Guinevere and the Knights on the Round Table

What REALLY went on in the Dark Ages? Was King Arthur reallly pissed all the time? Was his sister Morgan really a lesbian? Were Guinevere and Lancelot really having it off?  The introduction of gerbils to England and more is covered in this historical masterpiece! Warning: Sexual scenes, bad language, homosexuality, implied cruelty to gerbils. 18+

“He loveth me ….”
“AAAARRRGGGHHHH!”
“….He loveth me not!”
“AAAARRRGGGHHHH!”
“He loveth me….”
“AAAARRRGGGHHHH!”
“….He loveth me not! Pustulent pox, it always endeth up as “he loveth me not”!” Queen Guinevere, spoilt teenaged queen of England, glared malevolently at her husband Arthur’s head torturer, a robust, muscly, hairy man clad in tight black leather trousers and a black mask on his face. It turned her on just watching him work.
“Begging your pardon, your majesty,” the head torturer bowed, “but as the peasant only haseth ten fingernails and my majesty always starteth with “he loveth me”, the last fingernail will always be “he loveth me not”!” He opened his bloody pliers and the offending fingernail dropped to the muddy floor.
“Well, what else can you do to him?” Guinevere pouted, getting awfully excited at the peasant’s sweating, terrified face and the head torturer’s blood spattered chest.
“There’s always the rack, your highness. You know, “he loveth me, he loveth me not” with every crack of the peasant’s spine.”
Guinevere clapped her hands in joy. “Wonderful idea!”
The peasant fainted.
Guinevere’s fuin was over for the night. “Oh, fuck! That means he loveth me not!”
“Begging your pardon, madam,” wheezed Merlin from his dark little corner on the other side of the fire, “But “fuck” won’t cometh into usage until the Elizabethan era.”
“The what when who?”
“Elizabethan era. Queen Elizabeth the first.”
“I’m the bloody queen, Merlin! When’s this Elizabeth bitch going to be queen?”
“In about 800 years, madam.”
“You know bloody everything, Merlin,” marvelled Guinevere. “Telleth me, when willeth my husband return from his dragon hunting?”
“Not for at least another moon, madam,” said Merlin regretfully after peering into the fire long enough to singe his eyeballs.
“Shit. In that case, when willeth I be free of the chastity belt he locked on me last night before he left?” She cocked her head prettily on one side.
Merlin didn’t need to look into the fire for divine information on this one. “In about an hour, madam,” he sighed, knowing Guinevere’s predilection for horny young men. He’d fixed her up with love potion after love potion and didn’t need to consult the supernatural to know what went on in his master’s bedchamber while Arthur was away. Despite the thick walls, he could hear everything. Guinevere had a habit of screaming like a banshee at the moment of supreme sexual satisfaction, and some nights he’d swear there was a whole herd of banshees in the east tower. He privately called the castle “Come-alot_ instead of Camelot.
“Merlin, where’s my kinswoman, Morgan?” Guinevere was plainly bored, throwing the peasant’s discarded fingernails into the fire and watching them flare green before turning to ash.
“On the Isle of Avalon, madam, in the nunnery.”
“Fingering all the novices, no doubt,” grumbled Guinevere. “Bloody dyke. At least SHE’s having fun.”
The head torturer had prudently disappeared with his grisly peasant and the only person left in the room apart from Guinevere and Merlin was Sir Kay. Guinevere knew she wouldn’t get anything from him – he fancied Lancelot.
Guinevere wandered up the stone staircase onto the battlements. She scanned the dark depths of the summer country night, hearing at first only the sounds of nature – owls, foxes slaughtering chickens, the happy shriek of a peasant woman who was, at least, getting something. Boring, boring, boring. Arthur was away, Lancelot was leading one of his stupid bloody crusades to Jerusalem, there was nothing to do except sit and spin or do bloody needlework. She’d been amusing herself by doing a tapestry of Lancelot in the nude, but the details were so perfect on it she knew she could never show it to Arthur or he’d suspect something.
From the depths of the forest came shouting, drunken singing and wavering torches. Horses whinnied. As the cacophony moved closer Guinevere let out a whoop of joy. It was Lancelot and his very merry men, back from the crusades! They were singing “‘ere we go, ‘ere we go, ‘ere we go” and playing a kind of polo with what looked to be a golden chalice.
There was a sudden clang and a muffled “Oh, shit!”
“Now it’s really a holey grail!” giggled Lancelot, his voice carrying clearly in the night air.
“He loveth me, he loveth me not!” gasped Guinevere, throwing pebbles off the roof. “He loveth me! That iseth the last pebble! He loveth me!” She gathered up her voluminous skirts and galloped down the stairs, shouting “Open the bloody drawbridge! Prepare the mead! Roast a pig or a peasant or something!”
It struck her that Merlin was right again. She’d have her chastity belt flung out the window in less than an hour.
* * *
“God,” groaned Lancelot, peeling off his chain mail. It had gone rusty crossing the channel and stuck to his jersey. “What a crusade! Bonked myself stupid from here to Jerusalem and back. Found that bloody grail Arthur was so keen on and stupid bloody Cole lets his horse tread on it!” Guinevere obligingly ripped Lancelot’s tight breeches off then set about unlacing her irritatingly intricate clothing. Her silly tall conical hat with the long veil landed in one corner, her ornate embroidered woollen gown in other. Various undergarments landed on tables and chests and suddenly she was naked but for that wretched belt. It was made of steel and had a great big ugly keyhole in the centre.
“How do you pee in that?” wondered Lancelot, interested.
“With great difficulty,” retorted Guinevere. “If Arthur stayeth away long enough with any luck it’ll rusteth in the middle. For Christ’s sake, Lance, picketh the bloody lock!!”
“I’ll try and picketh it with my teeth,” offered Lancelot with a dirty grin, but at his Queen’s impatient face he sobered up and got to work with hairpins and skeleton keys (made from real skeletons). After a few squirming, erotic minutes, the chastity belt fell with a clang to the floor and Lancelot and Guinevere fell with a sigh onto the bed.
“Darling,” said Lancelot winningly, “As I’ve said, I’ve been very promiscuous over the last few months, and I may have caught anything from the fair maidens of England, France, the Bavarian states and anywhere else between here and Jerusalem, so, for your sake, I’ve made this!” He proudly held up a leather pouch, cobbled together with fine stitches, and slid it over his dick.
Guinevere burst into peals of laughter. Lancelot rightly took offence.
“Well, that’s bloody gratitude. After I bought back a gift for you, too!”
“A gift?” Guinevere wiped her streaming eyes and sat up, interested. “Darling, how lovely. Rubies? Pearls? Emeralds? Gold?”
“Better than that,” said Lancelot proudly, producing a small cage from his sack. “This thing’s called a gerbil. Apparently we can have endless fun with it.”
“How?” wondered Guinevere, visions of a ruby necklace vanishing like a peasant’s fingernails.
“I’ll show you.”
Far below, Merlin was kept awake by the sounds of banshees and a small, terrified animal, well into the small hours.
* * *
Morgan Le Fay was beautiful, as dark as Guinevere was fair. She had long black hair, brown eyes and perfect teeth. She figured that painting a stupid blue crescent moon on her forehead in wode ink was a small price to pay for being allowed, as the King’s sister, to run riot in a nunnery. The fact that she was a witch in that she could make the most amazing herbal potions that could send a person into orbit, and could foretell the future by staring into puddles made her even more desirable. Innocent young girls idolised her. It was even more chic to be a nun on the Isle of Avalon than to be one of Guinevere’s maidens in waiting.
Morgan’s following had started when she traded telling a girl’s fortune for a session on the rugs in the back bedroom of Come-alot. Aided by the potions Morgan prepared, the girl had had the time of her life and word spread below stairs quicker than fire. Morgan, knowing how peeved the vain Guinevere would be, prudently decided to state she was going to be a druid priestess and formed a nunnery on the nearby mystical island of Avalon. Safe from the prying eyes of the world, she made Avalon into the best little whorehouse in Britain, servicing men, women, paedophiles and perverts and supplying illicit drugs to anyone who had the gold to pay. She estimated she was at least three times as wealthy as Arthur.
The only thorn in Morgan’s side was that old fart Merlin. He knew far too much. She could only hope he’d look into the fire one night and see one of her famous orgies with knights, maidens, farmyard animals and nuns in Alencon lace and have heart failure.
Morgan took a steadying breath and looked into the bowl of water. “Give me Guinevere,” she commanded, and when the vision of Guinevere and Lancelot tumbling around Arthur’s huge bed doing obscene things with a gerbil appeared, her eyebrows raised into her crescent moon. “Well, well, well. This could be very interesting… and very useful.”
“Very interesting,” Morgan murmured to herself. “I must get myself a gerbil.” She turned the scrying bowl closer to the candle to get a better image, and the scene faded. “Bat’s testicles! Hell! Guinevere was just getting on top!”
Morgan toyed with either reactivating the scrying bowl, pouncing on an unsuspecting novice nun and letting loose the sexual frustration that the sight of Guinevere’s flesh had aroused, or trying to decide how best she could use the information she now possessed – that Guinevere and Lancelot were lovers.
She decided that the last option was, regretfully, the most intelligent. But Arthur was away slaying a dragon, and wouldn’t be back until the next moon, and there were three luscious virgin novices in the room next door. There really was no choice, Morgan thought, picking up her whip and leather boots and sliding noiselessly out of her chamber.
* * *
The gerbil died a hero’s death. Guinevere and Lancelot, pissed to the gills on mulled wine, toasted the little creature’s corpse as they threw it onto the fire.
“I shupose I should have got two,” slurred Lancelot, gulping his wine from the Holy Grail.
Guinevere took a sip from the Grail too. “Yesh… if you ‘d procureth two female gerbils they would have haddeth lotsh and lotsh of babiesh.” Her blurry blue eyes were totally serious.
“D’you know I thought of a marvelloush pet name for you, while I was pillaging shome shmelly brothel on the continent?” Lancelot said. “Bimbo! It shuits you perfickly!”
Guinevere squealed in delight. “Whenever thou callest me Bimbo, I’ll think of tonight, dearest Lance! What can I call you, I wonder?”
Lancelot said modestly: “Well, I HAD thought of ‘Lethal Weapon’, but it’s a bit of a mouthful.”
“So’s your lethal weapon,” giggled Guinevere. “Shall I see how much of it I can fit in my mouth?”
They totally forgot the gerbil, and, when Lancelot, in ecstacy, knocked the Holy Grail through the window and three stories to the ground, neither of them noticed it.
***
Arthur, stamping his feet to try and warm them up, thought the only dragon he’d REALLY like to slay was his mother-in-law. He’d been standing in the forest for eight hours after a confirmed dragon sighting the day before.
“Bugger this for a lark!” he said finally. “Bloody dragon’s gone to sleep for the winter. Okay, lads, back to the alehouse!”
Arhur’s men gave a cheer and bolted. Arthur woke up with the most momentous hangover in the kingdom the next morning. His crown was missing an emerald, a ruby, and a piece of lapis lazuli that he’d always hated. His sword scabbard – minus, thank God, his sword – was protruding from his arsehole. Arthur was surprised to find having a scabbard stuck up his bum didn’t hurt a bit. He must have been v-e-r-y drunk. He took a deep breath and let rip with a fart that could only occur after too much beer and red meat, and the scabbard flew across the room. It landed against the wall with a clatter, waking three tousled, naked and drunken whores who were nestled on and around Arthur’s bed.
Arthur wiped the scabbard with what he thought was an old rag.

“‘Ere!” screeched the oldest and ugliest of the whores. “That’s my best bodice!”
The other two screamed and made a show of pulling their clothes on. Arthur thought he had never seen three uglier women in his life. He found his sword dunked in the chamber pot and absently wiped it on the bedding, to more disgusted screams.
“Oh, shut up, or I’ll take your heads off!” he threatened, waving the sword perilously and decapitating a candle. “I’m going back to Come-a lot.”
“That’s one thing you certainly don’t do, sire,” grumbled the youngest whore under her breath as she slunk out the door. “I’ve had more fun with a broom handle.”
Arthur was too busy trying to find his boots to listen. As he looked out the window into the courtyard of the inn he saw them on the feet of the ugly whore. It really was time to head home, he thought.
***
Arthur wondered why the pennant currently flapping in the breeze off the top of Come-a lot’s highest turret appeared to consist of Guinevere’s undergarments.
He neared the drawbridge only to find the guard drunk and snoring. Just inside the courtyard lay Guinevere’s chastity belt, in three pieces. Three paces on, a dented gold cup gathered dust.
Arthur dismounted from his tired horse and examined the cup. It said “made in Jerusalem” on the bottom.
“Bugger me!” exclaimed Arthur. “I think I’ve found the Holy Grail! And to think I sent three hundred men all the way around the world to find it, and it was here all the time!” He scratched his head and forgot about the chastity belt, his wife’s knickers and the drunken guard.
“Oy!” he yelled to his knights. Hungover to a man, they all winced. “I’ve found the Holy Grail! Beers all round in the Great Hall!”
Arthur left his horse sweating in the courtyard and ran up the stairs tirelessly until he reached the battlements of his castle.
“Loyal subjects!” Arthur shouted. “I’ve found the Holy Grail! I hereby declare today a feast day, and as your King I forgive you for any wrong doings you may have done that would otherwise mean your head gets chopped off!”
Camelot shook with a rousing cheer. Kitchen staff who’d been pilfering food and wine and looking over their shoulders heaved a sigh of relief. The King’s Almoner, who’d counted money in a “Two for the King, one for me” fashion, felt his heart slow down to a normal pace. Lancelot said to Guinevere, “Flippin’ ‘eck! That was a close one!” and jumped out of bed. He liked his head just where it was, on his neck. Bonking the Queen was a pretty good reason for execution, even for the King’s favourite knight.
From the nunnery on Avalon, Morgan could see the King’s pennant being raised in place of Guinevere’s dainty, evocative garments. The King was home!
“Oh brother,” Morgan muttered aloud as she painted the moon on her forehead and wrapped herself in her glittering gold-threaded cloak. “Have I got some news for you!”
By the time she reached Camelot feasting was well underway. The King had gorged himself enough to vomit twice and Guinevere and Lancelot were holding hands under the table.
It was the perfect time, Morgan thought grimly, to tell the King of his wife’s behaviour and put the rule of the country in uproar – especially since he’d found that stupid holy cup! And if he threw Guinevere out on her ear? Well, Morgan had just the place for such luscious flesh…in her own bed!

* * *
“Sire and brother, I need your ear,” Morgan said respectfully.
Arthur, pissed as a parrot, pretended to pull off his right ear and give it to her. He giggled.
“Sire, your wife and Sir Lancelot are fornicating behind your back!” Morgan hissed.
“No, they’re not, dear shishter,” slurred Arthur. “They’re shitting right there acrosh the table.” He filled the Holy Grail to the brim with viscous mead and proceeded to swill the lot.
The Knights set up a chorus, “Down! Down! Down!” and cheered him on.
“By the blood of Mithra, this idiot is our King!” groaned Morgan.
Guinevere looked at her sister-in-law covertly. She didn’t see much of Morgan, and hadn’t laid eyes on the high priestess for years. She had always been just a little in awe of Morgan, and had heard tales of the incredible sex that went on inside the walls of infamous Avalon. Glittering Morgan, wafting patchouli across the stench of the Great Hall, at that moment appeared far more powerful than her kingly brother. And Guinevere had always been turned on by power. Guinevere pushed away Lancelot’s greedy, greasy hands as he tried to paw her.
“Sister,” commanded Guinevere in a voice that nearly, but not quite, trembled, “Thou art a witch, I hear. Can thou casteth a spell to cureth me of this affliction of my speech?”
“Oh, I can,” said Morgan slowly, her mind rattling on at four thousand cubits an hour. “But it’ll cost.”
“I’ll payeth anything,” pleaded Guinevere. “I just wisheth to speak like everybody else.”
“It’ll cost Arthur the throne, and you Lancelot,” Morgan whispered. She leant so close to Guinevere that the Queen could feel the warmth of her body. The scent of fresh patchouli and clean skin was almost overwhelming.
Guinevere surveyed her drunken husband, and the knight beside her who, despite being a great bonk, only bathed every third new moon. Turning bisexual wasn’t too great a price to pay. “I accepteth.”
Morgan seemed to grow in height, and produced a fine powder she deftly sprinkled into the last of Arthur’s mead before Merlin could stop her. Arthur didn’t see a thing; he was having trouble focussing at all.
“Arthur, brother,” Morgan said winningly, “Declare to us all who rules the throne after you.”
“Can’t bloody remember,” groaned Arthur. “Oh, yesh. You, Morgan, my shishter.Cheers.” He raised the Grail to his lips.
“Stop, sire!” Merlin called in his croaky voice as he tried to gallop from one end of the Hall to the other. The effort was too much for his heart on top of several gallons of wine, and Merlin expired as Arthur gulped the last drop of mead he would ever taste in his life.
“Fuck, that tasted funn–” Arthur’s eyes widened and his head fell face down into his soup.
Morgan lifted Arthur’s face out of the soup. “Dead as a doornail. Well, you all heard him say I’m heir to the throne.” She surveyed the room triumphantly. “Boy, are there going to be some changes around here!”
“Oh, Morgan!” squealed Guinevere. “I can speak normally! I’ll never say “eth” again!” She picked up the Grail and threw it high into the air with joy. It landed with a clank and another dent in its side. “Oops.”
“Never mind that,”Morgan said dismissively. “Christianity’s over. Who’s for the Goddess and free love?”
* * *
How the feminist rule of the Dark Ages came to an end and Christianity got back into fashion is still really a mystery – why do you think historians call it the Dark Ages?
However, the odd – in fact, decidedly peculiar – manuscript has survived, and tells of the rule of Queen Morgan and her consort Guinevere.
Morgan, known as Morgan the Feminist, impregnated herself with the aid of a lamb’s bladder and the semen of the most handsome, intelligent man she could find after five years of looking. She had three daughters who were skilled in the arts of armed warfare and witchcraft.
Guinevere took to her new life happily. She became an interior designer, and was responsible for many of the things people in later centuries took for granted, like carpet on the floor instead of reeds and herbs, and the use of cutlery and napkins at the table (she had always hated Arthur’s habit of eating with his fingers). Her “soft-glow” lamps made from sheep guts with a candle in them weren’t successful, however, as the methane gas still in the guts caused them to explode.
With Morgan’s permission, she kept Lancelot as a toyboy out at Tintagel, but he was never really happy there and ended up running a brothel (“Dip thy lance at Lancelot’s!”) in the south of France. (He died at the age of ninety of a heart attack in the throes of an orgasm and the arms of three women, with a gerbil stuck up his bum.)
Guinevere wasn’t really sorry to see him leave as she was more than satisfied with her new sex life with Morgan. After his departure Guinevere made a fortune selling her patented twelve-inch dildos (modelled on the only thing she missed about Lancelot) to nunneries. Her gerbil stud farm took awhile to catch on but in the later years of her life she made a fortune selling the little creatures to monasteries (the codes of silence followed by monks meant the news took a little longer to reach them that it did the general public).
Morgan the Feminist installed an army of feminist followers and nuns to keep England’s boundaries against invading armies and hordes. This efficient female force worked splendidly until the day the entire army suffered from PMT at once as a result of Morgan’s idea of community bonding to the phases of the moon, and the country was invaded and conquered by Christian followers who tried, unsuccessfully, to make Morgan’s army wear skirts. (They were more successful with Scottish men the other side of Hadrian’s Wall) Morgan retaliated by casting a spell that turned the Holy Grail into a chamber pot. What happened to Morgan, Guinevere and the three heiresses to the throne at this point in history is unknown, however there is mention in a second manuscript of the Little Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence order…..
On the basis of this, it’s safe to surmise that Morgan and Guinevere, like all fairy tale lovers, lived happily ever after.
The end

© Copyright 1995 Caroline Sully.
Reproduction without the author’s permission strictly prohibited

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