Prince Arthur is sixteen summers of age, well-built for a boy, with a naturally curious mind. It’s also the age where he cannot think about soft breasts (sometimes, lean muscled chests) and dark, red mouths without tenting his breeches. It’s unfortunate and embarrassing.
He wanks several times a day, thinking about the bawdy jokes he hears sometimes in the lower town and snatches of features he’s seen: the butcher’s daughter with her dark, inviting eyes; one of the stable boys—Ed, his name was—who had large, calloused hands; a noblewoman’s legs, dainty, with pretty ankles.
Of late he’s been wondering how it’s like to sink his cock into warm, wet flesh—flesh that isn’t his own hand covered with spit.
Well, this is almost like the real thing.
It’s easy enough to smile sweetly at the cook and ask her for a fruit pie. She obliges happily and winks at him, and for a moment, Arthur feels exposed, like she knows that he’s going to desecrate her cooking.
But any doubts fly from his mind as he sinks his cock into the warm hole made by pressing through the crust.
“Oh,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s almost-hot and sticky and wet. Nothing at all like his hand. A lift of the hips and he’s fucking into it, gasping at the texture—soft and yet firm enough not to crumble completely with his careful thrusting. Warmth pools pleasantly in his belly and he drags his nails on his nipples, whimpering at the sensation.
One of my better ideas, he thinks with a hysterical giggle. Father had given him The Talk about tumbling the servants months earlier, and really, this felt about the same anyway. Probably better though, since it was safe.
He’s about two thrusts from coming when he hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
“Carry on,” Merlin says, managing to sound both embarrassed and amused at once.
Arthur grits his teeth and hisses at him to latch the door. Really, could he have come at a more inconvenient time? His face is probably red; he blushes so easily. He struggles to think of an appropriate explanation.
“I can help you, if you want, you know—” Merlin says, the pitch of his voice high with tension. Arthur can hear the footsteps coming to a stop behind him. “Make it feel even better.”
Arthur’s annoyance wars with his curiosity. Merlin’s older than him by a year and frequently drives the point home, but it is true that the ways of the country are foreign—exciting to him, a boy born in the ivory towers of Camelot.
“Like this,” Merlin says eagerly, and then spreads Arthur’s calves apart. He feels hot breath against his thighs, his arse, and then, oh.
Merlin is licking his hole carefully, just around, teasing; flat, little licks. He laves his flesh slowly and Arthur feels bowled over with how much he wants it to be inside him. Then his clever tongue thrusts and Arthur screams.
It’s different from fingers. Merlin’s tongue is warm and wet and alive, like an animal, and it’s burrowing deep in and tracing him inside. How his tongue could thrust so deep, Arthur has no idea.
Then Merlin pushes him slightly and he takes this as a cue to continue thrusting in the pie, and the double stimulation is so arousing that he comes not long after, feeling wrung out after the intensity of his climax.
He lies panting on the bed with the pie crushed underneath his body.
“Good?” Merlin asks, breathless.
Arthur turns around and sits up, smushed pie and all.
Merlin is unlacing his breeches, occasionally stopping to palm at his erection and moan a little. They fall with the soft sound of fabric.
“Yeah,” he replies and stares, fascinated, at Merlin’s long fingers. He’s thumbing at the slit of his flushed cock and then pulling roughly, quickly. It looks almost painful but he seems to like it that way, and when he comes it spurts, forming a high arc before landing and staining the bed.
Merlin grins at him.
“Teach me how to do that,” Arthur says.
That summer, they find out just how many ways it’s possible to come.