Fractured Fairy Tales

by Catherine Stovall

  Within an hour, the strong potion had run its course. Arthur exhausted from the effects and raw from the rubbing and friction looked to his reddened flesh to see that his shaft still slept.

  “Next!”

  Once a few more trials ended in error, Arthur found himself in his current state. Wishing that he could be outside. Amongst the booming life that spring brought, but that was not to happen. He was confined to his throne. The throne room would normally be teeming with people. Advisors all the way down to the jester, but at the moment, it was just him and her. Arthur didn’t know her name—he never did know any of the maidens’ names. Honestly, he did not even know what she looked like. Was she beautiful? Tall? Short? All those things over time had become inconsequential. He was willing to near defile a wart-faced, three-legged witch if it meant he could harden.

  This particular lady, wench, maiden…whatever she was…was positioned in his lap. Specifically, her head was in his lap. Her mouth, wet and vibrant with movement was in his lap—on his shaft. She had been there for almost an hour. It used to be a time when Arthur loved to be sucked and licked. His head tickled by a wet tongue and his balls sucked while he shot his cream into a waiting mouth, face, breast, or even hair. Hair. He loved to run his fingers on a lover’s scalp. To grip at the root. To hear a high-pitched, yet muffled yelp while he shoved more of his shaft down her throat. But, now…now, he was bored with it all.

  Arthur watched her for a few moments more. Definitely a master at what she was doing. As far as he knew, his team had searched a few lands over just to bring her in, hoping to complete the mission. Her tendrils were pinned to her head in several loops and links of braids. Her robes were of a bright, colorful nature. Nothing like the drab inhabitants of Britain. No. She definitely wasn’t of their land. This woman was exotic. In the past, Arthur would have been chomping at the bit to bed her. Willing to take her outside of his private chambers and touch and feel her exquisite mouth and tongue anywhere at any time. That…was the past.

  Her head bobbed up and down. Slackening his shaft with her endless amount of saliva. He could definitely feel her warmth. See her expertise in the act. A rarity amongst his previous conquests. This woman did not use her hands to grip at him. A plus. Less chaffing and rawness. It was also the single reason he had allowed her to continue on in her attempt to pleasure him for over the usual time when he would cut a maiden off. He was studying her. Taking mental note on her performance. A part of him believed that his problems would not last. He would eventually harden. And when he did, the first maiden he bedded, would suck his cock in a manner that this exotic, feminine creature did.

  Arthur yawned. He was tired. Sick of failed attempts. “I’m done. Thank you, miss.”

  Just like that, she released his limpness from her oral depths and she stood. God she was magnificent. Curvy, olive tinted skin, hair the color of night. Even Arthur gulped with intensity at her rare beauty. It was if she had a glow to her. However, there was no need to prolong her visit to Camelot. No need for her.

  “You may return to your land.”

  She bowed to him then she walked out of the throne room, leaving him to his own thoughts. His birthday was only a week away and he had wasted a year trying to fix his problem. No one else was on the list to aide in his plight. Arthur needed something to happen and soon. Even though spring was a happy time amongst his people, the British were not opposed to uprising and revolt. When Excalibur was implanted in the stone the first time, not many were too pleased especially when they witnessed the outcome. A boy king. So going that route again was not going to work. He had to bring an heir, but how? Arthur looked to the right of his throne. On a small table, there was his usual bowl of seasonal fruits, a bowl of water for cleansing, and a small saucer with a tiny bell sitting on top. Engraved onto one of the handle’s side, it read, “ring me.” On the opposite side, “when needed.”

  Arthur groaned then rolled his eyes. He had made a promise to himself to never call upon him. He picked up the brass bell and held it in his hands. He repeated in his mind, there’s nothing else I can do. It was a last resort. The final straw. Arthur carefully held onto the handle not sure of exactly what was going to happen and then he gently flicked his wrist. After the first sound of the clapper hitting the metal of the bell, a thunderous gust of wind flooded the throne room. Tapestries and paintings blew from the walls, papers were thrown about. Even Arthur shifted in his seat once a dark, ominous cloud entered the room through a nearby window.

  Arthur hurriedly placed the bell back on the table as to stop the action, but it was too late. The blackness filled the room. The smell of smoldering cinder scorched his nose. Hot death was approaching and Arthur did not know whether to run, call for help, or stay put. His skin prickled from the rising fright that inched up his core then he heard it. More importantly, Arthur heard him. It started as a hum, and then thickened into a rattle, a drumming of his throat. Each bellow of his deep rumble filled the expanse of the room until his laughter turned into a haunting cackle.

  “Merlin?” Arthur murmured not even realizing that the name had escaped his mouth.

  Once his lips snapped shut, the cloud sucked from the room. The artwork…the disorder…back in order. Arthur sat up on his throne, eyes franticly looking about for any evidence of an invasion by the man—the wizard—who had made most of his developing years a misery. Instead, sitting on the windowsill was a bird that peered about the room. But this was not any ordinary bird, but a beautiful, majestic owl. The purest of whites with only a slight line of black that outlined its face into a heart shape. His eyes sparkled like diamonds, but his claws gripped the edge of the sill causing the wood to moan into a splinter. This was no nice bird. He was rare and deadly. Not because of the species type, but because of the owner.

  “Archimedes?”

  Again, Arthur did not realize that he’d uttered the name until after it was spoken.

  You called? Archimedes could not outright speak through his beak like humans with their lips, but he did more than communicate. He was downright incessant at times. Is there an issue? The master is very busy and only to be summoned when emergent. You are not to abuse the bell.

  “Eh,” was all that Arthur could muster. Nervous tension had taken hold of his tongue preventing his words.

  Speak child. Arthur?

  With him being the king, his subjects were to refer to him as such. But that only applied to those who fell under his jurisdiction. Archimedes was not his subject. Merlin was his master and Merlin did not reside under any jurisdiction but his own.

  Archimedes flew to the throne. Twice the size of a normal owl, his eyes met Arthur’s then he traveled his gaze down Arthur’s body, presumably looking for injury. He twitched his head then hummed in acceptance as he moved his sights to the next section. Archimedes glared at Arthur’s limp, exposed flesh for a few moments.

  Mhm. With that, Archimedes jumped back off of the throne back to the window. He turned his head a near three hundred and sixty degrees to glare back at Arthur then the owl faced toward the open window and took flight. Arthur quickly tucked himself back into his trousers and ran to the window only to see the sparse clouds in the picture perfect sky. The doors flew open to the chamber and in walked one of his advisors.

  “Are you alright, your highness? We feared you were in trouble.”

  Arthur glared back at them. Not many in Britain or Camelot believed in the power of sorcery and witchcraft or even that their king’s transition had been a result of the power of magic. So talk of Merlin was hush, hush.

  “I’m fine, Lance. I just need some rest.”

  “Yes, your highness. I will have the servants prepare your chamber for your slumber.”

  The two men exchanged nods, and again, Arthur was left in the same way that he started. Looking out the window at the remarkable sky. He did not know what was to come. He was not sure if his affliction was emergent enough for Merlin’s expertise. As he spied his unmoving crotch, he said, “I sure as
Hades hope so.”

  Chapter Three

  Arthur retreated to his chamber early that evening. Normally, he would take a trot through the fields and nod at some of his subjects. Diplomacy was always a part of each day, but after witnessing the wizardry of Merlin—the visit from Archimedes—Arthur was spent. After having a light meal and discussing matters of the kingdom with his lead advisor, he turned in for the night. And what a splendid night it was.

  All the window openings were left unlatched so he could experience the sweet aroma of night. Most people feared the night due to “evils” like Merlin, but Arthur loved it. It was the only time when Britain slept. And when Britain slumbered, Camelot did the same. All this meant that he was no longer a king fighting wars, making orders, stressing over heirs. No. He was only Arthur in a grand room that he never could have imagined when he was a younger, destitute child in the filthy grime of Britain’s streets.

  A smile spread on Arthur’s face as he pulled up his fur-lined pelt, burrowing himself deeper into his bed. It was time for his personal peace.

  “Smiling already? We have yet to fix the issue.”

  Arthur jumped, erect in his bed with the terror that Merlin was in his chamber. But when he inventoried his room, everything seemed unfamiliar. For one, it was extremely miniscule, barely large enough to hold his monstrous bed. There was no fireplace and only a small table and wooden chair were present in a corner sandwiched between two windows. Even though he was not in his bed chambers, possibly not in the castle at all, the thing that frightened him the most was it was no longer night. It was light as day outside and he had only shut his eyes before he heard Merlin’s haunting voice.

  Arthur heard the loud pop of two fingers snapping and his bed shrank to half its size. After scrambling to the top of the bed, Arthur witnessed the wizard enter through a door that seemed to appear out of thin air.

  Merlin was a very dominant presence. Taller than any man he had ever seen. Bronze tinted skin as if he had been out in the sun all his life. Onyx hair that he kept bundled in a tie that hung loosely down his back. If Arthur had to guess, Merlin’s hair probably reached past his hip. Always present in black leather and bindings, he looked like an executioner ready to deliver a sentence. He had on black boots that rose to a stop at a fashionable silver plate right at the knee. His legs, not as thin as he remembered, were concealed by leather pants with his black, billowy shirt carefully tucked in. There was a strap that crossed his chest that held his sword that hung tight to his left hip. Arthur could not understand for the life of him why Merlin carried around the weapon when he could easily kill an assailant with a simple clap of his hands. Boasting to be more than a thousand years old, his youthful features made him appear close to his early thirties, late twenties.

  “I sense you have a few questions for me.” Merlin’s voice always sent a chill up Arthur’s spine. It made him want to think twice before he chose his words. The last thing he wanted to do was say the wrong thing.

  “How did I get here?” Arthur asked then gulped. For some odd reason, he knew that was a stupid question to lead with.

  The wizard started to pace around the room, his shadow seemed to lengthen instead of follow him as he walked. The magic and oddities had begun.

  “How did you get here?” Merlin chuckled. Yeah, stupid question. “I think you know the answer to that question. I will not answer to or about anything as trivial as to why or how you got somewhere. Anything else you want to ask? And do use your brains this time, Runt.”

  Arthur grimaced when he heard the appellation. Runt was the nickname that Merlin bestowed on him during their training. He always laughed at Arthur making him feel less than a man. Calling him a runt like he was part of some litter of animals. After taking a deep breath, Arthur increased his courage, searching for the right question. And he was to deliver. Merlin required a question that he would get or there would be hell to pay.

  “What happens now?”

  Merlin chuckled. “Good. Very good.” Arthur felt his chest swell with pride. He had done something right. “You must bathe…the day is getting old.”

  Bathe? Day getting old? Arthur glanced out of one of the windows from his position on the bed and his breath caught in his chest. The deep orange of a setting sun was starting to emerge. What in the hell? I just got here.

  “Stop trying to figure everything out, Runt. You are in my realm and things happen when I want them to. Simple.” Without allowing Arthur to digest his comment, Merlin snapped his fingers and Arthur, still dressed in his bed garments stood in a different room. It was filled with steam that tickled at his nose and smelled of fragrant oils. Under his bare feet, the floor was warm unlike the cool flooring in the bath chamber in Camelot. The walls seemed to be made of stone, but Arthur could not make out the definite material due to the darkness of the chamber. There was only one fire torch affixed to a wall that gave the entire room a light orange tint to the gray smoke. Merlin also seemed to have vanished.

  “Archimedes!” Merlin’s voice boomed then echoed until a tall man appeared before Arthur. Not as tall as Merlin, but definitely a foot higher than Arthur. He was shirtless. His brawny torso was well-defined, showing the ripple of his abs, thick expanse of his chest, and musculature of his shoulders and arms. His hair was short, stark white and spiked. His eyes the color of the finest silver that sparkled so brightly, Arthur could have sworn they looked like…diamonds?

  “Archimedes?” The man that Arthur knew as the grand owl and servant to Merlin was not a bird or animal, but a man.

  “The master wants you to bathe and I will assist in that.”

  Arthur’s first reaction was to shy away, even protest. He had never had a man bathe him before. Touch his flesh. His naked flesh. But he knew that if he was not compliant, he would not hear the end of it. And, again, he would have to deal with Merlin’s wrath.

  Arthur quivered with apprehension as Archimedes lifted Arthur’s bed gown from his body. Standing there before Merlin’s assistant while disrobed was unnerving. It did not help that Archimedes was known to be a chatter box, but in his human form he was eerily quiet and mysterious.

  With a hand to Arthur’s back, Archimedes guided him to the steamy waters of what appeared to be a large cauldron. Oh, Hades no! Merlin is planning on cooking me into a stew of some sort.

  “Get in the water, Runt!”

  Merlin’s voice cracked into the tranquil moment like a storm thundering over the hills. Arthur scampered into the liquid, grimacing as he felt the scalding heat kiss his flesh.

  “Shit,” Arthur yelped as he eased into the liquid fire that stopped at his chest when he was submerged and seated.

  Archimedes took a cloth that smelled of honey and spice and dipped it into the water. Once it was wet, Archimedes placed the hot cloth over Arthur’s face and eyes. Without having sight, Arthur was left to the mercy of the man before him. He felt another cloth touch his chest as Archimedes began to bathe him. Considering Arthur was under a tremendous amount of stress, he put up a valiant effort to be stiff and uncomfortable, but eventually he relaxed and leaned back against the cauldron wall.

  Arthur listened to the deliberate swishing of the water as he felt droplets of fragrant liquid sprinkle against his chest. He began to groan from the sensation of being touched. Caressed. Even if it were with a man. Archimedes mopped the cloth over Arthur’s abs. Even though Arthur was not much of a fighter, he did spar on a weekly basis. His body was trim and fit. Adored by many. Many kings of the time, although near warlords, were frumpy and old. Not Arthur—the young king. His straight cinnamon hair was cut short only stopping short of his ears. His shoulders were broad and his torso had little to no body fat. Due to his constant riding of horse for pleasure, his thighs were thick and his height was intimidating by some.

  Arthur felt the grip of Archimedes travel up his inner thighs. Arthur’s lips parted in yet another failed attempt to stifle his hum of pleasure. Then he felt the same touch of Archimedes on his shaft. He tickl
ed his fingers against length in a dance of delight. Oh, no. Arthur’s nipples perked, heating on the edge of gratification. When Archimedes began to swirl the pads of his fingertips against the tip of Arthur’s manhood, Arthur began to pant uncontrollably. He did not know what was coming over him. Fire filled his veins. The heat was overpowering. Arthur found it difficult to hold back any longer. Before he could stop himself, he closed his eyes tight and grunted as his inner cream filled the hot water. It was like his shaft was a cannon unloading. It nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

  “Oh, heavens me,” Arthur voiced, his appetite whet for more of the glorious sensation. What? He yearned for…more? Arthur panted and tried to catch his breath from his release. His mind was in a whirlwind. It had been almost a year since he had experienced something so delicious as what Archimedes had done to him. A man? How could it be? Once he lifted the veil of the damp cloth, Archimedes was gone. Replaced by…Merlin.