Wild Knights

by Blaise Kilgallen

  The meal took about an hour. Carla's young assistants chitchatted about guys, naturally--who was hot, who was hotter and why. The five dated regularly and probably would have done so tonight if they hadn't surprised Carla with a birthday party. They were all pretty. Tara Bonnato, with her exotic Italian coloring and too-lush body, attracted attention from the horny, whistling, high school-aged males in the tier above them. Tara stood up, bowed, and sat down again. "Why don't they grow up?" she grumbled, and ignored them for the rest of the meal.

  From the far ends of the arena a pair of trumpeters appeared, dressed as pages and wielding three-foot-long golden horns.

  The show began.

  The pages marched out of the way, and helmeted knights on horses emerged from each end, thundered onto the field, then halted in the middle before separating and circling the arena. The knights saluted people dressed in medieval costume who were sitting in a specially draped section of seats.

  "That's the king and queen and their court," Kerry explained in Carla's ear.

  Six more knights entered in pairs, then disappeared beneath the stands again.

  "Are they really wearing chain mail?" Carla asked Melody, who seemed to know the most about this evening's goings-on. "It must be hot--and heavy."

  "No. The helmets are made of some strong stuff, and so are the shields. The chain mail is rough, pebbly polyester so it looks real, but it's quite light. Kerry and me bumped into a couple of the knights outside after the performance a couple of weeks ago and they asked us out for a drink. They told us how they dress and how they train."

  "Did you date any of them again?" Carla asked.

  Melody grinned. "Oh man, they were really cool, Carla. Awesome. I was hoping the one, Jon D., would ask me, but he was leaving for Florida."

  Kerry chimed in. "You should see their bods. Yummy! They all work out. They have to, to stay in shape. They're all great athletes. It's not as easy as it looks, Carla. I even took a book out of the library to read about medieval knights. They can get hurt doing this stuff."

  "The guys take turns appearing at other showplaces every couple of months," Melody added. "I think there are five or six Medieval Showtimes scattered across the U.S..."

  The horns blared again, and Carla's head swiveled toward the arena, thinking about the muscle man she'd seen that morning.

  I'm just too damn itchy and restless these days.

  Two knights waited at the short ends of the arena. Their horses pranced and jigged, seeming anxious to get going. Each knight carried a long lance. Carla noticed that the tips were blunted.

  Blunted? Oh yeah, blunted, but big, round and very long.

  Someone dropped a white handkerchief and the two armored knights whirled and faced one another, then galloped toward the middle of the arena.

  I'll bet he has a smooth way of wielding that lance, all right.

  Carla heard a loud thunk as a lance bounced off a shield, and her thighs clenched.

  The section rooting for the knight with the lion's head on his blue surcoat roared.

  Carla tried not to imagine the gardener's lance.

  During the jousting competition, a section rooting for a knight in a yellow surcoat shouted even louder. When the pair of rival knights trotted off and left the field, neither man had been unseated.

  Girls from the Spa, including Carla, screeched, even though their own knight had yet to appear on the jousting field. Finally when he did, he unseated his opponent. The loser knelt on one knee facing the king and his court, and left the field defeated. None others had to take a knee.

  The ring toss was an individual challenge, putting a lance through a small metal ring hanging from a swinging cord while spurring the galloping horse toward it. Each knight had three tries. Three more knights were eliminated.

  That left two pairs. The barelegged knight wore a white surcoat with a red cross blazoned across his broad chest.

  * * * *

  The first hand-to-hand combat came next, the knights using long sticks, maces, battle axes and finally, swords. One was the obvious winner in the first contest, but the match was called a draw. That brought on the last pair. The girls from the Spa leaned forward in their seats. Their champion was next.

  Carla saw the size of his bare thighs as he crouched and began swordplay with his opponent. Something in his stance triggered a memory of her landscaper squatting on his heels. The gardener's thighs were massive like this knight's. He was exceptionally tall and brawny with an arm bulging with muscles, his sword seeming an extension of his arm.

  The fierce-sounding blows pounding the shields caught Carla's immediate attention. She admired the way the knight wearing the red cross moved. His open visor was painted red, his silver helmet stopping just short of his full lips. As she watched, Carla saw his mouth moving. Was he taunting his opponent? Or were they only talking to each other to make sure they gave a good show? She and her assistants sat enraptured behind the railing. She heard the men grunt but couldn't understand the words.

  Suddenly, the knight in the red cross shifted, quickly and lightly, on his high leather boots, like a dancer dodging the other knight's feints. A few blows landed on his triangular shield. The crowd screamed in excitement as the orchestrated battle raged in the arena.

  With one swift lunge, the brawny knight landed a powerful blow with a dull sword point on the other knight's shield. The opponent fell, landing flat on his back, toes pointing at the roof. Sitting up and removing his helmet, the felled knight shook out his long blonde hair and was allowed to concede defeat.

  The victorious, red cross-coated knight strode toward the draped section of the arena. He bowed as the queen tossed him a long-stemmed, red rose, and he caught it quite handily. Sword sheathed, the knight circled the arena, his arm held high, grasping the rose, until he stopped in front of his enthusiastic cheerleaders. He vaulted over the railing, landing in front of the girls from the Spa, and with a wide smile, removed his helmet. Her heart doing flip-flops, Carla recognized the knight.

  Oh Jesus! It's him. The gardener from the Spa's rose garden.

  He bowed and laid his helmet on the bench-like table in front of Carla and her companions. When he reached for Carla's hand, she extended it to him in a daze. "My lady," he said, his voice a deep, rich baritone rumble. "Will you accept this token of my esteem?"

  Carla's rubbery knees shook, but she stood up. Her heart was thrumming in her chest as if she were a teenager in the throes of a violent first crush. She glanced quickly at her assistants. "Happy birthday, Carla!" they chorused, laughing. She made a face at them, and they laughed again.

  The big, dark-haired, black-eyed knight leaned over and handed her the rose. Then he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her expertly. "Happy birthday, darlin'," he whispered, grinning, and let her go. He vaulted over the railing again, landing lightly on the gritty floor of the arena. He waved to the clapping crowd, strode off, and disappeared into the bowels of the amphitheater.

  Melody hugged a breathless, disbelieving Carla. Her fingers trembling slightly, Carla brought the bud to her nose and inhaled its perfume. The girls were still laughing when they stopped for a nightcap at the Knights Italian Pub in town. "Better press that in your memory book, boss lady," Pat, the oldest of Carla's assistants said, watching her cradle the red rose in her fingers.

  "How did you manage this?" Carla asked Kerry Kilgore, who was sipping a cold beer. Kerry grinned at her. "Melody let them know it was your birthday," she said. "They do it all the time."

  Carla's heart took a dive. She thought the kiss was something special.

  "But I never saw one of the knights kiss anyone quite like that," Melody said, looking a bit miffed. "A quick buss on the cheek, maybe." She turned to Carla. "I'm jealous, Carla. Did you give that guy a come on?"

  "Of course, not," she bridled. "You know me better than that."

  "Aha," Pat smirked. "Maybe there's more going on under that blond hair of yours than we know, Carla," she teased. "We're going to have to kee
p an eye on you."

  I wish, Carla thought. Oh yeah, how I wish.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The landscaper didn't show up at the Spa for a week.

  Carla masturbated every night to stop thinking about him and what he could do to her--better yet, do for her--if he ever climbed into her bed. She wanted him to kiss her again, touch her, pump into her, over and over, until he took her over the edge to ecstasy. She thought of his hard male body, the size of his lance, and her mouth watered. Finally, she fell asleep after pleasuring herself, but it wasn't enough. Maybe she should buy some sex toys.

  Her young husband had been an eager lover if not very experienced. She had read there were different touches, other kinds of kisses, other positions and other ways a man could drive a woman crazy, but she and Billy had never discussed sex in or out of bed. He was always hot to do it now ... do it again ... until he was sated, saving up for when he wouldn't be able to screw her after he got to Kuwait.

  My period must be coming early this month. It must be the reason I'm so ... so horny. I could use some of Billy's fucking right now, she thought.

  * * * *

  "All right, Jessie, it's time we did something for Carla. Let's corner the bear in his garden, shall we?"

  The twins were dressed to the nines. They looked like southern belles, if a bit faded. Their sheer polyester dresses swished around calves and ankles that were still shapely. Both women wore large floppy straw hats adorned with lots of flowers and pulled on white gloves as if they were dressing for a tea party. They linked elbows, slowly made their way to the elevator and down to the main lobby.

  "We're taking a constitutional, Michael," Jessie advised the guard who was sitting at the reception desk. Maddy's raspy voice added, "Don't worry about us, Mike, we'll be just fine. It's a beautiful day for a short stroll around the grounds."

  Michael Ryan jumped to his feet to open the door for the women, grinning from ear to ear. "Take your time, ladies. Lunch isn't until 12:30."

  "He must think we're senile, Jessie," Maddy whispered to her sister on their way out the door. "We've lived here long enough to know when lunch is served. Harumph!"

  "Don't mind him. Come on, let's go find Rose's young man."

  Maddy sighed, spotting him. "Oh my, it's too bad, isn't it? He hasn't removed his shirt today. I'm quite disappointed.

  The twins paused to watch Evan as he pulled weeds in the rose garden. Though his back was turned, he could feel eyes boring into him. He raked around the roots of the rosebushes for a minute, then straightened up and glanced over his shoulder.

  "Good morning, ladies."

  "Good morning to you, too, young man." The Barrys answered in unison. "Yes," Maddy continued. "It is a fine day, isn't it?"

  Evan grabbed his clippers out of a back pocket. Bending over, he cut two full-blown white roses from a large bush loaded with buds. Stepping over the pile of dirt and leaves, he presented each of the twins with a flower. "Be careful. They may still have thorns," he warned.

  "Oh! How kind of you, young man. Thank you."

  Maddy asked to learn his name. "And you are...?"

  "Evan Lupo, ma'am, Rose Lupo's son. Did you know her?"

  "Oh yes, and we were very sorry about your mother ... Evan. Rose lived here such a short time, but we really didn't get to know her well. How is it you still come here to work in the garden?" Jessie asked innocently.

  "Given permission from the owners, I planted these bushes when my mother first moved in. I thought it would be nice to keep tending the ones she liked."

  "Now, isn't that nice? Isn't that right, Jessie?" Maddy smiled up at Evan. "You're a good boy," she added. "Rose thought very highly of you. Are you married?"

  Evan chuckled silently. These two biddies sure were nosy.

  "Naw."

  "Looking for a wife?" Jessie popped in with another question.

  "Naw, not me." He grinned wider, raising both eyebrows, and this time he laughed out loud.

  "Do you like ladies?" Maddy persisted.

  "Um hmm. Especially mature, nice-looking ladies like you."

  The twins eyed one another, seeing their cheeks turning pink. They both giggled.

  "Thank you, young man," Maddy replied. "We'll stop by to see you again."

  * * * *

  Mrs. Pembrooke was feeling under the weather today and didn't go downstairs to watch TV with her friends, so Carla carefully snuck into the Barry sisters' apartment when she saw them heading out the Spa's front entrance. She was beginning to feel like a spy or a stalker, but she couldn't help herself. The fantasy she'd built surrounding the dark-haired, muscle-bound "gardener" had become an obsession with her. She scolded herself even as she slithered inside and hurried to peek from behind a curtain.

  Oh God! He was gorgeous even with clothes on. The black T-shirt tucked into his jeans clung to him like a second skin. He wiped his brow with the back of his tanned hand, dragged a printed cotton kerchief out of a back pocket, and rolled it into a rope. Still chatting to the Barry sisters, he tied it around his forehead. What was it about a man sweating bullets that was so erotic? His bronzed skin was beaded with sweat. Then there were the beat-up, high-top, leather work shoes he wore. He looked so damn macho in them. Carla couldn't help herself; she shivered just looking at him. She swallowed a noisy gulp and saved the images behind closed eyelids in her memory bank to reprise them later tonight in her bed.

  Once before, she had wondered how he'd look in a dress suit, shirt, and fancy tie. Probably a lot sexier without them, she thought, feeling heat creeping upward from between her thighs.

  Having done some research on the hunk, she knew he drove a white Caddy convertible. She'd even taken down the license plate: WTC BODY. She had no idea what WTC meant, but she sure knew what the rest of the plate described.

  After a few days of sordid introspection, Carla confessed to herself that what she wanted and needed was a man. Preferably before she turned the big four-o. She was 37 now, feeling old already, and she hadn't been laid by anybody since she was 22. Kissed a few times, but never ... well, never felt enough incentive to let it go beyond that. Whose fault was that? The guys'? Or hers?

  Nevertheless, she was determined to do it. Her gut, or whatever was lurking down there and driving her crazy, was boiling hot and ready--waiting and wanting.

  But she didn't want it with just any man. She lusted for the Spa's volunteer gardener.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph! The damn hunk had to be a couple years under 30!

  It was sick. Pornographic. Since when had she become a lecherous cradle-snatcher anyway? But none of it stopped her from dreaming about him and what she wanted him to do with her. Or what she wanted to do to him.

  But what good did dreaming do? He had never thrown an interested eye in her direction. That business at Medieval Showtime had been a set-up. Besides, she wasn't exactly a young man's fantasy. Her face wasn't unusual or extraordinary; she did have the right amount of curves, ending in long legs; but that was all. Her fine, nondescript, dirty blonde hair color was difficult to curl, so she simply tied it back in a ponytail most days. Her eyes were blue, the lashes were dark and thick, framing her eyes dramatically. When she used mascara and eye shadow, her eyes became larger, more brilliant. She did have nice straight teeth thanks to her dentist and two years of childhood braces. But that was the sum total of what she believed to be her less-than-sexy allure. She couldn't even boast that she was rich or talented in order to snag a man.

  Scolding herself for the tenth time, she was about to turn away when the gardener looked up and intently scrutinized the Barrys' window. Carla stepped back immediately, knowing he spotted movement. Could he possibly have known she was in the twins' apartment?

  Carla's cheeks bloomed carmine like the rose he'd handed her at the arena. She was embarrassed, although no one was in the room with her. Quickly, Carla strode to the door, opened it slowly, peeked to make sure the coast was clear, and left. She passed Mrs. Wright, the general supervisor as she tu
rned a corner. "Do you know where the Barry twins have gotten themselves?" she asked innocently. "I was hoping to talk with them but they've disappeared."

  "I saw them leave from the front reception area," the woman answered brusquely. "Taking a constitutional was what they told Mike." She spit out the words over her shoulder as she kept walking.

  Carla duplicated the prune-faced Mrs. Wright's action and continued along the hall. She'd search out the twins later, having seen the gardener chatting cozily with them while they stood on the sidewalk. Maybe she could pry some information from the ladies about him.

  It should only be me talking and laughing with him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Earlier in the day, Carla had seen his car parked three spaces away from hers. While going to dump some old magazines in her own car, some she hadn't read, she noticed he'd left the convertible top down.

  God, that must be like sitting in the hot seat, she thought as the noon sun beat down on the leather. As she walked by the automobile, Carla ran a caressing palm over the Caddy's leather seat, wishing she could do the same thing to Evan Lupo's bronzed body and springy muscles. She stood rubbing her fingers over the red leather, daydreaming.

  "You like the feel of that?"

  Carla almost jumped out of her skin. She hadn't heard him come up behind her. Guiltily, she spun around, knowing who it was even before she saw him. Her flushed cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Er ... well ... the leather was so hot, I thought it was on fire," she gulped, not meeting his eyes. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

  "Hey, lady, no prob. It was dumb of me to leave the top down, right? Now, I have to wriggle my butt on the damn hot seat for five minutes before I can cool it off with the AC."

  The picture of his wriggling butt flashed before her eyes, and she almost broke out in a sweat.

  She heard the smile in his voice, but her eyes were glued to the neck and shoulders below the deep cleft in his chin. Moving her gaze down further, she sucked in air when she encountered bulging biceps protruding from the sleeves of the tight, black T-shirt. His forearms were tan, sinewy and covered with black body hair. Even the patches of hair on the backs of the big hands looked sexy. He sure looks a lot different here than in chain mail, she thought, remembering the night in the Medieval Showtime arena.