A Song of Camelot

By Seymour Stevens

The dirty weekend in Devon was off to a good start. What could go wrong? A trip to the court of Camelot, complete with sex powered magical elves, amorous dragons, dryads, mermaids and a lovelorn ogress. That’s what!
Sir Galahad is on a quest, to find and fuck the Holy Grail. It sounded simple enough, but a phantom archer, armed with Cupid’s bow and arrows, complicates matters. Not only that, but the Grail herself seems less than convinced by the plan!
As Galahad continues his search, he puts in plenty of practice, hoping the Holy Grail will change her mind and allow him to fulfil his mission.
A Song of Camelot is a novel for all those big boys and girls that always thought Peter Pan was a prick, but still refused to grow up themselves. Which is not to say we didn’t all fancy the knickers off Tinkerbell!
Please Note - I once picked up a stinker of a review from a reader with zero sense of humour who thought he was going to give his right arm some exercise. So let me be clear. A Song of Camelot is a light British comedy of errors. Titillating not torrid. Suggestive and salacious, but not masturbatory. If you like a bit of fun, please engage your sense of humour and go right ahead and read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seymour Stevens
• Release date: Apr 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370051144

Book preview

by

Seymour Stevens

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Seymour Stevens

Prelude

Deeping Castle

Down to Devon

An Evening’s Entertainment

My Hero

A Hero’s Welcome

A Conversation

Hell Hound

Another Conversation

Into the Woods

The Green Knight

The Drifter

Maiden Castle

The Misused Knight

Morgan the Fey

A Road Trip

Gloria

Welcome to Camelot

Royalty

The Hunt

Dragon Taming

Guinevere’s Request

Elf Girl

That Bastard Lancelot

Raiders

Reflections

Lancelot and the Last Straw

The Feast

Eureka!

Just a Joust

The North Woods

The Lovers

The Talking Tree

Kernow

The Lady in the Lake

Love Me, Love My Girl

Discovery

Falling Out of Love

Seeing the Sights

The Holy Grail

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Also by Seymour Stevens

A Free Gift - The Birds

Out Now - A Shot in the Dark

Coming Soon - Deeping Dreams

About the Author

Prelude

On a solitary hill in the centre of a wide green vale stands a gleaming castle. It is newly built and the weather has yet to make an impact on the smooth white stonework. Indeed, a few rickety wooden cranes still perch perilously on the castle’s high walls, putting the finishing touches to the battlements. Flags and banners are flying from every turret, and atop tallest tower, at the very heart of the castle, streaming out in the gentle breeze, is the largest flag of all, showing a black bear on a white field.

Let’s zoom in a bit. As we near the walls, sunlight reflects from the weapons and armour of the castle’s guards. Queues stretch along the tracks leading to the main gates, food and equipment for the castle’s residents needs to be delivered.

As we come even closer to the central tower, we see that instead of the arrow slits that punctuate the outer turrets, this tower has leaded glass windows. The glass is not exceptionally clear or smooth, so the image we see through this particular window is distorted by the refraction. But we can see well enough to make out the woman seated inside. She seems to be a good looking girl, so let’s cheat and become a fly on the wall.

Yes, quite the looker, that’s for sure! Blonde hair cascades over dainty bare shoulders and curls down her back. She’s obviously not expecting casual visitors as she hasn’t bothered to dress. No dress at all. From our position, we can make out generous firm breasts above a flat stomach. It is tempting to fly closer for a better look, but for all we know she may be a dab hand with the rolled up newspaper! We’ll have to settle for looking from where we are on the wall.

We can’t make out what lies below her flat stomach and above her long smooth legs, because both of her hands are in there, moving purposefully. There are beads of perspiration on her upper lip and her tongue is slightly poking out. Her breathing is shallow and quick, getting faster by the moment.

Given what she’s up to and her state of undress, I bet she thought she was alone. However, now we can see that the chamber door is slightly ajar, and through the narrow opening we can just make out a man’s shape, his eye pressed to the gap. He’s licking his lips.

The woman starts to groan quietly, muttering words that you wouldn’t think a lady would know. Her hands are a blur. Her head leans right back. Then her legs start to twitch and quiver. With a gasp and a profanity, she curls up on herself, her hands still buried where they have been performing their task.

This appears to be the orgasmic moment the unknown voyeur has been waiting for. Pushing the door slightly wider, he raises a small bow. The bow is made of gilded wood with many curling decorations, it doesn’t look too practical, but there is a miniature arrow already nocked to the string.

With a cry, the woman leans back in her chair, eyes closed. The man looses his dart at just this moment and the tiny arrow whispers across the room, sinking deep into one plump, rosy nippled breast. The woman doesn’t seem to feel the arrow hit her. Perhaps with all the things she’s feeling from feeling herself, she hasn’t got any spare feelings to feel anything else.

Seeing his arrow hit its mark, the man nods to himself and slides back out of the room, pulling the door silently closed behind him.

* * *

Meanwhile, in another part of the castle, in a curious room full of retorts, alembics, and curly tubes of glass and copper, a white haired old man is feeling a kitchen maid. He’s pushed her shift up over her breasts and is giving her firm young puppies the attention they so richly deserve. He seems intent on his task, and the maid is egging him on, pushing his head down to suck on an excited nipple.

At the moment the arrow strikes another breast, in another tower, he pulls his head away from the breasts in hand and sniffs the air. He has sensed that things have suddenly changed. Ignoring the pouting protests from the abandoned maid, he moves to his workbench. He has important things to do. He thinks he might even get a bit of fun out of it!

Deeping Castle

Tucked away in the emerald green folds of the mid-Devon hills is the small, but very old, Deeping Castle. Although the castle has been extensively modified over the centuries, it has been inhabited for more than fifteen hundred years. In a much cruder form, it was already there when the Saxons first arrived on these shores. It stood firm while the Danes plagued King Alfred. It watched impassively as the Normans invaded. It saw off the Wars of the Roses and the Spanish Armada. The Civil War left it unmoved. Napoleon never even got close enough to set eyes on the castle. A stray bomb took a chip out of the battlements during World War II. Deeping Castle has stood aloof and inviolate for more than fifteen centuries as history has unrolled around it.

Nowadays, one tower and a few rooms surrounding it have been thoroughly modernised and made into a comfortable and spacious living area. Other parts of the castle have seen various modifications over the ages, while the south west corner remains nearly untouched and is much as it was originally constructed all those centuries ago.

Down to Devon

Jenny and I were on our way to Deeping for the weekend.

My partner, Jenny, is a ravishingly gorgeous brunette. Perfectly formed, not only is she beautiful, she is a warm, intelligent, generous and caring young woman with a heart of gold, and one who is quite capable of reading over my shoulder.

She also has a sex drive that could power starships!

It would also appear, that in addition to all those fine qualities I’ve just listed, she has quite a punch on her when she feels I’m being a Cheeky sod!

Anyway, if you’ll forgive my slightly crippled typing style for the moment, I’ll continue. Deeping Castle’s current occupants were Sir Leonard Fitz-Robyn and his wife, the Lady Mary, and they had invited us down to Devon to visit them. Jenny and I had got to know this young couple at a party held at the Lotus Flower hotel.

I’d better tell you something about the Lotus Flower, as Jenny and I spend a lot of time there and a knowledge of what we get up to on our visits might make things clearer in the tale to come.

Standing as it does in the heart of the Berkshire countryside, you won’t find the Lotus Flower in any of the tourist guides, nor does it possess either AA or Michelin stars. There is no welcoming advertising sign to tempt passing travellers, no signposts, no real clues that it exists, save for a discrete brass plate fixed to stone gateposts at an opening between the trees on the side of the road. Passing through the gates, one reaches a driveway lined with rhododendron bushes that hide the hotel from passers-by.

Emerging from the rhododendron flanked drive, the visitor is greeted by the sight of the charming and ivy clad country house hotel itself. Three storeys high and built of golden sandstone, the building is surrounded by immaculately kept grounds. Neatly trimmed flowerbeds hold plants and petals for all seasons. The topiary that has been carried out on the various bushes and hedges is of a somewhat suggestive nature, but tame compared to the statuary bordering the neat gravel paths, which is much more explicit. Indeed, an aerial view reveals the whole garden to be laid out to form a picture that is positively pornographic.

While offering all the comforts and conveniences of a top class hotel, the Lotus Flower offers that something extra for the discerning customer. Its staff are rigorously vetted, both for discretion and their willingness to join in with the activities of the guests. They are actually very well paid for the little real work they do. Guests are by invitation only, membership being governed by a committee.

Let’s not beat around the suggestively shaped shrubbery any further, let us call a spade the earth moving utensil that it really is, the Lotus Flower hotel is an up-market sex club! And a very good one it is too!

So this is where Jenny and I met Sir Leonard and Lady Mary, and we got to know them very well indeed, intimately, one might say. I’ll leave the exact details to your imagination, but it would be fair to say we all enjoyed getting together a lot, many times!

The Lotus Flower is also where we first encountered Samantha, a pert little blonde package, as she describes herself. My advice is to stop her right there if you can, she’s a talkative soul! We met her soon after she’d started work at the hotel. A lovely and lively girl, she and Jenny hit it off straight away, rapidly forming a Mistress and slave relationship, once Jenny discovered quite what a chatterbox her new found friend was. Knowing her tendency to talk full well, Samantha became a willing slave, so that her Mistress could shut her up when necessary. This wasn’t the whole reason for the Mistress slave routine though, the other reasons were the opportunities it gave for sex, sex and more sex! Jenny calls her blonde slave a poppet or a minx according to circumstances.

Right, that’s everybody introduced for now, let’s get on with our trip to Deeping Castle.

* * *

Jenny and I left home in the car and headed for Devon, making a slight detour to pick up Samantha from the Lotus Flower. As we turned off the roundabout to join the M4, I noticed a hitchhiker, an old man, smiling as he waved his thumb in our direction. I considered stopping for him and glanced in the mirror to see what was behind me before pulling over. What I saw in the mirror was Samantha, who was already taking off her clothes. I decided that giving strangers a lift might not be appropriate after all. Giving the old man a rueful shrug, I continued on our way. He returned my shrug, and gave me a wide grin. I forgot about him and started to keep a closer eye on the rear view mirror and Samantha.

As to Samantha stripping off, it’s just one of the things she does. When not required for warmth, or when she’s obliged to behave with decorum, clothing just covers up things that other people should be looking at and admiring, she says. Naked, she feels, brings out the best in her, shows her off to her best advantage, and it’s hard to argue against this point. In fact, it can get hard just thinking about a naked Samantha!

Full nudity having been achieved, the minx started to touch herself. I can’t tell you all the details of which parts of herself she touched, as I was driving and there’s only so much you can see in a rear view mirror without causing an accident. Jenny had no such problems, she sat half turned in her seat, watching her minx’s actions with a gleam in her eye.

As we were passing Swindon, Jenny decided that the front passenger seat was not the proper place for her, and she started to climb over the back of her chair to join Samantha. I fear that I may have taken my eyes off the road for longer than safety decreed, while I looked up Jenny’s short skirt as she performed this manoeuvre.

Dangerous, I know, but I really had no choice in the matter, my eyes automatically focussed on her black lace panties. I did manage to wrench them away every now and then for a very quick glance at the road ahead, but back they were drawn to the curves of her bum, to the gusset of her panties, which was just about covering parts of her that I very much liked watching. I liked to do more than just watch these parts as well, much more!

Jenny having reached the sanctuary of the back seat and her poppet’s arms, I was allowed to concentrate a bit more on driving as she and Samantha started to kiss. As far as I could gather from the mirror, they were attempting to suck each other’s tongues out.

We had passed Bristol and I was negotiating the slip roads that took us from the M4 and onto the M5 when the last of Jenny’s own clothes came off. I suggested that really they should be wearing seatbelts.

What? You want a bondage session in the middle of the M5? Jenny asked.

Well, now that she’d brought the subject up, and the subject wasn’t the only thing that was up by now, I thought that this might be a very fine idea, but perhaps not, I had to concede, in the middle of the M5.

As we continued south and passed through the Mendip hills, the pair of them were going at each other like rabbits, or as Samantha likes to point out, does, that being the proper name for rabbits of the female persuasion. Brent’s Knoll’s fleeting appearance to our right was greeted by squeals of glee from the minx where Jenny had obviously found just the right spot.

Glastonbury!

The cry came from the minx in the back seat. How she’d managed to spot the road sign while being subjected to Jenny’s ministrations, I don’t know, but in between squeals she was insisting that we went to Glastonbury.

That’s where Merlin came from! And King Arthur! It’s a magical place! I want to go there right now!

Well, it’s not so far from the M5, so I took the next slip road, pausing for the traffic at the roundabout, before heading off across the Somerset levels. As we pulled away, I noticed the old hitchiker, he must have caught a good lift to get here before us, but there was even less chance of me stopping than there had been before, what with what was going on behind me.

Off we went across the levels, me driving a little erratically, as the girls continued their games in the back seat. I steeled myself to focus on the task of piloting us safely, while below the steering wheel a part of me was also giving a good impersonation of steel.

I thought I lasted out well, but after about fifteen minutes of journeying across the levels, I felt the need to pull into a convenient lay-by. Undoing my own seatbelt, I crawled over the seats to join the girls in the back.

I’m afraid we caused something of a traffic jam! Cars were pulling up alongside to watch our antics, ignoring the hooting of horns as others attempted to pass. The three of us were also ignoring everything that might distract us, we were fully focussed on each other. At that moment the world outside the car did not exist.

Perhaps I should apologise for the snarl-up we caused in the local traffic. If you were caught up in the jam, then I am sorry. Had I known that my actions were going to inconvenience you and cause delays, then I might have acted differently.

But probably not! It’s far more likely that I would have just gone Oh, well, and carried on doing exactly what I did, which was to attend to the two girls to the best of my ability. The girls seemed to feel that I was up to the task, which was to get up the girls as far as the confines of space in the car would allow.

But please accept my apologies, however insincere they may be.

* * *

Glastonbury is a pleasant enough town, but nothing special. It is Glastonbury Tor that attracts the visitors. Long ago, before the Somerset levels were drained, Glastonbury was an island, and the way the Tor erupts from the flat countryside, gives the impression that it could still be one. At the Tor’s summit, somebody found it necessary to build a small church, abandoned now, no doubt to replace some form of pagan symbolism. The views across the levels to the Mendip Hills are breath taking. The River Parrett snakes across the flat landscape far below as it winds its way to the Bristol Channel.

Jenny and her minx had dressed themselves before climbing the Tor, though I don’t suppose anybody would have minded in the least had they not bothered. Certainly not the group of middle class faux hippies that we found at the Tor’s summit, sitting in a loose circle and passing joints around. We walked around the church to take in the outlook from the other side.

A small cloud had formed overhead, seeming to be mere inches above our heads. Lightning flashed inside the confines of the the cloud, which was surely too small to contain so much electricity. Suddenly a bird seemed to materialise out of the white vapour and swoop down towards us. It was a hawk of some sort, I had no idea what variety of raptor it might be, but it sort of folded its wings and stooped down towards us, talons outstretched. We all ducked out of the way, frightened of those razor sharp claws that had seemed to be aiming for my face.

At the last second, the bird stretched out its wings and banked sharply, flying around us in three perfect circles before rising vertically into the air, where it levelled out its flight and took off like an arrow towards the distant Severn coast.

What on earth was that? Jenny asked.

I was thinking of explaining that it was some form of unidentified flying raptor, when Samantha surprised me.

It was a merlin. The smallest of the falcon family. They’re quite rare.

I goggled at her in amazement. I mean, I bow to no man in my admiration of Samantha’s finer points, and her mind probably just about creeps into the top ten of them, but this snippet of knowledge caused me to gasp at her avian identification talents. She saw me with my mouth still open and smiled.

An old boyfriend. He was a twitcher. I got dragged out to all sorts of wild places to admire some of our feathered friends. Of course, being in out of the way places, also gave the opportunity for some al fresco sex. Which is not as much fun as it could be, let me tell you! Brambles and stinging nettles can put you right out of your stride, and I don’t even like to remember where those red ants managed to get themselves, the perverted little bastards!

Oh! Samantha! They didn’t ...

They most certainly did, Mistress!

Oh, you poor poppet.

But a merlin, that must be an omen, Mistress. A sign to show that we truly are on the mystical Isle of Avalon, Mistress. It could only have been Merlin himself coming to greet us, Mistress. Merlin the magician, the greatest wizard of all time, the one who looked after King Arthur, the one ...

Thank you, poppet.

Yes, Mistress.

Seizing my opportunity, now Jenny had cut her poppet’s prattle short, I joined the conversation.

Well, I’m suitably impressed by the sight of a merlin, but it seemed as if it was going to land claws first on my face! I thought I was going to be wearing a feather moustache, attached by sharp claws!

Talons. But, yes, it did seem to be aiming at you, didn’t it?

What do you think it means, Mistress?

Probably nothing, poppet.

Oh, I don’t know, Mistress. I think it must be Merlin giving us a sign. Something to do with him, Mistress. You know what he’s like, Mistress, always causing trouble!

Me? What have I done?

I couldn’t see where Jenny’s minx had got the idea that I was a trouble