies said to me. She was smiling.

“No,” I said. “Not at all, he just stole my sash.”

“Right,” she giggled. The rest of Glade’s groupies joined her laugh.

His march towards me paused for a brief eternity while greeted his fan-girls. Hands were kissed, lips were kissed, tongues intertwined, and many a comely wench’s behind was squeezed. They loved it; I hated it, hated him. How brazenly womanizing could any man be, and why wasn’t he treating me like that? I mean, come on, I’m hot! Damn him. I yearned for him to stop pretending he didn’t want me.

His long hair was slightly matted and stringy with sweat. He was dirty from his acrobatics. He looked even sexier. I fought down the urge to seduce him and decided to be a bitch, a raving cunt-beast. He approached me, stopping half a foot away, well inside my personal space. Lust, desire, primal hunger, and delighted humor danced in his eyes as he drank me in from head to toe and back up again.

“Thank you for the loan of your belt,” he cheerfully said as he reached to untie it.

“My sash is torn and covered in your pathetic blood,” I spat at him.

“It was already red!” he laughed. “I re-dyed it for you.”

“Hmmph,” I said intelligently. “Aren’t you just full of yourself?”

“That’s me,” he sang out. “The Id, the Glade, and the Super-Glade.”

I fought down a giggle and tried out my poker face. “What kind of stupid name is Glade, anyway?”

“The stupidest stupidness in all of stupidity,” he laughed. “It seems that the room stank when my momma named me!”

“That’s your real fucking name?” I said in dismay.

“Well,” he laughed. “My ‘fucking’ name is, I think, ‘Oh Yes, Oh God, Yes’.” He laughed at his own joke, mocking himself.

I caved. There was just something about him. Call me silly, call it magic, call me a slut, I don’t care. My mind was still intact, telling me that I should loathe, hate, and despise him for being such a cocky, arrogant, audacious rogue. But less sensible regions of my brain, the ones that truly rule me, were in cahoots with the urges overpowering my body. To make things even worse, I immediately sensed that he really wasn’t such an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He was charming, sexy, endearing, lust-inducing, intelligent, hot, funny, and amazing.

“Come with me,” he stated without commanding but compelling me to want to follow. “It seems I’ve damaged your belt. Let me buy you a new one.”

He didn’t wait for me to respond, protest, or agree. He just turned around and started sauntering towards the main area of the Ren-fair. I paused long enough to note that he had an incredible ass then just couldn’t fight the urge to follow him.

“Lucky bitch,” his blond groupie said to me.

“No,” I countered. ”I hate him; he just owes me a belt.”

“You don’t know what you’re up against,” she laughed. “See you in the morning.”

I ignored her and caught up.

He didn’t take me to wherever he was headed to buy me a new belt. He took me on a meandering, perfectly enjoyable insider’s tour of the Ren-Fair. I fell far short of my goal of hating him. He deflected or enhanced, my insults with aplomb and humor. He delighted me with his wit and intellect. He made me feel welcome and protected. He got me hornier than I’ve ever fucking been in my life. Trust me on this; I can get crazy-horny; he blew the top off my limits and just kept going. Above all, he understood me.

Everyone knew him; everyone loved him. All were eager to be near him. He was so perfectly perfect that it just had to be impossible. He didn’t just look like he should adorn romance novel covers, he acted like it. That says quite a lot about the mental basket case that is me. I’m walking around in this dream-like environment melting at the touch of this amazing man that is my every fantasy made flesh and I’m trying to hate him. As I said, my friend has a two-date rule. If I couldn’t have his cock in less than two hours I ruled that I was going to die.

Glade, that fucker, seemed to be in no hurry. I don’t know exactly when or how, but somehow the tables turned and I was trying to seduce him, failing. He was no longer trying to get back under my skirt. That’s yet another lie. He never tried.

It was like the Greek gods kissed him at birth and imbued him the body of Adonis, the speed of Hermes, the Strength of Hercules, and then asked Loki to stop by from Valhalla to give him his mischievous sense of mirth. He was even denying me the pleasure of falling victim to my seductive wiles. He noted them, yes, but only joked about it and never fell under my own spell. He became a challenge, my personal seductive quest.

We encountered many people, including a glowing Marcy. Her newfound boyfriend, Jacob, knew Glade and they chatted while Marcy caught me up on her blissful situation. Then we finally arrived, conveniently near dinner time, at his actual destination.

There I met Kiera, his ex and very close friend. I instantly liked Kiera and her brazen sexuality. She ran a merchant booth that sold leather goods, including cinch and regular belts.

Telling me that she had the perfect one for me, she beckoned me to the curtained back room of her booth. She handed me a green-dyed, laced cinch belt for me to try on and hugged me. I looked hot in it.

“I’m so glad you’re fucking Glade tonight; he just glowing over you. You’re a witch, aren’t you?”

“First off,” I said. “We’re not fucking tonight. Secondly, I despise him. Third, how the fuck did you know?”

“He draws pagans in like honey does flies. It’s like he has some witch-radar. Enjoy the sex; you’re in for a treat!”

Minutes later, after feeling an instant kinship with Kiera but stomping away, I caught up with Glade. I had only been with him for a couple of hours and I was already physically chasing after him!

“Your friend Kiera thinks that we’re fucking.” I was so desperately trying to act livid, so desperately trying to get my mind off of wondering if he’d be amazing in bed. He did have a great body and seemed to be barely hiding a monster cock under his pants.

“Of course she does, “ he laughed out. “Sex is her thing.”

“I don’t want to fuck you!” I almost yelled out.

He didn’t look convinced. It was a bald-faced lie and even I knew it. By this point, sex was one of three things on my mind. The other two things were how perfectly perfect he was and the choir of my few remaining streams of logic crying out that if it seems too good to be true, then it is.

He just shrugged and laughed. “So you’re saying that you actually have good taste in men then? I’m hungry; let’s go eat.”

“What if I don’t want you to drag me someplace else?” I finally found the nerve to stand up to him. My mind was screaming, “NO!!!” as the words escaped my lips. “GO WITH HIM!”

“I’ll still be hungry.” He twisted and inflected “hungry” to instantly make me think about sex. His eyes roamed over me, edifying that notion. He chuckled and pointed. “Food tent.”

He just left me standing there, like the moron I am. A raging battle occurred in my mind once more.

“Glade, wait up.”

We ate, drank honey wine and mead, partook of delights of the senses, and I met the others in his group. They were all happy, too happy, filled with delight and humor, and perfectly and totally accepting of me. I felt as if they were old friends, sworn to keep me safe, and fell for his trap. The fair had ended and the real party had begun.

The group consisted of like-minds, all of them embracing life, all of them partying. Glade’s sub-group was their own conclave and they congregated in a large pavilion, some of them paired up, some of them practicing free love preludes, and all of them wonderful and entertaining. I had abandoned my reservations and was having the time of my life. The stories they told, the chivalry they practiced, and their “do what thou wilt” outlook had me enchanted.

I stuck out my breasts, flirted, showed my legs all the way up to my butt, touched him, pouted my lips, twirled my hair, and talked in innuendo to no avail. Glade took great delight in my attempts and responded with appreciation and humor; he also returned what I gave him times three. My attempts to ensnare him were fruitless.

He was so easy to talk to that my attempts at seduction devolved into me confessing all my dirty, slutty adventures. I confessed my life story. I was going insane for him! Did he want me? Would we have sex? What the literal fuck? Each and every other man in existence would be enslaved by now, my slutty sexual powers no match for them. Not Glade, though.

What do women want? What they cannot or do not have! I didn’t even know if I had his interest but he sure had mine! I was throwing myself at him and he seemed to barely notice, uncatchable.

Finally, after grinding on his luscious body and practically begging him to fuck me, I mentioned that I once got so horny that I masturbated in front of a group of strangers.

“I’d love to see that,” was his appreciative, mirthful response.

“Would you?” I said as I looked around.

Some others were in various stages of undress, kissing, pawing at each other. Nobody seemed to care. I leaned back and spread my legs, my knotted skirt parting, showing my nudity. I was totally drenched with heat and passion. I jammed my hand between my opened legs and circled my clit, moaning. My other hand pulled on the ties of my blouse, exposing my lust-engorged breasts.

“Paradise,” he said as he watched, delighted.

Barely noting that others were observing my wanton display I locked my eyes on his and attacked my vibrating clit in earnest. My pent-up sexual frustration had me on the brink before I touched myself; adding my fingers to my clit and nipples made me cum in less than a minute. I felt naughty, dirty, decadent, and totally free. I screamed out in bliss, at the top of my lungs, no longer caring who might see.

This motley group of his responded with thunderous applause and rating my orgasm. I blushed as I received a vote of ten out of ten. I had finally succeeded in getting a rise out Glade, an impressive, leather-bound rise.

He stared at me, smiling. He drank in my exposed body and then centered on my flushed face and embarrassed smile. He saw into my soul and liked what he discovered.

“Can we please have sex now?” I begged him.

“You said you didn’t want to fuck me,” he laughed out.

“Are you serious?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m Glade. Sirius is over there.”

“Damn you! Come with me.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the tent as quickly as I could. I ran to the closest private-looking spot I could find and pushed him down and tugged at his leather pants.

His hands were electric, his tongue lashed like lightning, he never tired. He took his time, savoring my flesh, bringing me to one orgasm after another, then holding me just one touch, one nudge, away from exploding until I begged for release.

Beg I did. I begged for his monster cock, to have it in my mouth, on my breasts, inside my drenched pussy. I surrendered myself to him; he drank of my loins until the sun reappeared. He was a virtuoso at sex and enslaved my mind, heart, body, and soul. Then I begged for more. He played my flesh like an instrument, my moans of pleasure were his symphony. Still more, I begged. I was his.

To this day I don’t know whether I seduced him, or he seduced me.