Story 6: Knight Takes Queen
The erotica book that inspired my own career was a Black Lace collection of Arthurian stories. So in Knight Takes Queen it could be said I'm returning to my roots! This is a straight up tale of Camelot in all its High Chivalry. With spanking and covert m/m urges, that is :-)
Arthur’s cock was semi-erect as he stretched out beside her, but Guinevere knew by now this wasn’t from eagerness, but from him working himself hard before entering her chamber. If it were not taken care of quickly, the shine would go off the helmet he had buffed so assiduously.
“Would you like me to …?” she suggested.
Going down on elbows and knees at his side, she took his length in her mouth. She wished it were Lancelot’s cock—that always responded to such administrations with brutish enthusiasm.
Thinking about Lancelot always helped her slurp and suck with vigour. She remembered again their tryst in the chapel, and it brought a bloom of warmth to her lower belly. She pictured his great proud weapon presented in her face, the way it strained and leered at her as if it had a will of its own. She remembered the way he plopped her on the holy altar and stuck his cock in, as if it were no more than a bar table in a squalid inn somewhere, and she no more than a farthing whore not even worth the time to take to his bed. The blasphemy made her flush all over. She would like to be his favourite whore—no, not a whore, for that would mean she would have to spread her legs for other men, and she wouldn’t like that, would she? His doxy then; some lower-class girl he’d take to his bed for as long as it amused him, as other knights did. If she were not Queen, she would be able to sleep with him every night. She could sit on his knee in the Great Hall and serve him wine and eat from his trencher, and he’d grope her tits and slap her ass in front of all the other men and give her a shove in the direction of the courtyard, following her out with a swagger as they laughed and urged him on.
“What do you think about when you do that?” asked Arthur.
|Emma Florence Harrison: The Last Hour|
Guinevere surfaced abruptly, shocked. Arthur never spoke to her while they were in congress. “Your pleasure, lord,” she answered.
“Is it the thought of my pleasure that does this,” he said, placing his one finger in the open split of her sex and running it over her clit. “Or something else?”
She was sopping wet, and the touch on her clit, however accidental, was like the ember that ignites the phoenix fire. “Sir Lancelot,” she said, caught off guard. Her eyes rounded in sudden horror. She peered up toward Arthur, trying to judge his expression. “I mean,” she stammered, “his tale of the rescue of that maiden from the great wyrm. I would like to be a maiden, my lord, bound like that to a stake. I would like you to ride up on your charger, all in your armour, and fight the beast for my sake, and rescue me from dire peril.”
Abruptly, Arthur sat up. Guinevere caught a glimpse of his cock and realised, confused, that it was no longer couchant but rampant, before he turned her with a jerk of his head and a grasp of her hips into her usual position for sex: on hands and knees. He was behind her in a moment, kneeling up, boring his stiff length into a hole that was only too wet and willing to receive it. He felt, to her, bigger than he’d ever been before. The thrust of his shaft was pure pleasure. She realised she was so aroused that if only she were allowed to reach between her own legs and play with the pearl that nested in the oyster there, she would easily be able to climax.
But she couldn’t do that. It would betray a lack of innocence, a sophistication of technique, that she couldn’t possibly admit to.
So Guinevere dug her fingernails into the sheet and remembered the first time she and Lancelot had sinned together—the single memory that was sure to inflame her more than any other. She had been several years into her lukewarm marriage when Lancelot joined the Round Table, journeying to Camelot from his domain over the sea. That fateful day, she had been sitting with him in the rose garden, in a small pavilion among the blooms, and they’d been playing chess—a game he’d taught the Court and which had swept the nobility. A ferocious downpour had sent her ladies-in-waiting running for cover, terrified for their silken dresses, but the two of them had remained in their precarious shelter, cut off from the castle by a curtain of pouring rain.
Guinevere had already been aware of her strong attraction to the man who had claimed the honour of being Queen’s Champion, having bested every other Knight of the Table at the jousting lists. She’d been both absorbed by the chess game and giddy with pleasure. It hadn’t mattered to her that he’d been much the stronger player. In fact she liked that. They’d played three games, wagering small sums of gold to sharpen the interest, and she’d only won the first time because he let her. His fingertips had brushed hers on a number of occasions and she had been hard-put not to giggle.
Then he’d announced, “Knight takes Queen. Mate.” He’d looked her in the face, and at that moment they had both known. Heat had flashed through her body like a lightning strike. She’d reached out to lay her king over in surrender, but her hand had shaken so wildly she did not dare touch the board. He’d seen that too. Suddenly, without a word, she was aware of the danger she was in.
She’d sprung to her feet and backed off, knocking over her stool like a child in a panic. He’d followed, instantly, closing on her as she backed up against a wooden pillar. Rain struck the back of her neck but she’d barely felt it. He’d loomed over her, his eyes holding hers, his intention implacable. But his voice had been pitched soft.
“I win again,” he’d said. “You owe me a forfeit, my queen.”
She’d nodded, running the tip of her tongue across her lip in a frantic effort to wet it so she might speak. She could feel her voice all bundled up into a croaky snarl in her breast.
“Lift your skirts. Show me.”
Maybe he’d meant only as far as the knees—that would have been shameful enough, but it hadn’t occurred to Guinevere until later that there might have been some escape. She’d bunched up the floor-length front of her dress, hand over hand, revealing the secret path of her thighs, all the way to her sex. He’d glanced down briefly, no change of expression visible on his face, then pinned her gaze again.
She’d obeyed. She hadn’t questioned the necessity. His face was so close to hers that she’d been sure he was going to kiss her. But he’d put his hand down between her slightly parted thighs, and cupped the dark gold nest of her sex in his palm, running his fingertips into her cleft. He’d found her as wet as if she’d been caught in the cloudburst.
She’d nearly died of the pleasure and the terror of that touch.
All he’d done was stroke her. Stroke her soft and needy sex, caress her clit with one moistened, expert fingertip, back and forth, utterly patient, while his face hovered over hers watching every nuance of expression. She’d arched her shoulders against the wet post and gasped and quivered and shaken, completely in his power, until she spent with a gush and a helpless cry and a sudden rush of tears. It was the first time a man had ever brought her to climax.
And he hadn’t kissed her. Not that time.
But from that moment on, she’d known she was his to do with whatever he desired.
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