Robert of the Roundtable Ch 01

Robert of the Roundtable Ch 01

A young would-be knight travels to Arthurianton

This series is fiction--a mash-up of the Arthurian legend, the medieval rivalry between the Normans (in modern day France) and the Saxon-Celts (in Britain), the Crusades and the interplay of politics and religion in the Middle Ages. Let me warn you. There are many anachronisms--but this is the story of a few unusual men, who lived during a time about which little is really known with certainly. Everyone who engages in sexual activity is over 18--although at the time, that would not necessarily have been the case. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden. All rights reserved.

First person account, Robert, the third son of the Duke of Aquaterre....

A small, barred opening high in the stone wall permitted just a sliver of moonlight to illuminate the rough space. It was more a cell than a sleeping chamber with a rough stone floor, a wooden cot with a straw mattress, a bench, and a few wrought pegs on the wall to hold my day garments--when and if they were returned to me. The moon was just enough to flash from the small pile of shiny armor in a corner, but it did not provide any real light. I'm currently stretched out on the cot, my feet dangling over the too-short bed.

I'm Robert (pronounced "Row-bear"), the newest arrival in Arthurianton, here to try out for the famous group of knights assembled around the newest successor king to the legendary Arthur. I've been tossing and turning for an hour. The thin straw stuffing is covered in the coarsest muslin (so unlike the smooth linen I had enjoyed at home), and my cover is a small woolen blanket, smaller even than the cape normally worn over my day clothes to keep off the chill in winter. It's too small to cover my long frame or to keep me warm in the night-chill. The muslin is already soiled with my own cum thanks to the visit a few minutes ago by Patrick, another knight, my mentor, who had just left after a pleasurable attempt at initiating me into the sexual hazing liturgies of the castle. He was clearly new to topping. He was clumsy and not terribly big, although he was long and not a virgin. I could have turned the tables and crushed him, but I feared the consequences. So I accepted in invasion, and with concentration managed to get off. I don't yet know all the rules yet. Might does not necessarily make right in Arthurianton.

It wasn't the chill however which kept me awake and trembling. I knew when I had left Normandy to cross the channel and the semi-security of the castle of my father, the Duke of Aquaterre, that my decision to try out for the elite corps of fighters and gentlemen would change my life--whether I succeeded or not. The historic Roundtable had been reconstituted many times--and the latest version was filled with young idealistic men intending to travel to the Holy Land to liberate it from the Infidels. I left home almost three months ago. And I'm really no closer to knowing my fate. But, I'll know soon. Tomorrow will begin the actual trials.

But, I'm getting ahead of the story. Let me begin at the beginning.

In one sense, I had had little choice but to seek my fortune abroad--I'm the third son. I would never inherit father's title (unless my two older brothers died prematurely and unexpectedly). I was expected to go to war and make my name. At the time, there was no outright war in the land of the Francs and Burgundians although the various lords went to battle in occasional skirmishes to protect or enlarge the borders of their territories or to avenge a perceived insult. The leader of Aquaterre's militia, however, was my oldest brother, Brian, the heir-apparent. Aquaterre, as the name implies is on the coast, centered on a large fortified castle on one of the two C-shaped peninsulas which protect the port of Calais. We are a polyglot people. Mostly Norman, but our place on the coast and the obvious strategic importance of the port mean that over centuries we were invaded from the north--and the invaders had taken our gold, some of our women and boys, and left their seed in their place. So there are light-haired bastards among us. And their spawn.

And so I had crossed the channel with the clothes on my back, a few pieces of armor, a great sword, a massive war-horse, a purse nearly full of coins, a letter for King Richard, and my manservant--essentially everything I had in the world. My goal: to seek out the famous Roundtable and secure a spot, perhaps even joining a contingent of warriors leaving for the Levant to liberate the Holy Lands from the infidel Mohammedans. That would earn me fame, perhaps some treasure--and eternal life. Perhaps even a fiefdom in Palestine or Angleterre. The Pope had promised (eternal life, but not the treasure or the fiefdom!).

It had been three months since the week-long celebration of my manhood and maturity. At that time and according to our custom, I had been "prepared" (scrubbed, barbered, and perfumed) by staff after a day of fasting, abstinence and prayer. I was a smooth as a new-born babe, perfumed like a courtesan, and lubed like a greased piglet when they were finished with me. They had delivered me late to father's bed on the eve of my anniversary. I was dressed only in a short linen sleeping gown without even a belt. The Duke had spooned me into his ample gut, planted his pole between my legs, and held me close throughout the night, sharing his heat and presumably his essence. In the morning, he had taken my anal virginity, roughly and decidedly. In fact, I had spent the entire morning in his bed, as the Duke seeded me by penetrating deep into my arse, over and over, with his massive cock, depositing the contents of his swollen balls. For an older man, he is insatiable and filled with seed. And he had carefully held it stuffed deep inside me. To mark me internally as his boy and property. To my surprise, I had enjoyed it. He had shown me truths about myself that I could never have found on my own. A boy can lust after girls and still enjoy the coupling with men.

On the two days following, each of my brothers had done the same. Neither was as big as Father, or for that matter, me. But, they were skilled "nether-swordsmen" and showed me some of the benefits of athleticism and the possible positions that the Duke had not. And finally, I had been able to fuck each of my brothers on successive nights as the other watched and commented on my technique. The practice even had a name: "Sharing of Family Seed Week" (in Norman French, "La Semaine de Partager Le Sperme de la Famille"). All the noble families adhered to the same ritual. A bonding ritual. And a tutorial in sex.

I was then officially a man and a full member of the Duke's household--but not one who could touch a woman before betrothal. It was strictly a man's world until the marriage bed. And it did nothing to change my familial status or future. Although the Church condemned such buggering, it diplomatically looked the other way when the participants were of the wealthy upper class.

I can't tell you why--maybe it was because I found myself attracted to my male companions. But, I had been anxiously awaiting that week which would "semi-liberate" me. I loved father and my brothers and longed to be admitted to adulthood. I knew that I alone of the offspring of the Duke had taken after him--with a prodigious endowment which my brothers had envied and joked about often--and with the stamina to engage in long and repeated acts of sexual union. My first experience of sex was with a practiced, wise and enormous partner, my father. He hadn't disappointed me. But, it was to be the first of many.

The Duke had total, unquestioned authority in his family and on his lands. By custom (which even had a name, "droit de seigneur"--the right of the lord) he bedded and deflowered every maiden in his realm on the night of her marriage--before she was delivered to her new husband (whom the Duke had already "inspected carnally and found worthy"--after the bachelor's celebration in the Duke's bed). Theoretically, every first child born to every serf family was his, and the virginity of every young woman and man belonged to him--and as a practical matter, the theory was true in actuality in Aquaterre.

He had access to every man in his service. But, he loved me best of all--often calling me his "golden boy"--despite my dark coloring. I alone of all his sons resembled him and assumed his commanding demeanor. But, custom was established. As the third son, I had to go. The Duke had lavished his praise and his love on me--even on the night of my manhood, and then, after planting his seeds in my gut every night for a month, he had sent me off reluctantly with good wishes, a letter to the king, a generous purse, the meager belongings that I could carry with me, and the steed I would ride on the journey.

My preparations for departure had begun immediately after the achievement of my majority. The journey was dangerous and would take a month or more. But, now that I had been initiated, I was free to take any male servant in the fiefdom to bed on any night. I did so, sampling the fleshy orifices of most of the attractive young serfs and servants. Finally, I had selected Jean Pierre as my personal manservant (and bed warmer), a young man only a few years older than me, my sparring partner, of handsome countenance, virile figure, ample endowment, and earthy natural sexual skill. His arse and tight sleeve had quickly cum to accommodate my jousting pole. And his praises, even if a little false, were music to my ears.

I've been in the Angle castle for three nights now. I had arrived, not to fanfare, but to the suspicious bureaucratic welcome, and the inevitable inquiries about my intentions, my pedigree, and my financial ability to pay for my keep until I either joined the knighthood ranks, or left ignominiously for home--or other adventures.

Initially, I was not even permitted to enter the castle, but was directed to a make-shift "novitiate"--a small stone building outside the walls of the castle where I would wait and endure the pre-entry examinations. I spent more than a week in that cold outbuilding.

Jean Pierre (with whom I had slept every night during the journey) had been relegated to even meaner lodgings in the loft above the stalls where my steed was also now being kept. Jean Pierre would not see me (nor take my member) again until the trials when he would deliver my horse. So I was alone in the novitiate--although it was a dormitory of sorts with no privacy where tradesmen, supplicants and would-be knights were housed and bedded, many to a bed, pending a decision on their fate. So technically, I wasn't alone. And I was bursting with seed.

I had proclaimed my intent, advanced the fees for the bedding and feed of my horse and servant, enrolled in the contest, and been told to wait. The next round of contests was scheduled for a few days later. It was then that I learned that there are three other contenders--and that typically only one of four was selected to move to the next rung of training before ultimate contests would determine whether I was acceptable material for the goals of the realm and the king. The contests were public, difficult, occasionally deadly, and always ribald since, unlike the colorful carnival atmosphere of the festival days, the contests were conducted with minimal color--in fact, no armor and minimal clothing. The all-male viewing audience was provided unlimited cups of mead--a practice the Angles, Celts and Saxons had learned from the "bread and circuses" of the Romans who had disappeared from our midst hundreds of years ago.

And then there was the ultimate humiliation. I thought back on that miserable day. Before entering the castle (and the mean chamber in which I now was trying to sleep), I needed to be washed, no scrubbed, and inspected to ensure I carried no disease or vermin that might infect the privileged occupants of the crowded stone castle. Various diseases and pestilences besot much of the serf population of the area--and potential knights had to prove they weren't diseased before being admitted to the royal halls and fields for the trials. In fact, a pestilential disease of the reproductive glands had swept the compound only a few years before and rendered many of the knights and their ladies sterile. The king and his present knights feared a repeat. The ability to procreate was the epitome of manhood and knighthood--and essential to the survival of civilization, or at least the noble part of it.

On that day, I was led to a platform in the stable, typically used to wash the horses, with a pump and leather buckets set high above in the loft. I was directed to strip and stand as servants caused ice-cold water to pour over my body. Another servant brought a rough cloth and rougher soap and proceeded to scrub me from head to toe, pushing me into a bend to clean out my rear orifice with a rough hand, long fingers (and apparent enjoyment) and then into a upright tall stance as my uncut shaft and unshaved balls were roughly examined, scrubbed and massaged. The servant seemed to enjoy his responsibilities--his fingers lingered long and deep in the cavity and repeatedly rolled down the hood of my penis to inspect the lubrication underneath and wipe it away. His face was so close, that I thought he might even try to use his tongue in the procedure.

It was inevitable. I was aroused and rigid. My dick, which normally hung almost two hands down my right inner thigh, lofted in hard erection to a prodigious three hands as the deep purple glans emerged from its hooded enclosure--a nether-sword to compete with the best. I was then rinsed again. As I stood naked and erect, another servant with a sharp blade had scraped away all of my body hair and inspected the skin for potential disease. My head hair was also fine-combed and a caustic liquid was used to wash it--leaving a strange dark red tint to my black locks. (The Biblical story of Samson had been taken to heart: a knight could not lose his head of hair or he might lose all strength and power.) Then I was given a rough gossamer cassock--very much like a woman's long-sleeved shift, designed for someone much shorter and smaller than I--which stretched tight across my chest and almost covered the globes of my youthful arse--although my long phallus hung below the hem. I think the servants were playing me the fool. But, there was nothing I could do.

(My own garments would be cleaned, beaten and sterilized in the sun before I could redress in my own--perhaps in a few days.)

Throughout all, the servants and the residents of the castle were free to stare and inspect the new arrival. And of course they did. I saw many licking their lips or drooling over my obvious beauty. Modesty, at least for the youngest male recruits, was not to be expected. Fortunately, the times made modesty almost impossible anyway. And I was really very proud of the image I presented. So I fluffed periodically to give them their money's worth. I guess many went home to ravish a wife or another servant.

I am very tall for the age--18 hands (about six feet). I'm swarthy--as was typical of my Norman ancestors. I'm told that I look like a mere boy than a man, but an aristocratic "boy" who had been groomed for greatness. My hair is shorter than the fashion, uniformly about three inches long, dark, almost black (now tinged with red) and gently curled, creating a sort of dark crown. My face is square. My cheeks are hollowed. My lips are still red and swollen from the sea journey. My eyes were the darkest blue imaginable, almost black--although they tend to brighten as I spout my seed. I have long eye lashes which enhance the beauty of my eyes. I have the muscles of a warrior--with exaggerated guns developed in swinging the heavy double-edged sword and thick bow-legged thighs from riding my stallion, named Ghost for his grey-white flanks and mane. I am otherwise slim--due to malnourishment and vigorous activity. The young (and older) serfs and servants were, I'm sure, impressed with my beauty. And more than a few of the unmarried young knights also used the occasion to examine a potential new entrant to the games of lust expected of young unmarried men. To touch a woman before betrothal was cause for immediate dismissal from the ranks of the roundtable, and if the woman were of noble rank, death.

Finally, I was deemed sufficiently clean and vermin free to enter the castle--and was led first to the chapel to pray and then to this small cell. I had just arranged the armor and stretched out on the cot.

Minutes later a young Celtic knight knocked perfunctorily on the old oaken door and entered. He introduced himself as Patrick--obviously of Viking stock, speaking hardly a word of French. He was short, small and effeminate, almost a mere boy--not at all the "knight" that I had expected as my tutor and sponsor.

Patrick announced, I think, that he would be my mentor during the upcoming trials. I wondered whether he could even lift the heavy sword or joust. Patrick asked a few questions about my past, but really seemed uninterested in the answers. His eyes never left my exposed genitals and pink cheeks (which I fairly ostentatiously exhibited to him in clear seduction--it had been over a week since I had released my seed). I had stretched out on my side on the cot and the cassock had ridden up above my waist. I got his message quickly. And he got mine, I'm sure. I am not naïve--particularly with two older brothers who had taken me at will after my birthday. We had often wrestled, and they had usually prevailed. Now I guess I was expected to pay my mentor with my body. Without a word or request, he pulled up the cassock even higher, tweaked my tits, stroked my shaft to hardness and kissed the tip reverentially. His eyes went wide when I reached full erect size. Then he moved me to the edge of the bed, rolled me onto my belly and spread my legs.

Patrick's hands were separating my melons seconds later, murmuring comments about the hard muscles, the rosy freshness of my rim, and the softness of the surface skin. His fingers moistened with spit were at the rim and penetrating almost immediately. This was followed my his moist lips--a brand new sensation for me, one to be appreciated--and repeated if possible. His tongue circled the rim and darted repeatedly into the hole. Obviously, I responded and lifted my arse toward him. I opened quickly. There was a brief pause.

Then I heard the sound of a large leather belt hit the stone floor and soon felt the spongy-hard tip of a penis at my rear entrance. I breathed out and Patrick popped in. There was no pain. Patrick was not nearly so thick as father or my brothers. I decided to enjoy the experience and perhaps have a little fun of my own. So I backed into the standing knight, taking his first few inches, and squeezed the entrance muscles. Patrick was surprised to be trapped. But he responded quickly and as expected. He sighed in contentment and pressed on. Soon he was deep-thrusting, swiping my hard walnut with each pass. He wasn't particularly large, but he was enthusiastic and skilled. And I was a full participant. I rose and fell with the thrusts, calling out for depth, complimenting his topping skills with words of encouragement. It didn't take long. Patrick pitched deep; the cockhead and shaft predictably expanded; and then he dumped. He held the position, holding me tight to the bunk, planting the seeds, as I wallowed in my own cum which had spread over the muslin cover.

Finally he withdrew. "I think you'll do, Robert. We are going to have quite a bit of time together. Next time, I want to feel that petard in me. I actually prefer to receive rather to pitch. But I had my instructions. We are going to be cum-brothers--at least until you prove yourself a knight or are banished from the kingdom. I wish you well. Now get some sleep. We begin the instructions tomorrow morning." Patrick had left without another word. While I was just warming to the idea of another round. He hadn't fully drained me. I was still hard. I guess I'll have to do myself.

Morning finally arrived. I found a basin on the washstand outside my room and used a cloth and cold water to wash the grit from my eyes and the spunk from my gut. Then I proceeded to the anteroom of the Great Knight's Hall. A servant handed me a bowl of porridge and a hot beverage made from some fermented leaves. I ate ravenously. It was then that I noted my three competitors, standing nearby and eyeing me carefully. (None of us were hiding much in those short ridiculous cassocks.) All were shorter than me. One appeared to be Continental--although he didn't seem to understand my Norman French. Then there were the two heavy gladiators, as wide, it seemed, as they were tall, rough, blonde and angry looking. Soon, Patrick arrived--as knights assigned to mentor the other three did as well.

The entire morning was spent in mock combat--swordsmanship, hand to hand combat, wrestling, hoisting and swinging the chain and ball. No armor was involved. We had removed the cassocks and wrapped our loins in a long strip of linen to hold ourselves tight. It really didn't provide much protection for our precious parts, but the cassocks would have been a nuisance in combat. We also wore padded helmets, leg and arm guards. We were shirtless and ripped. No audience per se was permitted, but a number of the older knights were in the stands, visibly involved with the combat--moving with us, silently noting feints and parries, cheering take-downs, rising to their feet when a particularly good move occurred. Several were already eyeing me with bedroom eyes. It was that obvious. The combat had had a salubrious impact on my nether-sword.

Within a few hours, I was exhausted and sweaty--and looking more sensuous than ever, I think. My limp moist forelocks were hanging over my forehead, often dueling with my long lashes. From the looks I was getting, it was more than my successful combat: I was definitely open sexual prey. I had kept up with and maybe exceeded the others in prowess, accuracy and aggressiveness--even the two gladiators. Patrick complimented me on the performance, offered a few obvious suggestions, and explained how the combat would be handled during the tournament.

We would be paired at first for combat. Then, each of the four of us would need to battle the other three in series. Finally each would be expected to take on an existing knight. The preparations would take three days, and the decision would be made on the fourth. "We've got a few hours now for lunch. This afternoon is for jousting." Then he smiled coyly and whispered, "Let's try some jousting first in my quarters."

I looked down into his eyes. Patrick looked both hungry and ready to play the bottom. "I am pumped right now. I need to let off some steamy aggression before I eat. I need to pitch, and I can be pretty rough. Is that what you had in mind?"

"I think that would work for me."

Patrick led the way to his quarters which were much larger and brighter than mine. In fact, it seemed to be in another world. A mannequin in the corner wore his shiny armor. The bed was not a cot, but canopied and large, draped in silk. There were a few chests and a large set of French doors opening to a balcony with a long view of the rolling hills of Arthurianton. I felt almost out of place with the luxury, and the obvious feminine touches. "Do all the Roundtable knights have spaces like these?"

"Only those of us who are married. At least those of us who are married to wealthy women. But, don't worry. She's off in the north visiting her Daddy, the Duke of Yorkshire. She knows of my need for boys, and really she doesn't care--so long as I don't try any of the rough stuff with her. She took our daughter with her." I turned away and smiled into my sleeve. Patrick engaging in "rough stuff"? Not possible. "She tells me when she wants to have sex and expects me to be perfectly clean and a gentleman at the appointed hour. She's never let me touch her back entry. Now, are we going to talk or are you going to show me how you can use the nether-sword that you are trying to hide behind those ridiculous loin wrappings? I could tell you were erect most of the morning. I guess grappling with other men turns you on."

I didn't answer with words. Instead, I walked into him, pulling off the loin wrap as I did. I undid the tie of his loose shirt and pulled it over his head. Then I unbelted the leather at his waist and unpinned the kilt. It dropped to the floor. He was naked under and now totally naked before me. I was a full head taller than he and significantly more muscular. I stepped back to take it all in: rosy fur covered his chest, slab pecs with enlarged aureoles--obviously from repeated finger and lip play. He was slim with almost feminine hips and an upturned rump. Fiery red pubes crowned a long thin phallus, arching over very large sacs, already almost erect, bulging with vessels in red and blue. It almost looked silly on such a small guy. I walked around him as he posed, noting the high shelf-bubble of his globes. This was going to be an ass worth plundering. I tapped it a few times. It didn't give. He was hard and tight. And he released a weak moan.

I approached him from behind and wrapped my arms around him, my fingers going to the obviously erogenous nipples. He sighed heavily and backed into me, catching my erection in the small of his back. I stooped slightly and ran it up and down his cleft. Then, I pushed him to the high bed and bent him over it. His legs automatically vee-d as his back arched and presented himself for my use. He pointed to the pot of perfumed lard on the side table. I filled a few fingers with the oily stuff and pulled his cheeks apart, plunging two deeply inside. Clearly, Patrick was not a virgin. He launched his arse into my hand, urging me deeper as he moaned with pleasure.

I positioned and slipped through the outer ring. He breathed deeply, and I felt the suction drawing me deeper. My chest dropped to his back holding him firmly to the bed as my thighs thrust up and planted my cock even deeper, stroking his love nut as I did. He groaned in pleasure when I did. I bottomed, but had more to insert. He moaned and wiggled, allowing me to settle into him.

"It's so nice to have someone so big inside. I don't think there is anyone here who can compare. You've got the biggest nether-sword that I've ever felt. Methinks, you're jousting pole this afternoon will be jealous. Don't be afraid. I can take it. I like it rough. Do me, Robert. If you must, make believe I'm one of your father's ewes."

So I pushed harder and felt the inner ring give. The final inches slipped in as the cockhead was bathed in natural lubricant. I was definitely doing some serious damage to his internal organs. He cried out in surprise, squealed really, but then immediately quieted to enjoy the fullness and the depth I had reached as his natural lube gushed over me.

He squirmed. Patrick was certainly vocal. And a bit of a twink after all. But, I drilled him nevertheless. I was totally into this, taking out my frustrations of the last few weeks on his arse. And he was loving it. Writhing under me. Wiggling his butt. His skin darkening. Moaning like a bitch. I reached under and grasped his rigid shaft with my right and my left cradled his balls, asserting control and ownership. They were hot and alive. But all good things must cum to an end--and my cum was boiling inside, racing up my shaft and preparing to blast into his gut. I squeezed his cock and used the pad of my thumb to wipe the precum over his glans. He hissed in pleasure and tried to pull away. But, I was much stronger and held the advantageous top position. With one hand, I held it tight as I thrust for one last deep time. He gasped loudly. Then I released and painted the inside of his gut with my spunk. He felt it, groaned and released into my other waiting fist until it gushed out between my fingers. He was small, but he produced an impressive load.

He was about to start talking again. I could tell. He probably wanted to recount the adventure in detail. But I had a remedy. My cum-filled fist moved to his face, trapping his mouth and nose. If he wanted to breathe again, he needed to lap up that cream like the good little kitty he was. Then I felt his tongue lapping on my palm. He went limp beneath me, like a big cat's prey that knew it was over. Finally, I released and pulled out, still dripping with my own ejaculate. He rolled over, lips calling for the chance to suck on my cock. But, I re-wrapped the diaper around myself, and, after swatting his butt a few more times, left to join the lunch crowd. I'm pretty sure they could smell the musk on me. When I passed close to Gabby, he breathed deeply, and his face lit up with the knowledge that I had just enjoyed a sexual appetizer. Maybe it would give me an advantage in the joust. I was clearly an alpha male, ready to take on anyone in the castle. And it didn't appear that the other contestants had had a similar opportunity with their mentors.

I had already fucked my mentor--who did not join us for lunch. In fact, Patrick didn't show until much later when we were preparing to joust. By then he had washed and changed.

I was not good at jousting. I spent as much time on my arse as I did in the saddle of my stallion, but I was learning quickly. And Ghost was enjoying the attention, learning quickly when to speed, when to slow, when to turn.

But, my rep in bed was apparently traveling at a much greater speed. Patrick was, I guess, very much of the kiss-and-tell type. No doubt he exaggerated.

Later that evening, one of the most famous of the knights summoned me to his cell. It wasn't as grand as Patrick's, but it was very nice nevertheless. And unlike Patrick, Michael's voice was deep and commanding--and he was a man of few words. Michael was dressed casually in a blousy linen shirt, tied at the throat and matching britches, tied at the knee and with the bulging criss-cross tied at the gut--showing skin below. No codpiece, I noted. He was muscled, my height, and bore several combat scars on his bulging upper arms. Michael was a Saxon, blonde, wide shouldered, thick lipped and pale of complexion. As impressive standing tall in his night clothes as he had been earlier in his knighthood doublet and leather. He got right to the point. Patrick was apparently being unseated as my mentor. Sir Michael was taking me under his wing. I was stunned and secretly very pleased. He was the youngest and most famous of the knights, perhaps in his mid-twenties--having never lost a festival joust and with an unbeaten man-on-man combat record. Somehow my twink mentor had been replaced with a hero.

It was also said that he was going to lead the knight's delegation to the Holy Land. He was unmarried, but betrothed to the king's youngest daughter, a betrothal he was deferring until after the impending Crusade. My head was spinning. Michael was an incredible specimen of young knighthood. With him as my mentor, my chances of surviving the contest soared. And with him as a teacher, perhaps I even had a chance at joining the next Crusade. Unlike my feelings for Patrick, I instantly determined to impress and befriend Michael. I was ready to give him everything--including any part of my body that he chose to use. But, I also immediately concluded that I couldn't be too easy, nor too much of a sycophant. He was the kind of guy who respected strength, power and determination. He wanted to feel that he had fought for the privilege of taking a young man's body. I'm sure that like all the other young nights, he had his share of young male flesh--but he didn't seem to be mesmerized with it.

I of course agreed to work with him and do as he commanded.

"Then it's clear. You'll be a knight in a few days. I promise." He poured some red liquid from a ewer into two cups and handed me one. "Let's drink to your inevitable success and our friendship. Now sit and tell me more of your father, the Duke of Aquaterre--his reputation I'm sure is not exaggerated."

I sat on the leather-cushioned bench that he pointed to. Of course, the linen cassock rode up and exposed most of my manhood. I attempted to pull the garment down, but he smiled at my discomfort and threw a cushion at me. "Use this if your modesty demands. I've seen many, and let me say for the record, yours is nothing to hide." So I caught the pillow--and placed it behind my back, forcing the cassock even higher. The game was on.

We spent the next minutes in light conversation. He asked about my brothers, seemed to be disrespectful of Brian's military abilities and Adelbert's piety (my "middle" brother, Adelbert, was Vice-Abbot of one of the new, more luxurious abbeys in the French countryside), and rather pointedly asked my estimate of the number who would volunteer for a Crusade from Aquaterre--if he were to send out a call. Michael had heard of my father, and, it turns out, father had specifically requested that Michael take me on as a project in the letter to the King. He talked about his life in the castle and his plans for the Crusade. He seemed confident, contented and anxious.

After awhile, he rose to pour us each more wine, but when he returned to the bench, he sat beside me. He left both refilled cups on the trunk beside the bench and pulled me into his lap. I straddled so that our chests and faces were only inches apart. "Is this okay, Robert? If you are willing, I am ready to seal our compact with an exchange of our seed. My cock has not had a workout in a few days. And I fancy your arse."

"I can think of nothing that would please me more, milord."

"Actually, I think I'm the one who is going to be most pleased. You are a beautiful and endowed young man, Robert. Rarely do I have the chance to take one so comely." His arms went around my neck and he pulled me into an embrace. Our lips met and our wine-soaked tongues began to duel.

I more or less assumed sex with Michael would be an erotic skirmish. I was not mistaken. He was hot and knew how to use his tongue as well as he could wield a broadsword. Meanwhile one strong hand moved down my back, massaging as it traveled, until it reached my butt where it grabbed hard. A beefy finger rimmed my anus and plunged inside to the second knuckle. It was very painful, but I didn't cry out--I couldn't--he had locked my mouth to his. Minutes later, we pulled back to breathe. I reached over and pulled his blouse off, as he did the same with my cassock. Our chests touched again as our mouths opened to each other.

"It's not fair. You're still dressed." With that he stood, carried me to his lofty bed and gently placed me on my back at the edge--all without withdrawing the finger from my tunnel. He flipped me over and handed me the pillow I had previously held. "Stay and place this under your belly," he spit out--as I would speak to my hound or my horse. However, I did turn my head to stare. Then he stood back and unlaced the sleeping britches. They dropped easily to the stone floor. I was not disappointed in what I saw--a girthy, dark appendage, semi-stiff and arching majestically over large fully-developed, lightly furred balls (almost as large as mine, I guessed). His gut was firmly muscled, concave and cut. His chest, arms and thighs were all covered with light short hair. My quick look was cut short, however, as he fell forward into me, spreading my thighs and landing deep into my vee, his chest holding me tightly to the soft feather bed. Quickly, he maneuvered himself into a command position, cocooning me with powerful legs and arms, trapping me between his barrel-chest and the soft linen of his mattress. His lips went to my nape and ear lobes and began to tease: a small bite, then a suck, a swirl, another bite while his fingers pressed tightly on my nipples.

"I love a boy with mini-dicks. They are all so sensitive. But a boy with a massive nether-sword, a hard uptight arse, and cute nipples is a gift of God. You are indeed a triple-threat, Robert."

Then, I dared. I launched up from the bed and rolled him off onto his back. He seemed startled, but smiled at my audacity. Instantly our roles were reversed. "Let's see if Michael's tits are just as delicious." I dove in and began to suck. I had hit paydirt. It was his most erogenous zone. I had him under my power. His fists pounded on the mattress and then on my back as he squirmed to unseat my lips and then my teeth from his growing nipples. But, I held tight and continued the torture. Enough it seems that he started to leak. I could feel the flow of his milky precum on my gut. Fuck, I think I can bring him off just with the nipples!

"Stop Robert. I don't want my first with you to be a premature solo! Stop for the love of God. Stopppppp!"

I pulled my head up and stared into his eyes. "Do I hear a please?" It was a cute retort. Too cute. As soon as my lips left his nipples, he pushed up violently. He was on top of me again. I squirmed to escape, but he was stronger and more skillful. He wasn't letting me top him again--that is unless it was his choice. He flipped around and soon had my cock in his mouth as his leaking phallus began to spit precum from the unsheathed cockhead, dripping into my waiting lips. Meanwhile his spit soaked fingers were working their way inside. They penetrated deeply and reached the magic button. He pushed it. Then again. Then two fingers stroked it. Despite his weight on top, I must have levitated inches from the bed, begging for more. I couldn't believe how good it felt. "Just keep doing it, Michael. Please. Do it again. Don't stop for the love of God. Don't stoppppp!" But he did.

"Oh we've got so much more to try, boy. So much more. But, it's been days. I need to cum. Now. We'll get more chances in the cuming days."

So, he flipped around again, pushed me onto my belly, and rose above me in the vee of my legs. I could tell he was near the end. He was totally aroused. His nipples were almost blood red and hard and his cock was like a steel sword. His hands reached under me and he lifted. Then he pushed a bolster under me. He grabbed my legs and spread them as widely as I had ever permitted. It almost felt that he was going to cleave me in half from cleft to head. "These stay here, boy. I won't tell you again. No more surprises from you."

Next I felt the head at my entrance. He looked down and spit a great wad of spittle. Then he pushed, hard. I resisted the entry automatically. But, he was a skilled lover of men. He tapped my ass a few times. I breathed deeply and released. And he popped in, not just the head but at least a few inches. I felt the stretch, the burn and the pain. Other than my father, no cock that big had ever entered my chute. He froze for just a second. Then he began to rock. Soon he bottomed and froze again. I was so full. And it felt so good. My eyes, I think, must have signaled my permission as he began to withdraw and plunge, deeper and faster with each stroke. He was like a war machine in his intensity, moving to another plane of need and pleasure. He was going to burst.

Then he collapsed onto me, pulling my thighs together with his to squeeze his member inside me. His hips thrust hard, several times. Then he exploded deep inside. He was filling me with so much that I would drip for hours. Only then did I realize that my own orgasm was in progress. My fingers tingled. My toes curled. My legs stiffened. The cockhead expanded. And finally, the exquisite pleasure of semen moving up the shaft ended with a blast that covered my chest and his linens with my cum. It was perhaps the biggest load of my life.

The room went quiet. But it was filled with the heady aroma of man-sex. Michael had drowsily dropped off, pulling me tightly to him. We slept like that for our first night together. For the first time in several fortnights, I felt secure in his arms and warm in his heat.

Until the chapel bells announced the dawn and the hour of the monk's Matins (Morning Prayer)--and the beginning of another day of my training. But today, Michael would be my trainer. And I would strive like never before to please him.

TBC

BD

Note: I've written the first three chapters of this longer story. I'll try to continue at a good pace, but exams and papers to grade and other deadlines to meet will occupy much of my time for the next few weeks. BD