|In Media Res
Author: Guede Mazaka
Arthur has a lovely back, strong and scarred. Another eye might find it flawed in the knot of badly-healed flesh high up on one shoulder-blade, the faint white lines that rag their way through the sheen of sweat, but another eye would not see the years of determination and bravery and endurance behind those imperfections. What has tarnished Arthur’s physical beauty has not wormed itself inside him, and that is rare. After all, the highest trees in the forest are always the ones most prone to internal rot.
But that is also not to say that he has become ugly with age, because he is far fairer than many men years younger. His thighs and calves are well-muscled and shapely—faintly reminiscent of the huge chargers he rides—and they support a body that can bend itself toward any task, where it be war or peace, hurt or pleasure. Though admittedly, pleasure certainly produces the best-looking results.
When he turns to pleasure, it’s with the same intensity that he uses for everything else. His gaze provokes shivers that travel from the face pressed into his neck all the way through the long, long legs wound about his waist. One of his fingers, drawn slow from gagged mouth to heaving chest, is enough to wrench broken fragments of groans from Lancelot.
It’s nice to see that one quieted for once, and he truly is: there is no fight in the set of his shoulders or the shine of his eyes or the twisting plea of his body, trapped up against the rough wall. There’s only yielding, and then a beautiful lift of a trembling chin so Arthur can mouth the bobbing gorge in the throat. Lancelot’s hands are bound above his head, and he wraps his fingers in the straps, using them to haul himself up so Arthur has more room with which to work.
Guinevere decides that she’s done with the seeing. As she gets up from her chair, she undoes the clasps of her dress and steps out of the falling cloth. Arthur is bending to kiss over Lancelot’s gag, and when she reaches the two men, he has just pulled away, spit-soaked rag between his teeth. He lets that drop to the floor and turns his head to welcome her mouth, while she slides a hand up and down Lancelot’s sides, counting ribs. “Had enough?” she murmurs, nipping from Arthur to Lancelot.
“Me?” A faint flicker of cockiness makes it through the dazed heat filming over his eyes. “Doubtful.”
“Well, that’s nice.” She takes her time with kissing him, enjoying the brief taste of his pride. “Then I suppose we have your consent to go on.”
Arthur nuzzles the hair from Guinevere’s ear and bathes its curve in tiny provoking licks. She suspects that his hands must be up to their usual tricks, because suddenly Lancelot is whimpering and squeezing his thigh first against Arthur, then against Guinevere. “Consent gladly given, lady,” Lancelot finally gasps.
“I suppose we should proceed, then,” Arthur replies, smiling. And Guinevere does love those wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, because they show that he’s earned his happiness. “What plan of attack do you propose, my queen?”
“Oh, I’m certain we can…improvise something.” She tangles a hand in Lancelot’s heat-wet curls and gently forces his head back so she can lick at the far hollows of his throat. “You first, my king.”