Year of the Inner Goddess

March 2025

Guinevere sat with her hands resting delicately upon the curve of her thighs, fingers trembling like the wings of a caged lark. She waited alone—an exquisite offering draped in anticipation—the singular bloom at the center of that famed, if not quite Round Table. A subtle smile ghosted her lips, flickering at the edge of her thoughts even as her heart surged like a storm tide against the fragile cage of her ribs.

In this carefully arranged pose—submissive, yes, but rich with invitation—she was swathed in wide ribbons of ruby lace, the color of sacrificial wine upon milk-white flesh. Each shift of breath sent the delicate fabric whispering across her skin. A filigree mask concealed much of her hazel gaze, but it could not dim the burning question that smoldered behind her eyes: Why me?

Arthur, with all his maddening cleverness, had summoned the realm’s finest—the knights of renown, of myth, of shadowed whispers and ballads sung in secret. And they had come. Saints preserve her, they had come—for her.

Only moments before, she had entertained them as best she could in the Great Hall. Her smile had been a secret thing, cradled beneath the curtain of her lashes. Her lips, painted in Highland amber—a hue that shimmered like liquefied sunlight on glass—had parted for pleasantries, though her spirit trembled beneath each word. The amber had done little to calm her; still, it gave her something to hold, a flickering talisman as she mingled among the arriving giants.

The knights—broad-shouldered, war-worn, radiant with a rough nobility—stood like carved gods amid the glow of torchlight. Their easy laughter rumbled through the great stone hall, warming the air, painting her chest with a heat that stoked the glowing coals of her arousal. She laughed with them—or tried—her voice a touch too high, feathering into an unnatural octave. Everyone seemed to be having a marvelous time.

In the quiet panic that warred with her excitement, she briefly considered forgoing the evening’s darker indulgences and simply basking in the camaraderie instead.

After all, who was she to stir the hunger of such legendary men?

And yet—they had come. Some from leagues away, their steeds foamed and eyes rimmed with weariness. They had crossed mountains, forded silver-throated rivers, and wound through fog-laced moors. And still they had come.

Another knight arrived just then, his gauntlet crashing against the oaken doors—a thunderous greeting—his gaze alight with something wicked and unspoken. Her pulse leapt in her throat like a startled deer, and a sudden heat bloomed between her thighs.

After embracing the newly arrived knight in welcome, Guinevere sipped her amber once more, its honeyed burn curling around her tongue like a whispered dare.

It was not merely nerves that stole her breath—no, something far more worrisome coiled around her heart. Exhaustion, thick and relentless, clung to her limbs like a vine, tightening with each passing hour. Of late, her days had been consumed by the weight of her kingdom’s demands, the unyielding responsibilities pressing in like the very air she breathed. Yet beneath it all, a hunger—an insatiable longing—twisted within her, a craving she could neither ignore nor satisfy.

Beneath the layers of weariness, a deeper, quieter unease gnawed at her with a jagged edge. It was the terror of failing the knights so eagerly assembled for the night’s festivities. In the presence of these devastating warriors, she feared she might falter. Above all, she worried that the carefully woven tapestry of desire, simmering just beneath the surface of her skin, would unravel and vanish before their eyes—revealing her to be a woman unworthy of such reverence.

How, she wondered, did one begin such a night? How was she to shift the knights from the flickering warmth of the Great Hall to the sensual walls of the bedchamber, where the Round Table and epicurean delights awaited?

For she knew what she wanted—needed. The craving pulsed in her marrow, thick and holy and drenched in shame. She had once confessed it to Arthur, her voice trembling in the hush of a candlelit chamber, her thighs pressed tightly together beneath the weight of her words. And now—now the fantasy stood before her. Towering. Masculine. Breathing.

Her pulse roared in her ears as Guinevere fretted over how to proceed. How could she abandon the porcelain mask of courtly grace to reveal the molten hunger beneath? Could she set aside the too-perfect reflection she had offered to the world and step—trembling—into the sanctum of her most secret ache?

Should she take one by the hand—guide his gauntleted fist to her breast, press his iron frame against the yielding softness of her body, daring the others to follow like moths to her flame?

But no. That path brought torment of its own.

For which one should she choose? How did one crown a single god when six stood before her, gleaming, glorious, and waiting? 

Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Guinevere nearly wished for a brief spell of unconsciousness—some enchanted amnesia that might allow her to flirt and coo and offer coy smiles in the Great Hall, only to awaken in the midst of hedonistic passion on the Round Table, already unraveling beneath the touch of Arthur’s chosen knights.

Determined to follow through with the evening’s design, Guinevere slipped away from the growing gathering, concealing her doubts and silently praying the knights would follow as her faint heart danced delicately, threatening to collapse beneath its own rhythm. She entered the perfectly lit chamber, and there it stood—imposing, yet transformed. The Round Table, its hard surface softened by a luxurious pallet of silks and waterproof fleece, awaited her body, a sacred offering for the assembled knights.

Aravell, Sir Bedivere’s elven queen, stood as the only woman in attendance—a rare sight, yet one that commanded unwavering respect. Her presence, both on the battlefield and in the court, was legendary: a blend of fierce strength and keen wisdom that those who knew her were often left in awe. Guinevere trusted her implicitly, for Aravell’s loyalty was as steadfast as her mastery of any domain, and her companionship would serve as both a grounding force and a companion in this delicate, sacred moment.

At the sight of Guinevere’s disappearance into the bedchamber, Aravell followed silently, her every step a whisper of fairytale grace. Her steady gaze, always watchful, never faltered. Guinevere’s nerves were becoming more frayed, but the presence of another woman, especially one of such power and poise, brought a comforting sense of solace. With a deep breath, she let herself lean into that sense of quiet strength. 

She placed the sheer mask into Aravell’s outstretched hand, her fingers brushing briefly against the cool, strong palm. Humming words of encouragement, Aravell moved to secure the blindfold, her fingers nimble, precise, and confident. The smooth silk tightened over Guinevere’s eyes, and she allowed herself to surrender completely to the moment, trusting Aravell’s careful touch. The mask settled into place, and with it, a small sense of peace washed over her—mostly gratitude for the queen’s steady presence and a deepening resolve as she stepped toward the heart of the Round Table.

So there she was, alone—still exquisitely displayed upon the round, pallet-draped table. Guinevere inhaled slowly through her nose, exhaling through parted lips as if to release her fear into the glittering night air. She waited there, poised like a sacrificial lamb adorned for ceremony, her heart pounding with the rhythmic urgency of a lover’s desperate pulse.

Had she misread the room? Was her silence misinterpreted? Had the wrong invitation been sent—or worse—had her attire and flirtations in the Great Hall failed to tempt the lion-hearted knights assembled just for her?

The ruby lace, she thought with dismay, was perhaps too bold. It began at the nape of her neck, a shimmering collar of scarlet that cascaded decadently down her ample breasts, cinched her narrow waist, then dripped like molten wine between her thighs. She had hoped it would be her siren’s call—inviting, irresistible. But perhaps it was too much, unnecessarily revealing. The lace, meant to be a tempting whisper, now felt more like a shout, daring the very gods to respond.

And though the knights began to encircle the Round Table, no one made a move. There was no brush against her skin, no rough domination—the air hung heavy with the tension of what was not yet, with every breath drawn seeming to deepen the silence. It was as though time itself had paused in reverence to the moment, and yet, she felt only the weight of the waiting. The action that she had imagined so vividly was yet to come.

Was it the mask? She had insisted on anonymity, after all—requesting not to know which knights would be summoned, relishing in the mystery, the guessing, the thrill of divine uncertainty. She had delighted in each arrival, the silent weight of anticipation, and still more were to come. But now, in the hushed silence of her solitude, she cursed the veil that obscured her eyes. What had seemed a daring allure now felt like a prison—a barrier between herself and them. This was not inviting—it was off-putting, a blatant proclamation of her own nervous apprehensions, a shield that only seemed to magnify her uncertainty, bleeding into the knights, not encouraging their attention.

Her overthinking heart fretted over the knights’ comfort, their reputations, the feelings of their royal ladies, and her own stubborn conscience. The very ache that throbbed beneath her skin was now tangled with shame, doubt, and those most cursed feminine instincts: guilt and shame for her base carnal needs.

She nibbled her lip again, tasting the smoky sweetness of Highland amber, and groaned inwardly—why hadn’t she taken one of the mint tablets she had stashed nearby? Who, after all, would wish to be kissed with bourbon on their tongue?

Yet even in her unease, she trusted Arthur’s choices. If she allowed her mind to wander—just for a moment—she could guess the identities of most of the eleven who had answered the call. She had been delighted to greet the first arrivals, to see who had come at Arther’s bidding. Her heart had fluttered as she recognized them—boyish grins now made feral with age and legend. All were unforgettable. All were known for their impeccable reputations—though, truthfully, it was the darker parts of them Guinevere longed to awaken… the ones they’d buried beneath armor and oaths. And she hoped—just for one night—they might unlock the darkness within her, with their hands, their mouths, their swords, their souls—setting her free.

Still, she waited, submissively, hands on her naked thighs.

And just as she dared to consider calling the whole affair off—just as the thought began to unfurl at the edge of her resolve—

—the mattress shifted.

Not abruptly. No thunderous entrance. No boastful laughter. Just the slow, purposeful give of the table as one knight began to crawl toward her through the dim, incense-sweetened air.

A hand—just the barest of fingertips, as if afraid she was made of glass—reached to brush aside the cascade of sapphire curls from her shoulder, exposing the pale column of her neck. She moaned at the heat, the nearness of the powerful knight. A moment later, warm lips touched the curve of her shoulder with a reverence that made her gasp—her breath catching like silk caught on thorns.

And then… another.

A second pair of hands had already begun their search, ghosting along the contours of her body, fingers slipping beneath the delicate fastenings of her garment. They sought the ties, the clasps, the trembling weaknesses of lace that dared defy their touch.

Her Inner Goddess—roused, uncoiling—pouted in mild protest. She had hoped the garment might linger a little longer, to be admired, teased, and removed with ceremony. Five more knights had yet to arrive, and the thought of meeting them bare—already divested of her finery—sent a wash of crimson to her cheeks…and a dark thrill spiraling low in her belly.

The knight to her left continued his adoration, his touches growing bolder, stronger, and more confident. Acquiesing with a wicked grin that curled the corner of her mouth, Guinevere allowed the knight on her right to remove the silken garment, aiding as best she could as the finery was coaxed down her milky body and whisked off her ruby toes. She never saw her crimson threads again—at the time of this writing, they remain lost, though Guinevere suspects Arthur had it placed in the capable hands of the laundress.

And just like that, she was swept away.

As Arthur had lovingly and confidently promised—a wealth of wisdom bolstering his words—Guinevere had nothing to fear. For now, beneath the spell of sandalwood smoke and lust-soaked breath, the magnetic force of the knights claimed her. Every inch of her gossomer body was no longer hers to protect…

…but theirs to worship.

Hands moved with steady purpose, guiding her prone body to surrender to their ministrations. Her skin tasted of salt, of longing, as masculine bodies pressed in all around her. The sudden intensity of it startled her—how swiftly she was claimed. Her scent mingled with the sweet, intoxicating whispers of carnal pleasure as the hands of the knights, warm and insistent, reached for her, their fingers questing for the promise of her surrender.

There was no hesitation now, no shyness, only the manic grasping of hands, pulling her closer, spreading her thighs. The pressure of their bodies, of their need, left her heaving chest crying for the strength of their iron swords, their heat, the friction of their hips pressed against hers. All this was to be gifted to her—everything she had desired, everything she had longed for.

Thick fingers teased the sensitive, glistening folds of her body, and her breath caught sharply as a hand massaged the fullness of one magnificent breast. Lips nipped at the sensitive bud, coaxing her, fueling her darkness. Another hand, strong and commanding, cupped her chin, tilting her face upward, and she felt the thick, firm shaft pressed against her rosebud lips.

With an almost ravenous eagerness she could no longer deny, Guinevere pitched her neck upward, drawing him into her mouth, her tongue rolling around the heavy crown. She explored every inch of him, her mind spinning with the desperate need to discover which knight commanded such power over her. And yet, even as her thoughts strained to open her eyes and reveal the man claiming her throat, she resisted. 

The filmy mask shrouding her eyes—its sheer weight, the pressure of the ribbons tied at the back of her head—allowed her to revel in the intoxicating mystery that made surrender utterly sweet. Her fingers gripped the soft fabric draped across the pallet, grounding herself as her eyes remained veiled by the dark threads, shutting out all but the sensations flooding her. The anonymity became a cocoon, the unknown a heady release, and in that disorienting obscurity, she found freedom—a freedom to shamelessly surrender body, mind, and soul.

The knight on her left, meanwhile, had discovered her hidden spring, his fingers dancing along her most intimate parts, coaxing and demanding her surrender with equal fervor. She gasped as warmth flooded her—each beckoning stroke, each press of his fingers built the pressure within her. The wave of pleasure crested swiftly, hot and primal, coursing through her in unrelenting bursts. Swiftly removing the monolith from her mouth, she contoured her back off the pallet, her body trembling violently with the intensity of the release. Her throat opened, her cry—a scream of ecstasy—ripping through her, the very sound of her surrender filling the air.

Her fist clenched around the thick shaft resting patiently against her cheek, her grip desperate and needy, as the pleasure raked through her small frame, the sensation overwhelming, impossible to control. The primal urgency was so complete, so absolute, that she felt as if she were being devoured—mind, body, soul.

When the waves of pleasure finally began to recede, a deep, aching emptiness stirred within her, urging her to fill it once more. She replaced the thick length, her lips curling around it with the force of her raw hunger, tasting the salt at the knight’s tip and the heat that thrummed beneath it. Every movement, every thrust dragged her deeper into the abyss, and Guinevere gave herself to it without hesitation, her breath shallow and erratic as she drowned in the sensation of a tongue washing over her hooded pearl. There was no retreat, no fight—only the surrender of her body, of her soul, to the knights who held her completely within their thrall.

The rich scent of warm skin, musk, and leather filled her nostrils, mingling with the faintest trace of sweat—a reminder of their power and dominance. Her flesh seemed to burn with every brush of their hands, as if their touch left a trail of molten desire in its wake. Her heart pounded with a desperate urgency, its frantic rhythm matching the pulse between her legs.

For two hours, the knights of legend laid siege to Guinevere’s senses, their unparalleled strength and skill undeniable as they treated her with the utmost respect but strove to leave her weak and trembling. Their prowess was undeniable, as the gods had intended. Each knight staked his claim with a different brand of mastery. Their hips moved with unflagging vigor, a rhythmic, unrelenting march that sent Guinevere’s screams echoing through the very foundations of Camelot. Her sanctuary pulsed with life, crying when one sword withdrew and bubbling in ecstasy when another immediately replaced it, beating a new cadence, a new rhythm into her core. Her throat molded around their swords like a living sheath, and each knight brought his own legacy to offer—power, grace, and dominance. Guinevere reveled in it all.

Sir Gawain, his midnight hair, like inky waves above his sun-warmed skin, wore his charm with striking flair. His smile – so warm, so utterly disarming–belied the power hidden beneath his dashing gestures and witty tongue. Broad shoulders framed a body chiseled by battle and devotion, his chest firm enough to withstand a multitude, his hips made for ruin. When he held Guinevere for a brief moment, it was as though the world faded. He guided her to straddle him with a reverent hunger, his large hands gripping her wide hips, lifting and lowering her with such perfect control she could scarcely breathe as her eyes glazed under the climactic waves as she ground herself against him. His breath—low and primal—tickled her ear as her hips undulated above him, her cries an offering to the gods above. As she rode him, slick with sweat, the bed beneath them grew wild, twisted in the evidence of Guinevere’s urgency, her fight for bliss becoming a frenetic frenzy for all the assembly to behold. The bed beneath them twisted and moaned under the frantic ballet of their bodies, the linens soaked with the opulent flood of her need.

Then came Sir Kay, a decorated warrior seasoned by countless campaigns and darker pleasures, who wore his power like wrought iron armor. His thighs, thick and unyielding, anchored on the maple floor as he claimed Guinevere’s throat. Recognizing the knight, she was ruthless—because he could take it. Because he needed it. She tugged and pulled at his velvety jewels with the force of her body’s craving. He let out an unexpected growl of surprise that quickly turned into a devilish chuckle. Guinevere boldly took possession of him. 

Meanwhile, his sword was a weapon of conquest, and she accepted him deeply, her throat stretching around the impossible breadth of him. His hands—scarred and calloused—closed around her neck, the pressure an exquisite reminder of his control. He growled as she sucked, her hands a vice-grip on his jewels, a low, pleased rumble that vibrated against her very bones. When he thrust, it was brutal, every movement owning her, branding her from the inside out. Her body shook with each volatile impact. Sir Kay thrived on tension, on raw, brutal force, and she moved with him, embracing every thrust that pulled something deeper from her.

Sir Bors. An ever confident and provocative guest to Guinevere’s bed. His appetite for entwined flesh made him an irresistible companion. His salacious words stirred her blood almost as much as the sheer power of his frame—the cut of his abdomen, the press of his thighs, the muscular span of his chest that always bore the scent of sin. With an unapologetic growl, he seized her hips, jerking her toward him with no hesitation. Her calves balanced on his shoulders, her thighs resting perilously close to the ridges of his rippled chest. The entirety of her weight shifted onto the crown of her head and the arch of her shoulders, her spine bent like a bow drawn tight. Guinevere was utterly at his mercy.

The force of his rhythm lifted her higher, her body straining toward him, toward heaven, even as he ravaged her with the savage precision of a man long familiar with her most secret cravings. She gasped as he drove into her, her slick folds stretched wide by the sheer mass of him. Each thrust made her cry out, a sound caught somewhere between prayer and profanity. 

His rhythm was relentless, hips pistoning with savage grace, thighs like granite slapping against her own. Her vision blurred as her climax hit—violent and all-consuming. Sometime later, when he had released her quivering body to others, her mouth, parted and eager, became an open chalice, catching his milky offering as he spilled himself into her open mouth, groaning her name like a litany. With shameless triumph, she swallowed him with a wicked smirk. She was triumphant in her victory over him, even as heat bloomed once more between her trembling thighs as a knight buried his face between her slick thighs. There was nothing meek in her reception—only hunger and a satisfaction so raw it bordered on blasphemy.

There was Sir Percival, his eyes a piercing, crystal blue—so vivid and striking that they seemed to shimmer with the intensity of the first light of dawn, reflecting off a frozen sea. They held a quiet, hypnotic power. There was more to him than met the eye. His seeming innocence clung to him like an untouched robe, yet something in his movements made her wonder if more lurked beneath that pure veneer. She couldn’t help but hook her finger to beckon him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and melting into his masculinity and the naked expanse of his bare chest. As she pressed herself against him, her lips trailed up his neck, sensing the subtle dominance just beneath his skin—a force he was perhaps too shy to unleash in front of his fellow knights. 

Later, when his bearded face buried itself between her thighs, his gentle nibbles became bolder, more calculated—each bite sending her to the edge of madness. Each flick of his tongue, nip of his teeth, revealed the beast beneath the lamb. She would have screamed her astonishment had her mouth not been otherwise occupied, the thrusts of Sir Bedivere’s indomitable length claiming her throat, his pulsing sword buried deep within her gullet. This was pure life, raw and untamed, and it made her feel as though she were soaring.

The towering Sir Palamedes. His height alone dwarfed her, but it was the strength that radiated from him that truly consumed her. He was a gentle giant, the shaman of the Round Table. Guinevere, petite and delicate in his arms, felt herself become smaller yet more powerful in his embrace. His sharp, focused eyes never left her, reading every detail with a knowing intensity. As his thick, knowing fingers moved inside her, his grip never faltered, hands firm with purpose, showing no mercy but fully understanding of her needs. 

His presence made her pulse race, and her body trembled under his scale, his chest a solid alter where her cries were muffled, swallowed into the deep thrum of his power. There was no shyness in his manipulation. Sir Palamedes knew beyond a doubt that she was no fragile spring flower. Screams of pleasure ripped through the night as she succumbed to each enigmatic wave he engendered. 

Sir Tristan, the scribe of legends, observed her not like a man, but like a worshiper chronicling the unraveling of a goddess. His eyes—deep, quiet, endlessly knowing—followed her every gasp, every quiver, every exultant cry, as if he were stitching each moment into the fabric of history. His midnight ravens—those holy witnesses—perched along the edges of the chamber, even clinging to the chandelier above, chronicling everything with respectful stillness. Their beady eyes reflected candlelight and something else… something unspoken.

His lips—soft and searching—left a fire trail down her skin, and the scent of black forests and dying embers clung to him, earthy, unrelenting, and terrifyingly primal. His hips moved like poetry written in flesh, a cadence that lured her soul beyond her body. With every stroke, every breath, she felt less mortal and more myth. A living instrument in the symphony he composed—a song of heat, of hunger, of something eternal. Under Sir Tristan’s attention, she ceased to be only a woman. She became memory. She became a legend.

The black knight, Sir Aglovale, took her completely by surprise—though a most welcome one. His arrival crackled with dark promise. Guinevere’s breath caught when she saw him—tall, corded with lean muscle, hair like fire cascading over a predator’s stare. His arrival was precisely why Guinevere had not wished to know whom Arthur had summoned—some delicious secrets deserved to be unwrapped only in the moment. Her blush, nearly matching his fire-blessed locks, was swiftly swept away as he approached with quiet command, his presence unfurling like smoke and sorcery.

He carried an undercurrent of dominance that beckoned her darker desires like a forbidden song. His fingers—long, clever, calloused from battle—moved with the precision of a sorcerer, coaxing from her a flood of sensation that felt as ancient as the moon. She gasped, her body arching, shaking, succumbing to the storm he summoned from her depths. His magnificent chest—sculpted, gleaming, marked by the shimmering nectar of her surrender—pressed against her as his whispered admonitions curled like incense smoke around her ears.

No longer the bashful Guienevere—she writhed, eyes closed, crying sacred profanities into the universe as he claimed her with the reverence of a dark priest.

Sir Bedivere, battle-hardened and sure in his touch, soundlessly pushed through the pain of a wounded shoulder. He manipulated her body with the ease of a man who had conquered both war and woman alike. His might, despite his quiet manner, tested her limits—and she welcomed the challenge. Her throat stretched with the intense magnitude of his two-handed sword, and though the pain was fierce, it only made her burn hotter. Each brutal thrust seared her sanctuary with an infernal inscription she thrilled to bear. Nevertheless, the watchful gaze of his Lady Queen, Aravell, drove Guinevere to the very edge of her sanity. To be watched, her dismantling witnessed by an Elvin Queen, drove her to test her limits—to prove her worthiness even as she shattered.

And Sir Lamorak—well, his account must wait a little longer.

Weaving astutely between the raw, naked bodies of godlike knights, Arthur moved with a grace that bordered on the obscene—lean and licentious, like a waltz choreographed in lust and incense. There was no trace of jealousy in his dark gaze, no flicker of possessive fury—only a hunger so vast it devoured light and a thread of devotion so feral it gnashed its teeth in prayer. He watched his Queen’s exquisite undoing not with blame, but with a bottomless ache, a reverence veiled in shadow.

When the beast of need surged—ravenous and red-eyed—Arthur slipped between Guinevere’s trembling thighs, reclaiming what was his, not with brutish envy, but with the sheer, radiant force of a bond deeper than law, older than bone. Each time he sank into her, the air trembled–the chamber falling into a hush for a heartbeat. The audience bore witness to an ancient ritual on the altar of something too holy, something irrevocable. It was not lust. It was liturgy.

True to their word, the gallant knights held their oath, guiding Guinevere through her darkness—each tier of ecstasy a deeper descent into something primal, visceral, and velvet-black. Her once-regal hair clung to her temples in sapphire tangles, damp with sweat and sin, and still they seized it—fistfuls of silk and storm—as they tilted her head back to receive their offerings. Her throat stretched wide, open as confession, her lips shining with obedience and desire. She drank each monolith like a sacred sacrament. 

Her skin gleamed—a hallowed sheen of dew over bruising rose petals, slick with exertion and exaltation. The muscles in her feet cramped and wept, her dainty toes curled and curled in endless loops of torment and bliss, caught in the rapture that ravaged her body from fingers to throat. The word mercy no longer had shape—only heat, only hunger.

Prone on her back, her porcelain ankles riveted to the stalwart knight’s shoulders as he waged merciless war upon her inner sanctum. Her trembling hands, slick and reverent, adored another’s blade—tongue flicking, lips teasing, a worshipful supplicant to every glistening god around her. Her body shattered and reformed, again and again, only to be undone by pleasure’s next brutal kiss. Bliss rolled through her like a thunderstorm through a cathedral, leaving only ruin in its hallowed wake.

And still—it was not enough. Her darkness prowled, slick-jawed and unrepentant, snarling more.

Face down, her body spilled across the altar’s velvet wedge like sacramental wine, each curve an offering to the night’s design. Guinevere arched, her hips shimmying in a sinful invitation—a silent spell that dared the Round Table’s most devout to falter. The mask, having served its purpose, had long since fallen away, leaving her free to gaze upon the gathering with unclouded eyes. Turning her head, one cheek pressed to the velvet embrace, she opened one eye, watching as the world beyond her unraveled. The knights circled her like stars orbiting a ravishing sun, their swords rigid and gleaming in the dim light, the room thick with sweat, anointing, and the intoxicating scent of desire.

In that briefest of moments, Guinevere wondered if perhaps the Round Table had never truly referred to a piece of furniture—for this one was not round. No, it was a circle of bodies and blades, a ring of loyalty forged in lust and respect. The knights stood like holy sentinels around Guenivere, broad shoulders tense with restraint, arms like columns of living marble—built to cradle and conquer. Their feet were planted, steady and braced, as they oiled their glimmering swords, patient and pulsing with the ache of desire held in check.

Perhaps Round meant Around. A sacrificial ring. A perfect geometry of longing. All angles approachable, save for the side where the altar had been shoved against the wall—a blessed thing, for the bed’s seams had already begun to give under the tempest of their sacred work.

A few of the coiled springs beneath the mattress had already snapped—broken by the brutal rhythm of bliss, the relentless pounding of bodies seeking absolution in pleasure. Sharp tips of metal pierced through velvet like thorns through roseflesh, a hazard of exquisite excess. When Arthur revealed the carnage to Guinevere days later, she only laughed—a low, knowing sound, the kind one makes after bartering with gods and returning crowned in ruin.

Guinevere astonished herself.

That her body could be both temple and battlefield. That it could host such storms and remain unshattered. That though breached, battered, and broken open, her sanctum did not plead for peace—it whispered, “again.” Even when breath grew tight beneath a knight’s hand, when panic fluttered within her ribs like a trapped bird, her lungs found rhythm, and her throat blessed the clenched fist obstructing her airway. Her pulse stretched in silence, then swallowed once more, eager and unyielding.

Even her poor, overtaxed toes—curled and cramping—ceased their protest. They had learned the holiness of pain transformed, and they bowed.

It was good to be alive.

It was good to be ruined.

And still, the knights remained resolute in their sacred mission—like titans bound to the trembling altar of womanhood. Mighty hands, scarred by a thousand battles, encircled the delicate ivory column of her neck, caressed her breasts, and slipped inside, lifting her—not to harm, never to harm—but to exalt, to turn her cries of euphoria into silent hymns for the gods of flesh and surrender. The pressure on her airway turned each gasp into a trembling note of music. Their lips descended in reverent worship, a knight at each mountanious peak, tongues laving like devout monks at a holy spring. Between her thighs, another knight sheathed himself to the hilt, pulsing, claiming—his sacred sword swallowed whole by her velvet embrace.

And yet—still—no words of surrender dared form in Guinevere’s mind.

Mouths carressed her skin in every direction, painting her with adoration, their tongues composing a symphony of praise, each note more reverent than the last. She screamed to the heavens and was not ashamed. One knight fed her screams with his mouth—stoking the fire—then withdrew for another to take his place in seamless rotation. A third offered his sword to her left hand; a fourth guided her hands to his need on the right. A fifth tested the limits of her devotion, plunging into the depths of her throat until her body convulsed in blissful catatonic surrender.

And intermittently, like the calm hand of the moon among stars, Arthur appeared—tending to her. A morsel of honeyed fruit. A sip of glistening water from a crystal goblet. His fingers, brushing her temple, cooled her fevered brow, even as she was taken and taken again. Her body drifted to the very edge of the altar—head thrown back, dangling, vulnerable—only to be cradled by the palm of a knight even as he filled her throat with himself. Another, between her thighs, grasped her waist and yanked her back to center with a delicious growl, drawing a shriek of carnal delight from Guinevere’s already-ruined throat.

At one breathtaking moment, she was bent over the altar’s entire edge, arms flung backward, palms braced against the velvet-thick rug, her hair cascading like a river of sapphire silk. Hands reached to steady her, but she denied them—shaking her head like a queen born to withstand storms. Above her, a knight thundered at her apex, relentless, unmerciful in his worship, and she welcomed him with a raw, rapturous scream. If she was willing to take the offense, who was he to slow the fierce, holy barrage?

Every inch of her sang with strength. With want. With the delicious weight of her own ruin.

And then—Sir Gawain, the disarming charmer, lay beneath her like a throne made flesh, his sword filling her aching void. Arthur moved behind, all sovereign stillness and storm. With one hand resting on the ladder of her back, he bowed her forward, guiding her lithe form down until her stomach rested against Sir Gawain’s broad chest, the curling hairs of his chest tickling her sensitive nipples. Then came the press—Arthur’s crown, bulbous and commanding, seeking entrance to her most forbidden gate. Pressure bloomed, the tight ring of fire flaring with the promise of something new and foreign.

She had dreamed of this. To be taken—duly claimed—utterly infused with masculinity. To be filled in every place a woman could be filled.

But her body trembled. Hesitated. And as Arthur slowly pressed, refused. The circle of fire became a blaze too intense to endure. 

And so she turned her face away, cheeks flushed with helpless shame, her breath catching in a whisper-soft no. Not yet. Not now. Her gate would not yield. She grieved it with silent fury, this deferral of devotion, this ache unanswered. But she vowed—another time. Another night of stars and swords. She would not forget. She would be better prepared next time.

With a deep breath, she blew away her discomfort, her mind seeking to soothe the angered gate as she returned her focus to Sir Gawain, but not before catching Arthur, her hand wrapping around the back of his head as she brought him into a devastating kiss that left them both breathless and starry-eyed.

Sir Lamorak came then—his voice a growl spun in dark honey. “Hands and knees,” his tone laced with something eldritch, a power far older than the kingdom itself. She obeyed, trembling but defiant, her hair a wild banner down her back, as she dipped her face to rest on the damp linens. One powerful hand curled around the slope of her shoulder—anchoring her—and then, with a sound like thunder breaking open the sanctum, the leather crop struck.

She gasped—lips parted in stunned delight, the sound more hymn than cry. The wide leather had not been expected, but it was welcome. Lamorak paused, respectful, waiting for her consent. She purred at the bruising addition, giving a subtle roll of her hips, a dip of her head—a silent, feral invitation.

Sir Lamorak obliged.

His arm—unyielding, relentless, divine—drew back, and the crop sang its punishing song again. And again. The blows rained like molten stars against her alabaster flesh, searing devotion into her skin. Across the altar, the Elven Queen watched with parted lips and glittering eyes. The knights stood motionless, bound in awe. A shiver ran through them all.

Another stroke landed—her breath caught. Fire bloomed across her derriere, heat inked on her skin like the lingering bite of a fevered lover. The leather left behind not mere welts but art—one cheek bearing the faint, violet-tinged bloom that would ripen into a bruise days later, a secret pressed into her skin like a whispered vow—a sacred mark of absolution.

Her eyes glinted with a hint of unshed tears, but it was not pain that filled them. It was hunger. It was the divine ache of a woman who had tasted worship and found it insufficient.

She raised two fingers—her silent signal. More. The pain had been less than the unbearable five. The message was for them all, but especially for Arthur.  She feared he might misread her ruin as breaking, but she wasn’t breaking. She was blooming. Becoming. Her ruin was the altar on which her power was born.

And Lamorak, dark and gallant, gave her more.

One fatal blow landed between her thighs—on that swollen, glistening sanctuary—and she clenched her jaw, refusing to cry out. The fire rolled through her like devastating lightning. She quickly flipped onto her back, away from the raining blows, clutching her core as her body trembled in shock. But even in her shuddering, she turned back over—slow, sovereign, unstoppable—resuming her supplicant position, head nestled in her arms, her spine a sinuous question mark of desire, wild and radiant. Her skin still hummed where the crop had struck, where Lamorak’s adoration had left echoes of his attendance.

She wanted more.

She would have more.

A velvet hush rose in the aftermath.

Guinevere, flushed and trembling, rose tall and radiant for Arthur and all the knights—like a flame ascending from the ashes, stronger, stranger, crowned in her own ruin. The knights, spent and breathing heavily, gathered their clothing and dressed in reverence. The altar beneath her glistened with the offerings of gods, the bedroll askew, the covers beyond redemption—nearly floating in Guinevere’s lake of indulgence, the scent of myrrh, sweat, and sanctity thick in the air like a dream one cannot, does not, wish to wake from.

Stepping off the Round Table, she dressed swiftly in lounging silks of deep teal and trimmed in noir lace, her form gliding like smoke through the air as the warriors refreshed themselves once more in the Great Hall. She radiated amongst the lingering knights, shared wine, crackers, and sharp cheese, and pulled Aravell into an embrace that pressed heart to heart, unspeakably grateful for her the Elven Queen’s grounding and ethereal presence. Each knight received a soft kiss pressed to his lips, a murmur of gratitude spilling from her tongue as she sent a spell of protection after their fading forms, her body still bearing their shadows in shades of mauve and rose.

And all beneath the watchful eye of the Moon Goddess, high in her throne of silver.

When the castle finally fell silent, Guinevere returned to Arthur with the ferocity of solitude—as though untouched all evening, starved and half-mad with want. She took him into her as if to devour him whole, as if the aching void beneath her skin could only be soothed by the obliteration of distance, by the collapse of separation. As if by claiming him, she could somehow quench the need still clawing beneath her skin.

Need ravaged her core, a relentless thrum insisting that he sink deeper, press harder, crush her beneath the weight of their union until her throat sang with the ghosts of her own shattered cries. Until his control fractured like stained glass beneath the siege of their union. Until her body, trembling and triumphant, gave way to spent surrender. At last, limp with sacred exhaustion, she collapsed into his arms. Ever the silent sentinel, Arthur curled his cool body around her, smoothing the hair from her damp temples and whispering lullabies in the old tongue as Morpheus brushed sleep across her lashes.

But come the hush before dawn, long before the hearth stirred or banners rustled, she roused with a vengeance. Savage. Gleaming. Feral.

She climbed into his arms with the hunger of a goddess clothed in the brilliance of a new dawn flickering with dimming stars. She rose above him like prophecy made flesh, her thighs astride his hips, her breath a molten litany of need. She shattered the veil of his sleep with the urgency of a woman reborn—not coy, not ashamed, but sovereign.

Unstoppable. Wildborn.

Her darkness had tasted air.

Her desire had found voice.

It would not be silenced. No longer content to be tucked in obscure corners. Not dismissed as fantasy and not veiled in modesty.

Her hunger had been made holy.

And Guinevere trembled—not from shame, but from awe—at what had been unleashed.

And she smiled.

Until next time, XO. Elsie