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.