La Belle Domme Sans Merci

Author's introduction: This is my version of the beautiful ballad La Belle Dame Sans Merci, by John Keats. I've set it in the time of King Arthur (he of the Round Table fame) and added my own take on what might have gone on had the Belle Dame of the original work actually been a Dominatrix, so my title is not a typo! If you are looking for a story about the Arthurian legends, this isn't it! This is my fetish version of both Mallory's and Keats' works and it is, of course, total fantasy. It bears very little resemblance to Mallory's original stories, although I have tried to keep Keats' sense of loss and hopelessness.

As in all my stories here, any sexual encounters occur between consenting adults of at least eighteen years of age.

Please take the time to comment on my fantasy. Also consider using the star scoring system. All authors thrive on their readers' comments, and they also appreciate ratings too. Thanks for reading this. Enjoy the story.

The battle of Camlann raged for many hours. Arthur fought valiantly, leading from the front as always, followed by his brave and loyal knights, those who sat with him around the Round Table. But the odds were stacked against Arthur and his forces. Heavily outnumbered, they were forced to retreat, and the retreat turned into a rout. One by one, the knights of the Round Table fell.

Bedwyr came across the mortally wounded Arthur late in the day. The king was dying, that much was obvious. He dismounted and hobbled his horse at a safe distance from Arthur.

"Where were you?" Arthur managed to gasp, looking sadly at the man he had once counted as his most trusted friend and ally. "We looked for you on my right flank, where you have always been. Of you there was no sign."

Bedwyr stared at the bloody mess that had once been the strongest, bravest man he had ever known.

"My liege... " he began, and Arthur shook his head wearily. He was almost spent.

"No excuses, Bedwyr," he gasped. "The tongues that have been wagging for months have been proved correct. You were with Gwenhwyfer, weren't you?"

He laughed bitterly, and a dark gout of blood spurted from his mouth. He shook his head again.

"Who would have thought it?" he mused, almost to himself. "Arthur, King of the Britons turned into a cuckold by one of his loyal companions."

Bedwyr's silence spoke volumes. He had been with Gwenhwyfer, Arthur's queen, whilst her husband was off fighting, but he was under no illusions. Gwenhwyfer didn't love him. What she loved was cock. Plenty of it, and the bigger and thicker the better. And Bedwyr was very well endowed, and could perform multiple times at a single session.

For all his prowess on the battlefield, and his wisdom and fairness in his ruling of his kingdom, Arthur was very poorly equipped in the cock department, Gwenhwyfer had told Bedwyr many months ago. She had welcomed him into her chamber eagerly, and Bedwyr, being a red blooded man, had accepted her invitation eagerly. They had become lovers that night, and Bedwyr continued to fuck Gwenhwyfer at every given opportunity. The Queen was insatiable, but Bedwyr did his best to put out the fires that constantly burned in her cunt.

Arthur coughed again, and another spurt of blood oozed out of his mouth. He grimaced in pain.

"My last command to you as your liege lord," he gasped, looking down at his beloved sword, which lay, bloodied and discarded by his side. "Take Caledfwlch and return her to whence she came. There is a lake over yonder."

He paused, his face reflecting the pain that talking had caused. Bedwyr picked up the sword, marvelling at its weight and balance. He walked slowly towards the lake.

"I would be mad to throw this sword away," he thought. " With this in my possession, I could become king. Gwenhwyfer would look at me differently then. I'll hide it at the lakeside and tell Arthur that I've done as he commanded."

His mind made up, Bedwyr concealed the sword in a bush growing at the lakeside. He returned to Arthur.

"Well?" gasped the dying king.

"I threw it out into the middle of the lake, my liege," lied Bedwyr. "It disappeared with a mighty splash."

"You lie, you false dog!" gasped Arthur. "May the gods have mercy on your black soul! Get out of my sight! Go back to your whore. We shall not meet again in this life!"

He closed his eyes, and Bedwyr felt the ice cold barb of betrayal pierce his heart. He knew what he had to do. Hurriedly, he returned to the lakeside and retrieved Caledfwlch from her hiding place. He looked longingly at the beautifully crafted weapon, but in his heart of hearts he knew that he could never possess it.

Whirling the sword around his head, he flung it with all his might into the lake. Before it could sink into the watery depths, a slender arm emerged from the water, and caught Caledfwlch by her pommel. The arm twirled the sword around three times, and disappeared under the water. Bedwyr watched the whole process open mouthed. He must return and report what had happened to Arthur before he died. He'd prove his loyalty and his obedience, and beg for Arthur's forgiveness.

Hurrying back to where his king lay dying, Bedwyr felt a sense of loyalty return. He would tell Arthur that he had decided to break off his relationship with Gwenhwyfer, and for the rest of his life he would dedicate himself to the protection and service of those less fortunate than himself.

When he got to the place where Arthur had been lying, he found nothing. The king had disappeared. Bedwyr looked around in confusion. Had he come back to the wrong place? There was no way that Arthur could have walked away from where he lay. He had been mortally wounded. He must be in the wrong place, Bedwyr decided. He turned to search for his king.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, and no birds sing."

Bedwyr whipped around again at the sound of the voice, his hand drawing his sword from its scabbard. In the exact place where Arthur had been lying, there stood an ancient crone, dressed all in black.

Her lank, greasy hair tumbled onto her shoulders in a grey wave, and she lifted her head and looked defiantly at Bedwyr, daring him to comment on the fact that her slack, saggy tits showed up clearly through the robe that was open to her navel. Her green eyes held no fear of the armed man in front of her, and she opened her mouth to speak again.

"Your Lord and King has gone to Ynys Afallon" she croaked, "there to await the summons that he is needed again. You have betrayed him. You are not worthy of the title of knight. I forsee a great quest in front of you. Go now and search for the one who will bestow forgiveness on you. Seek diligently. She will make herself known to you when you meet."

"Do you mean Gwenhwyfer?" asked Bedwyr hopefully.

"I do not," replied the crone. "That whore has got herself to a nunnery in the hope of absolving her many sins. You will never see her again."

"B... B...But..." stammered Bedwyr in confusion. "I know nothing of this quest. Where do I start? In what direction do I ride? Who is this person I seek?"

The crone grinned at him, displaying a mouthful of blackened teeth.

"Go!" she spat. "I cannot tarry here any longer. Your destiny awaits you. I wish you good fortune. You will need it!"

She turned her back on Bedwyr and hobbled away. He grabbed hold of his horse's reins and swung himself into the saddle. He looked for the crone, but she was nowhere to be seen. How had she managed to disappear so quickly, he thought. She was crippled and could barely walk.

He spurred his horse on, but the animal refused to move.

"What's the matter with you?" he shouted, digging his heels into the horse's flanks. "Come on! Move!"

The horse turned her head and began to amble off in the opposite direction to where Bedwyr had intended to go. They were going towards the lake this way. Bedwyr shrugged and let the horse have her head. He had witnessed enough strange goings-on for one day, he thought. Perhaps the horse would take him to the place where he would meet the mysterious person that the crone had mentioned. The one who would bestow forgiveness on him.

The horse took Bedwyr around the lake and on into the deserted countryside. It was beginning to get dark, the mist was rising and no birds sang. Bedwyr shivered. He had no idea where he was or where he was going. All he hoped was that soon he would come across some wayside hovel where he could spend the night.

Then up ahead, in the distance, he saw a shimmering light. His head was heavy and his sight was dim, and he knew he had to stop there for the night. He urged his horse to go faster, but the animal refused to increase her ambling pace. Eventually, horse and rider reached the compound. It was stone built, and looked in good repair. The front gate was open and the horse needed no encouragement to enter. Bedwyr found himself in a courtyard, and he dismounted and led the horse towards a doorway where a bright light shone. There was nowhere for him to tether his horse, and the animal ambled back into the courtyard and began to nibble at the grass.

Bedwyr went into the lighted doorway and found himself in what he assumed to be was the sentry's guard room. A man was sitting at a table, his head drooping, and a faint sound of snoring meant that he wasn't doing his guard duties very well.

Bedwyr shook him awake, and the man got to his feet.

"Well come, sir knight," said the man. "You have travelled far? My Lady is expecting you. Follow me to the great hall. Do you require food and drink? My Lady gave express orders that you were to be looked after and treated according to your station."

Bedwyr was astonished.

"Who is your Lady?" he asked, "and what did you mean when you said she was expecting me? I know no-one in this part of the kingdom. Where am I?"

The man gave no answer. He indicated with a toss of his head that Bedwyr should follow him, and he led him down a long dark corridor. When he came to a set of double doors, he stopped and allowed Bedwyr to catch up. Then he opened the doors and stepped aside. Bedwyr entered the great hall.

A huge fire blazed at one end of the room. Hundreds of candles illuminated the space and the walls were hung with exquisitely woven tapestries. Sitting in an elaborately carved chair was the most beautiful woman Bedwyr had ever seen in his life.

She got up and smiled at him as he entered. The long, snow white robe she wore fell open as she stood, and Bedwyr found himself looking at a big pair of milky white tits, topped with thick, brown nipples. He blushed and dropped his eyes, omly to encounter a neatly trimmed triangle of thick red hair. Two plump lips were also visible between the woman's legs.

"Welcome, Sir Bedwyr," she said with a smile, and her voice was as sweet and tender as anything Bedwyr had ever heard.

"That will be all, Godwin," she said to the guard, "close the front gate and get you to your bed. I will not require you further this night. We are not to be disturbed. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, madam," replied Godwin, and Bedwyr thought that he detected a tone of relief in his voice. The double doors closed with a sigh and Bedwyr was alone with the beautiful, mysterious woman.

"Madam, you have me at a disadvantage," he began. "You know my name, and that man told me that I was expected. How can this be? I was told by an old crone earlier this afternoon that I was to seek the one who would bestow forgiveness on me. Is that you?"

The woman laughed softly.

"Igraine is such a tease," she said. "I keep her alive only to do my bidding. She was betrothed to my father, and bore me for him. She betrayed my father, just as that whore Gwenhwyfer has betrayed my half brother the king."

She looked at Bedwyr fiercely.

"Yes, I have been expecting you," she continued. "Arthur, has gone to Ynys Afallon, to be healed of his wounds and to await the summons when he is needed again. I will ensure that such a summons will never reach him."

She sat down in her chair again and picked up a small bowl which contained what looked to Bedwyr like dried leaves. There was a hole in the side of the bowl and as Bedwyr watched, his hostess took up a hollow reed from the table and inserted it into the hole. Taking a pair of tongs from the hearth, she picked up a smouldering ember from the fire and held it against the leaves in the bowl. They began to emit fragrant whisps of smoke.

Bedwyr watched this process with a growing sense of bewilderment. The lady put the reed into her mouth and sucked deeply. Bedwyr was astounded to see smoke emerge from her nostrils. She continued to inhale the fumes for a few more minutes and then she put the bowl and the reed back on the table and stood up again.

"You asked who I am," she said, coming closer to Bedwyr. "My given name is Morgana, but I prefer to use Olwen, which is what my darling father, Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall always called me. I am the one chosen to grant you absolution, but only if I see fit. You have been brought here for a purpose. Many men have sought my hand in marriage. They were not worthy. Prove yourself to me, and you shall have me. That is what you desire, is it not?"

Bedwyr felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment once more. It was true. This woman who stood before him made him feel very special. He could feel his cock getting hard, and he nodded mutely.

"Yes, madam," he replied. "I want you very much indeed. Instruct me as to how I might win your affection. I am willing to do anything you demand of me."

Olwen smiled cruelly.

"Be very careful what you commit yourself to," she warned. "I am a very strict task mistress. Many have come here with high hopes. None have succeeded yet."

"I use those leaves, which I prepare myself, to enhance my senses," she said, taking Bedwyr's hand and placing it between her legs.

Her cunt was hot to the touch, and she seemed to be leaking.

"You see?" she teased, "inhaling those vapours makes me very needy indeed. Tell me, Sir Knight, do you want to fuck me as you used to fuck that whore, Gwenhwyfer?"

Bedwyr grinned. He slid two fingers into Olwen's cunt and immediately found her clit. He squeezed the little nub and Olwen's pupils dilated and she gasped. Picking up her bowl again, she took a huge drag on the reed and blew the smoke into Bedwyr's face. His eyes began to water and he coughed. Olwen sucked on the reed again and pulled Bedwyr towards her. Her lips met his and as he opened his mouth to put his tongue into Olwen, she breathed out her smoke and his senses reeled.

When he woke up, Bedwyr found himself shackled by his wrists to the wall of a dimly lit cell. He was naked. As his befuddled mind slowly cleared, Bedwyr could make out several other figures, similarly chained to the wall. He cleared his throat and spoke to the figure next to him.

"What's this all about?" he asked, his voice rasping coarsely in his dry throat.

"The man turned his head and looked at Bedwyr. His hair was long and matted and his beard had grown till it covered all of his lower face.

"You're the latest," he croaked. " I'm Hugh, by the way. You'll find out soon enough. She's insatiable, that Olwen. She lures men here and keeps them captive. She uses us for her vile and perverted needs, until we can't perform any longer. Then she just leaves us here. Look down there."

He indicated with his chin, and Bedwyr looked in that direction. It was very dark further down the long, narrow cell, but he was able to make out at least six other figures, chained to the wall. None of them seemed to be conscious, and the furthest two weren't even holding themselves upright. Their legs had collapsed and they were only kept upright by the shackles around their wrists. Bedwyr gulped.

"We need a plan to get out of here," he said decisively. "Can you reach my shackles and see if you can undo them?"

"Why would I want to do that?" asked his companion. "If I can prove myself, Olwen will reward me. I want to stay here and show Olwen that I'm worthy to be her mate!"

Bedwyr was about to reply to this when the door opened, and Olwen stood there, carrying a flaming torch. She walked slowly past Bedwyr and stopped in front of Hugh.

Setting her torch into a niche in the wall, Olwen began to unshackle the man.

"Thank you, my Lady," he began. "You won't regret this. I'll prove that I'm worthy of you, I promise."

Hugh's arms were free now, and Bedwyr silently willed him to grab Olwen by the throat and throttle her into unconsciousness. But his companion merely followed Olwen out of the cell meekly. She took her torch with her, and so Bedwyr was left in the dimly lit cell. He turned his head and, raising his voice, shouted to the next prisoner in the line.

"Are you awake?" he yelled. "Speak to me! Don't you want to get out of here?"

The man barely raised his head.

"What I want and what will happen are two totally different things," he croaked. "I haven't been summoned for over a week now, and Llyr and Math here have been ignored for about a month. I reckon we're doomed, now that you're here. She'll use you till she's sucked all the essence out of you, by which time, most of us down this end will be dead. You'll move down the line until you get to the bottom, and by that time, you'll welcome death, believe you me."

Bedwyr shook his arms in frustration, and the shackles rattled noisily.

"Don't give up!" he yelled. "Are you a man, or a vassell? Fight, damn you! Don't let that bitch win!"

"She's already won, can't you see that?" croaked a new voice. Bedwyr couldn't see who had spoken. "I hate her with a vengence," the voice went on, "yet should she come down here and select me, I'd go to her like a lamb to the slaughter. She's a witch, there's no doubt about that, and she's used her powers to subdue us all. Don't fight it, sir knight. We were all like you once. The longer you spend time here, the clearer it becomes. We'll never leave here alive!"

The voice fell silent, and Bedwyr waited...and waited...and waited. In all of his adult life, very little had ever frightened him. But this silence... It was oppressive. It played with his thoughts. Despite his nakedness and the chill of the cell in which he was imprisoned, Bedwyr felt the sweat gathering in his armpits and starting to run down his body. He shivered.

"Is there anybody there?" he croaked. His throat was dry, his tongue felt huge in his mouth. There was no answer. Time dragged on... slowly.

Bedwyr opened his eyes. Despite his awkward position, he knew he'd been asleep. The muscles in his legs throbbed, his stomach growled and there was a dull ache in his arms and shoulders from the after effects of cramp. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom in the cell, he tried to lick his parched lips.

Suddenly, he became aware that the witch, Olwen, was standing in front of him. She wore the same long, snow white robe that hung gracefully from her shoulders. He hadn't been aware of her presence when he'd opened his eyes, and he hadn't heard her approach. No matter. He thought that he'd fling himself on her mercy, and beg for release. He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry that all that emerged from his mouth was a croak.

Olwen smiled wickedly, and drew on the reed of the pot that she was holding. She moved closer to Bedwyr and kissed him, blowing the smoke from her mouth into his. Bedwyr coughed and choked, but there was no escaping Olwen's mouth. He felt her tongue invade his dry mouth, and he gratefully sucked on it, savouring the wetness of her saliva. He swallowed gratefully, and now Olwen broke off the kiss. She moved back a little, and Bedwyr was surprised to see that she too was naked now.

Olwen drew on her reed again, and blew a stream of smoke into Bedwyr's face. He screwed up his eyes and coughed, but there was another sound in the quiet cell. The sound of chains falling from his wrists. Bedwyr gasped.