You are satiated and drowsy. Yawning, you lazily pick up the contents of the basket that your King apparently toppled in the hasty retreat to the grove. The King finally wins his battle with the clasps on his garments, picks up the cloak from the ground and then stretches his arm for the basket. You loop your arm through his but turn at the opposite direction from the house and pull him towards the bridge. He follows, sated and agreeable. You walk off the trail and letting go of his arm you dive under the bridge. "What are you after, zudush? It is already dark." "Just give me moment, kurdu," your voice echoes in the damp cold arch of the bridge. "I think I have seen some White Stonecrop flowers here, I would like to harvest some for our return trip."
The stones under the bridge are slippery and you yelp, when you foot skids into the brook and cold water rushes into your shoe. The King is by your side in an instant. He is supporting you while you take off the shoe and laugh, "I always thought myself rather graceful. It is probably because all my limbs are still shaking," his arms are wrapped around your waist, and he kisses your lips. The bridge is low and you both are slouching. You are getting a bit carried away, and since balancing on one foot on wet mossy boulders is hardly the wisest idea, you wrap your other leg around his calf. He rumbles deep in the chest. The basket falls into the stream and you mumble in protest. The King backs you up from under the bridge, you awkwardly hopping on one foot. You step out from the arch into thick luscious shrubbery and he pushes you into the stone wingwall.
You are caged between his massive arms, his mouth greedy on your throat, white even teeth nipping you skin, clanking on the necklace. You shake off the inebriation of his kisses and plunge into the carnal game, kiss for kiss, bite for bite, your nails scratching the back of his neck, hands pulling his hair and soon tugging at his buckle. He growls when his belt loudly hits the ground and hikes up your skirt. Your undergarments are drenching, and it spurs him further when he cups your sex. His other hand roughly grabbing you breast, rubbing the thumb on the hard nipple through the fabric, he jerks the undergarments down. You deftly unfasten his pants and they fall down to his ankles. You suddenly push him away from yourself, and he awkwardly makes a step back. You turn your back to him and set your palms steadily on the wall. With a feral snarl he grabs you hips and pushes into you. You moan and press back, making him step back some more. You bend down keeping your hands on the wall, your nails scraping the stone, and he starts thrusting, long deep strokes, moaning throatily, apparently having discovered his new favourite angle. His feet are positioned wide, his hands are crushing your hips, you are bending your back, your head tilts back, your bottom lifting up. You are crying out every time, his wide tip hitting the far corner of your insides, and then you climax, wailing and losing your grip on the wall. He helpfully slides one arm around your waist and slows down, supporting your weight, letting you breathe through the shuttering waves of your release. You recover very quickly, still hungry for him, and place your hands back on the wall. He gratefully groans and renews the rhythm, first few strokes considerate and moderate, but he picks up speed quickly, not without the encouragement from you, your hard reciprocal pushes a quite obvious command. After a few merciless deep thrusts, he snarls through his teeth and releases into you. His body tense and strained into a bowstring, he is unmoving for a second and then with a low moan he collapses onto your body, gripping the wall with one on his hands, while his other arm is supporting you again. You both are breathing heavily, he is rubbing his bearded cheek to your shoulder. He places a few tender kisses on the back of your neck and you murmur, "I still need those flowers, my Lord. And we need to go back for the basket."