Renaissance romance

My lover took me to a Renaissance castle for our weekend date. He got down on one knee and whispered sweet words, like a prince in an old painting. The stones were cold, the candlelight soft. Then the mood shifted. I dropped to my knees on the old carpet and opened his trousers. He hardened fast. I took him deep, lips sliding down until my nose pressed his skin, spit dripping onto my breasts. He pulled me up, bent me over a velvet chair, and slid two fingers into my ass. I was tight, but the lube helped. Soon he pressed in, slow at first, stretching me open. I moaned as he filled me. He thrust harder, one hand gripping my hip, the other wrapping my hair. My thighs shook. He pulled out and painted my face, thick spurts landing on my tongue and cheek. The castle had seen weddings and wars, but never this.