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Jason gives a good shampoo.

After a brief tussle he felt her relax a little and her own tongue entwined with his, in a dance that gradually satisfied him there was no danger. Releasing her wrists, he moved his hands to the high, rounded bulwarks of her breasts.

He took them at first by main force, establishing control before settling down to attack the vital weak spots. He took her nipples in a series of pincer movements, holding them in place carefully with his teeth while his tongue circled them. Her deceptively tiny buds soon rose to their full stature under his subtle assault, the flick, flick, flick of his tongue bringing forth little gasps and moans, as she surrendered these strongpoints to tactics that Robert had honed to perfection on a hundred other conquests before her.

As he licked and sucked it came to him that he adored the scent of her: like fresh warm milk. Instinctively he knew it was a smell he would never grow tired of. No matter how many other women he had while away on campaign, or simply for variety and because he could, this was one he would always return to.

He began working his way down what were, on close inspection, some of the most gloriously designed outworks he had ever seen. Her abdomen was a masterpiece of firm sculpture, her stomach a smooth glacis leading to the thicket and hornworks that protected her final redoubt.

As he raised himself up to survey his objective, he glanced over to see how his brother fared. Edward had evidently made good progress, for he had Elizabeth on her back on the furs that were strewn about the floor, his face buried between her dusky thighs. The brothers often competed to see who could bring his woman to climax first with tongue alone and Robert recognised at once that Edward has stolen a march on him. She was starting to thrash about and cry out, gripping the nearest furs tightly in clenched hands. It was time to prepare his own final assault.

Not wishing to be further distracted, the King loosed the hanging curtains of the bed and let them fall. Now there was just himself and Isabella.

She had her eyes closed, her arms thrown back, her legs splayed open to lure him in. He began to skirmish with her at once, kissing his way up her inner thighs and feeling her tremble at his advance. At close quarters he saw that her outworks were the neatest imaginable: smooth, low lying ramparts that were barely visible even through the close-trimmed bush that adorned them. At that range her arousal was pungent in his nostrils and he was glad to have washed off the stench of battle before taking her, for he would not have wanted to sour her mix of sweetness and mustiness, of perfume and hot, moist pussy.

Robert nuzzled into her bush, kissed the hood of her clitoris -- and then began.

His tongue was proportionate to his cock and no woman who received its attentions would ever deny that it was the strongest muscle in his body, or that he applied it with a deftness equal to his swordsmanship. Isabella began to quiver and cry out almost at once and her body quickly betrayed her, lowering its defences in a flood of womanly nectar.

As he rasped between her inner portal, he found that its battlements barely protruded even when fully aroused. He loved nibbling the fringes of her pink flesh and running his tongue over and around her bud, until she writhed and moaned and pressed herself against him so that his nose was tickled by her curls even as his tongue raked her.

Finally he judged that her citadel was ready to fall. He moved forward on the bed, readying his ram. For a moment it stood proud and upright as he spread her legs still further, removing all impediment to his advance guard.

"Oh God, you're so big..."

The King saw her staring as if transfixed by the mighty weapon that was about to burst through her defences.

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