Part 2: link


    Arthur wanders into the kitchen, clad only in his jeans, curious. “What are we having?”
    “Fried eggs and potatoes, fruit, and scones.”
    “Mmm,” he leans over her shoulder from behind, peeking at the frying pan she is tending. “Smells good,” he says, kissing her neck again. “And the food’s not bad either.”
    She laughs and lightly shoves him, “Don’t start that again of we’ll never eat.”
    He sits at the small table, plopping down like a child that has just been chastised.
    “So what is it u do, Arthur?”
    “Do?”
    “You have a job?”
    “Yes, I work at a tattoo parlor. Gwaine owns it.”
    “That must be interesting.”
    “Sometimes. I do get to see a lot of skin, but usually it belongs to sweaty hairy men.”
    She laughs again. “Lovely. Suddenly I’m not as hungry.”
    He laughs now. “It almost pays the rent,” he shrugs. “Really I’m an artist, though.”
    “Oh?” she turns, interested. “What kind of artist? I mean, other than tattoo.”
    “I do a lot of pencil sketch work. Some painting.” He looks at her. “I’d love to draw you.”
    She blushes and turns back to the stove.
    “I mean it,” he stands again, approaching her. “You have such unique beauty,” he says, gently taking her arm and turning her back towards him. “I’ve never seen anyone like you,” he strokes her cheek. “Gorgeous.” His eyes drink her in again, and she feels like he is trying to memorize every detail of her.
    “Thank you,” she whispers, blushing, and leans up to kiss him once before turning away again, this time to turn off the stove.
    She brings the dishes to the table, which she’s already set. He turns in his chair to face the tafel, tabel and waits patiently.
    Gwen dishes up the food, putting some on his plate, then hers. He helps himself to a scone.
    “Tea?” she asks, standing and going to the kettle on the stove.
    “Please,” he answers, leaning over to smell his plate. “Mmm.”
    She pours and he reaches for the sugar, pouring an obscene amount into his cup.
    “Ah, yes, u did say u were a sugar junkie, didn’t you?” she smiles.
    “Everyone has a vice,” he shrugs. “Smoking is foul, and drugs are just not my scene.”
    “Drink?”
    “Mostly just lager. I don’t like getting drunk. Clouds my brain. Stifles the creativity, u know.”
    She nods, taking a sip of her tea.
    “How ’bout you? What dirty little secret do u harbor?”
    “Me? I don’t have any, I don’t think,” she says, then looks away.
    “Guinevere…” he cajoles.
    “Trashy romance novels,” she sighs.
    He laughs. “You mean those softcover boeken with the blokes with long flowing hair and pecs the size of… well, the size of those,” he indicates her chest, and she laughs, “clutching the fair damsel who is positively heaving out of her bodice?”
    “Yes, those,” she laughs. “They’re terrible, mostly, but I can’t stop myself.” She lifts her foot to kruis her legs and it brushes against Arthur’s leg.
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean to kick you,” she says when he looks up sharply.
    “No, u didn’t kick me,” he says quietly, reaching down and picking up her foot, cradling it in his lap.
    She gives him an odd look, wondering what he’s doing with her foot.
    “I probably should confess. I have a bit of a fetish.”
    “A bit?” she asks. “Isn’t that like saying someone is ‘a bit’ dead?”
    He laughs now. “True,” he says, his thumb running along her arch, making her jump.    
    “Tickles, stop,” she says.
    “Sorry.” He gives her foot a squeeze, then returns his attention to his plate, smiling when she leaves her foot there. “It doesn’t trouble you?” he asks.
    “What, the foot thing? No. If u told me u got off on dressing up as a baby, or, I don’t know, enjoyed being peed on, then I might have had a problem,” she says, stabbing a potato.
    “Aw, I was saving that for volgende week,” he jokes, and she almost spits chewed-up potato across the table, clapping her hand over her mouth as she laughs.
    “I actually broke up with a girl because she had ugly feet,” he admits, taking a bite of scone. “Where did u get these scones? They’re really good.”
    “Oh, those I made,” she says, then asks, “So, are my feet up to your standard?”
    “Yours,” he says, swallowing, “are spectacular.”
    She smiles and takes a drink of her tea, gently pressing her foot into his groin, teasing him.
    He groans and closes his eyes, smiling.


    “That was the best brunch I’ve ever had,” he declares, leaning back in his chair, stretching.
    She watches the muscles of his chest verplaats as he stretches, his broad shoulders scrunching together as he raises his arms over his head, leaning back.
    I wonder how he stays in such good shape, she wonders, admiring him shamelessly.
    “I used to play football. A lot,” he explains, noticing her appraisal.
    “You have a… a really nice body, Arthur,” she says, scooting her chair slightly and leaning back a bit herself, swinging her other foot up into his lap.
    “Thank you. I’m mostly just lucky, actually,” he says, his hands dropping into his lap to hold her lovely feet, touch them, caress them.
    “So u used to play football? What happened?” she asks.
    “Injury, what else? I was at University, on scholarship, and during a match I was tripped – accidentally – and lost my footing. Broke my ankle in three places,” he says, leaning down to hitch his broek leg up, tonen her the scars.
    Gwen leans forward, dropping her feet, and looks. She takes his foot in her hand and brings it up into her lap. “Oh my,” she says, her fingers tracing a long raised scar running up the side of his leg.
    “There’s all kinds of hardware in there now. Screws and plates and shit, all holding my ankle together.”
    She gives his foot a squeeze and he removes it to the floor, motioning that he wants hers back.
    “I can still play, and I do still like to, but not for long periods of time,” he says, his thumb rubbing circles from her heel to her toes.
    That feels really good, she thinks enjoying his attention. “And your scholarship?”
    “Pbbbt,” he sticks his tongue out and blows. “Gone. I was almost done with school, so I did manage to finish, but it wasn’t easy, since I was cut off and all.”
    “Cut off?”
    “Ah. Yes. My, um, my father kind of disowned me. So I had to fend for myself.”
    Her brow furrows. Pendragon, he said. Surely he’s not related to that finance bloke. “Can I ask?” she says gently.
    “He doesn’t approve of me. Of my choices.”
    “What’s wrong with your choices?”
    “They’re not his.”
    “Aha.”
    “He wanted me to study finance, I wanted to study art. He thinks I look like a freak. He doesn’t like my motorcycle. He wants me to be him. I want to be me.”
    So it is that guy. “So u followed your own path and he punished u for it.”
    He squeezes her foot, gently, lifting it higher to press it to his chest, cradling it. “Essentially, yes. So I work as a bloody tattoo artist to pay the bills and live in a dark basement flat rather than being a drone for my father and living in a posh penthouse.” He kisses her foot now, starting to become distracted.
    “I think that’s admirable of you, Arthur. And it makes me sad for your father,” she says, sensing that this conversation is going to be over soon as she feels her toes slip into his mouth.
    “His loss,” he mutters, “I’m happy.” He keeps her left foot in his hands, rubbing it gently while he feathers kisses on her toes. She moves her right foot vooruit, voorwaarts and slides it against him, pressing gently but firmly.
    He groans into her foot. “You are evil,” he says, loving her willingness to indulge him.
    “Am I?” she asks, feeling his firmness growing under her foot, rubbing against it through his jeans, smiling slyly.
    He bites the side of her foot and slides his tongue along the bottom of it, causing her to yelp. Grinning, he slips it in and out between her toes, working his way along, attending each one.
    “Oh…” she jerks her foot in his hand, but he holds it firm, “Arthur, that tickles!” she squeals, trying to free herself from his relentless tongue, careful not to kick with her other foot.
    He moves his lips, working his way up now, kissing her ankle, up her calf, dropping to his knees on the floor as he trails kisses up the inside of her knee to her thigh, shoving the rok of her sundress up as he goes.
    “Arthur,” she gasps, glancing at the dishes still on the table, the mess yet to be cleaned up from brunch. Oh well, she thinks as he grabs her hips, pulling her vooruit, voorwaarts on the chair, kissing higher and higher up her inner thigh.
    His lips make contact with her warm center, already wet and waiting for him, and she cries out, grabbing the zitplaats, stoel of the chair in her hands.
    Electricity shoots through her when his tongue touches her folds, tracing their contours, flicking against the tight bud at the top. His hands grip her thighs, kneading the soft but firm flesh as his tongue slips vooruit, voorwaarts into her, driving deep inside. She arches back against the hard chair, her head falling back.
    “Oh…” she breathes, her hands reaching down to cover his for a moment before drifting up to clutch at her own breasts.
    He kisses and licks, suckling and nibbling gently, her knees hooked over his shoulders as she writhes on the chair, moaning her appreciation.
    Arthur slips his tongue into her again, firm and slippery, then backs out to press the swollen nub, sensitized beyond reason. He licks at it lazily, languidly, drawing low moans from Guinevere’s throat. He increases his speed and intensity, bringing her to the peak of desire, feeling her whole body tighten around him, her hands once again gripping the zitplaats, stoel of the chair, and she shouts out his name, her voice hoarse and impassioned, her hips bucking.
    The chair scoots a little and he lifts his head, gently removing her knees from his shoulders. He lifts her down from the chair, laying her on the keuken-, keuken floor beneath him, bending to kiss her lips. She is still breathing heavily, recovering from her climax, but she kisses him back fervently as her hands find the buttons on his jeans.
    She opens them and he sits back to shove them down, leaving them hanging at his knees in his urgency, and immediately dives forward, into her.
    “Oh!” she exclaims, laughing a little, realizing that she is still mostly dressed, they are on her keuken-, keuken floor, and she is making love to a man she only met that morning. For the seconde time. That day. Oh bloody hell, who cares? He’s too fantastic.
    Arthur is not as gentle this time, driving into her there on the floor, her dress shoved up around her waist. He drops down and kisses her again, her lips, her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. He closes his mouth over her nipple, right through the thin cotton of her dress as if it wasn’t even there, and she can feel the warmth of his mouth on her, can feel his teeth as they carefully bite the hard nub, the texture from the fabric adding a different sensation.
    She clutches at his head, his shoulders, raking her fingernails along his back.
    “Yes…” he moans when he feels the scratching of her nails on his skin. So she does it again, a little harder, and he grunts and moves faster, meer forcefully.
    “You are…” she gasps against the skin of his neck, “a little… kinky… aren’t you?”
    “Yeah,” he manages through gritted teeth, pulling his head back up, his eyes boring into her as he thrusts.
    She giggles at his admission, but her amusement is short-lived as she feels the warmth spreading through her again, starting low in her belly and spreading, spreading through her until it engulfs her and she cries out again, pulling his head down to hers.
    He drops down, letting her pull him in, letting her kiss him as his own release rolls over him, large and wonderful. His mind empties as he empties his seed into her, and she swallows his own cry with her kisses, holding his lips to hers as he stills within her.
    He relaxes, lips still pressed to hers, and he starts kissing her again, softly, sweetly, his tongue teasing and gentle.
    Gwen sighs against him, enjoying his kisses, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes, gazing down at her.
    “We’re on the floor,” he says plainly.
    “You noticed,” she says, tracing his jaw with her fingertips.
    “Sorry,” he grins a lopsided grin and eases away from her, out of her, helping her up before pulling his jeans back up.
    He pulls her into his arms in a great hug, his arm around her back and his other hand cradling her head. She hugs his torso, closing her eyes as her cheek lies against his chest.

Part 4: link