I will tell you about a young woman who loves books. Loves them.


Anyway, I had her reading this book on Camelot and, as usual, she got to her favorite part, which was about Lancelot. Reading about him rescuing Queen Guenivere, it was easy for her to imagine herself as the queen. It was easy for her to picture herself in Lancelot’s arms, and as Lancelot in the book holds Guenivere close, this librarian pressed her palm into her panties, pretending it was Lancelot’s hand. And at the peak of the passage in the book, where the final written word describes Lancelot with Guenivere, she stopped reading and continued in her mind. She continued with Lancelot, in full armored regalia, his visor down, standing right there in front of her, like some kind of machine, some kind of silver machine with eyes hidden under the visor, heart hidden behind his breastplate. She imagined him reaching out a hand, palm up, straight up her skirt and pressing exactly where she pressed, so that when he curled his fingers against her panties her own fingers curled, and the realness prickled between her thighs. She made his fingers, encased in heavy gauntlets, press right up into the middle of her panties. She made his fingers push through her panties with a metal severity that assaulted her, and she let her thighs part for the assault, welcomed it. In her vision she put a hand on his armor, and felt no humanity in it. Just this cold, emotionless wall of steel against her skin, but his hand, the hand she imagined rubbing her swollen rose, was moving and real compared to the armor. But in spite of the emptiness, or because of the contrast, her own fingers were more effective. Especially her middle finger, which stroked up her damp, inflated crevice, which separated under the pressure of her finger.

At this point I made the library’s mouse-chasing cat scurry through and this startled the hell out of her. She yanked her hand free from her panties, cheeks flushed, gasping . . . aroused. But she saw the cat and relaxed. She sank back into the sofa and this time her hand slid under her panties. Her fingertips lightly stroked the lips of her swollen petals as her imagination recalled Lancelot, strong and mighty in his armor with his hand right there between her legs, and then it became his gloved finger, heavy and manly, sliding under her panties, pressing effortlessly but with such power right into her slick slice. And she sighed, a groaning sigh that laid her back in the sofa and opened her thighs.

In her mind she watched his hand, a silver gauntlet of fine-linked chain mail, insert his middle finger with a gentle rush. He pulled it out and it glistened with her juice. Then he pushed it back inside, deeper and, in her mind, she held onto his arm with both of her hands. She gripped his armored forearm and parted her thighs wider so he could squeeze another finger inside, and this drew another trembling sigh, a deeper sigh, a sigh connected to a ringing up inside her, like the pealing of a bell. A stinging ring, as though a bell full of bees. She bent her knees up to her chest, her fingers gouging wetly, but she imagined Lancelot’s fingers inside her, powerful and metal and gracefully plunging so deep, so deep. And when he put his thumb up there on her clit the bell went BONG and the bees started humming and she threw her head back as BONGGGGG! Her legs opened wider as his fingers sloshed inside and BONGGGG! Fingers — his, hers — gyrated inside her and BONGGG! BONGGG! BONGGGGGGGG! The bees buzzed everywhere, swirling inside her and two hands were between her legs now. Hers, his, she didn’t care, as BONGGG! And she cried out, “Auuhnn! . . . Uuh-uuh-uuh! . . .“ And the ringing, the ringing chimes from her flower bell, those fingers inside and then that sound again! What? The cat? She didn’t care, though, and, see, that’s why I put the cat in, back there, so she wouldn’t pay so much attention this time, because now . . . now it’s him, and she opened her eyes, bleary and blurry and wanted to scream but . . . BONGGGG! Her eyes closed tight, her teeth clenched, and, “Uhhnnnnnn . . .” and those hands at her flower, those hands squeezed and BONGGG!!YEEEEEESSSS!” she screamed, then gulped for air, ringing with the bells, the bees, her flower bell ringing with the zinging bells . . . and . . . “uhnn . . .” the bees . . . until . . . they faded, and . . . she tried to open her eyes, but . . . it couldn’t be. Couldn’t be!


For real.


“Take my clothes off,” she told him.

His hands clutched and pulled and her skirt shred apart. The air-conditioned breeze lapped her skin, her lungs leapt in her chest, her voice gasped, “Yes.”

Their eyes locked together, his hands came up and pulled at her blouse, ripping it from her shoulders. He stared at the lines where her bare neck joined her collar bone. Just stared. No smile, just that burning stare as his hands, his metal gloved fists gripped her bra and snap! No more bra. Her pulse throbbed in her nipples, afraid of the heat from his armor. His hands grabbed her ass . . . no . . . her panties! In an instant they were gone, leaving her totally stripped before him, and the bees stirred in her bell. Her bell flower was running wet, drooling down the inside of her thighs, and her breath tore at her lungs.

Still, she held his gaze. She would not release him, would not allow him to believe she had not ordered his behavior. She tried to swallow but her mouth, dry as talc, only managed to whisper, “Touch my nipples.”

His hands in his metal gloves glided over her skin, her waist and belly, and up to her breasts. With his middle finger, a finger of chain steel, he hesitated, then laid his finger on just the tip of her nipple.

And the bees sang up from her thighs, dove into her flower and swirled and sang and buzzed, leaking honey from the folds of her raw petals. It dripped and dribbled down her leg, leaving a trail of steam. She took a deep, unsteady breath and arched her back, pushing her nipple up to his finger, her eyes still holding him prisoner.

“Kiss my nipples.”

His face didn’t change. He didn’t change at all, and it only fed the whirl of bees between her quivering legs.

“Kiss my nipples,” she repeated, and couldn’t help but add, “please.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then reached up and removed his helmet. He let it fall, and it evaporated into stardust before it hit the ground.

His hands cupped her breasts, palmed them together, thumbs dangerously close to her glossy points, her fervent, supple barbs of bliss standing high, awaiting his touch, awaiting his lips as he bent, or was he bowing? His head tilted forward and hers fell back. She grabbed his forearms lest she fall, and her breasts were suddenly alone to feel his tongue, his solitary tongue stretching out and, “Aaauuuhhhh . . .” She couldn’t stop the shiver, the icy hot shiver vibrating from her nipple against his tongue, and then his lips, and, oh, Christ, suck just like that! YES!

Too soon, she was falling, the walls curling around her, the floor rising, but it was him, lowering her to the carpet, one hand at her waist, her nipple still between his lips. As she settled to the floor, she recalled who he was, recalled who she was. She was Queen Guinivere. His queen. She was his celebration as well as his downfall. Everything good inside him he gave to her, turning his back on his best friend and her husband, King Arthur. This Lancelot, this pure Lancelot at her breast, was the best of the best, and she commanded him.