Strawberry Ices

[josephine_marrs]

summary/preview: Arthur savors an after-dinner delicacy that he didn't expect.
content notes: non-con (one character cannot reasonably refuse the other's advances, though he does enjoy what happens), no other content notes apply.

            Even during the height of summer, snow still clung to the peaks of the White Mountains, showing as patches of pure white against the grey stone spines of their peaks. Many a pair of eyes lifted to them during the hot months, wishing that they could be there, instead of sweltering down in the valleys of Camelot. Even the most privileged of families was not immune to the effects of the heat, and at the end of a long day of practice, the knights would mop their brows and think wistful thoughts that centered around snow, or water, or anything cool.
            Therefore, when a merchant appeared in court to sell a delicacy that he had, there was much excitement when he brought forth several heavy wooden caskets, and opened the lids to reveal that they were full of glimmering, pristine snow, carried from the highest peaks of the White Mountains. Even though the heat was enough to make any puddles and spills disappear within moments, the snow was still bright, and solid, and cold.
            Uther had immediately paid the merchant a handsome sum for his wares, and the cooks and castellans were sent into a frenzy as they argued about the best use for such a precious thing. One of them happened to mention that the snow could be sweetened with honey and served up with fruit compotes within earshot of one of the nobles, and by the time she had finished her sentence, there were half a dozen knights petitioning the king to have that delicacy with their dinner. Uther graciously agreed to that, and everyone in the castle set to preparing for the rare delight that they were to experience that night.
            Few people were more excited about this development than Arthur. He paid only perfunctory attention to the meat and cheeses and grapes and wine that were offered, waiting impatiently for dessert. And when that final course arrived, how beautiful it was! The pristine white of the snow had been drenched with sweet honey, and adorned with all sorts of luscious fruits: strawberries, currants, peaches, apricots, and diced melons, all served up in their individual bowls, the concoctions sweet and glistening and, most important of all, refreshingly cold.
            A murmur ran through the feast hall, and the nobles leaned forward in their seats, watching for the servants to carry the delicious cargo to them. Arthur could see Merlin’s bright blue tunic moving in the line of servants toward him, a dewy metal bowl cradled in his pale hands.
            All of the other servants made it to the sides of their masters just fine. All of the other servants were capable of holding their bowls straight and steady and level, and of setting it carefully in front of their betters, and going away to do their other duties. All of the other servants were able to handle the privilege of handling such a beautiful delicacy for the space of a few moments.
            Except for Merlin.
            That bowl of chilled dessert was so close. Arthur could see the mist of cool moisture that had built up on the outside of the bowl, could smell the sweet drizzle of strawberries and honey. His fingers had been curling with anticipation around his spoon as he waited for it. And then, his idiot manservant had tripped, plowed nearly head-first into the table, and sent all of that exquisite sweetness crashing to the floor.
            “Shoo, you. Bugger off,” he could hear Merlin saying under the table, as the dogs came sniffing to see what the newest dropped treat was. At least one of them had champed a mouthful of it before darting back out from underneath the table, judging by the way they were licking their chops.
            Merlin emerged from underneath the table with the bowl, which now contained just one paltry mouthful (if that) of ice and a berry and a drizzle of honey syrup. “Sorry ‘bout that. But it’s not a total…loss…” He trailed off, though, as he saw Arthur’s face. The prince’s expression clearly stated that he was wrong in that assessment.
            “Get. Out. Of. My. Sight.” Arthur hissed, through gritted teeth.
            Merlin skulked off. With the bowl. Arthur was so mortified, that he didn’t even know if that was a bad thing, or not. From the corners of his eyes, he could see one knight hunkering down and shielding his bowl with an arm on one side, and another giving him a pitying look as he hurriedly scooped the last spoonful safely into his mouth. At his feet, the ice became a sticky pool soaking into the rushes. 

            Arthur stomped up to his bedchamber to catch Merlin seated in his chair, running a finger mournfully around the rim of that accursed bowl. He’d really brought it all the way up here. Like that would do any good.
            “What are you still doing here?” Arthur growled, as Merlin made a great show of leaping out of the chair and turning down the light summer blanket on his bed.
            “Just getting things ready for you.”          
            “You’ve done enough damage for the day.” Peevishly, Arthur peeled his tunic off and threw it on the floor. “Everyone else got to have the special dish. My father, Morgana, the dogs. And I! I get sticky boots.” He flopped into his chair and leaned down to unlace the footwear. He looked up to the bowl on the nearby table and his face twisted into an even deeper scowl.
            “I tried to save what I could for you,” Merlin offered.
            “And why would I want that dribble? By now it’s all—“ He grabbed the bowl and scowled down into it…and then his scowl turned into a puzzled frown, as he made a realization. “…still cold.” Numbingly cold, actually. “How on earth can that be—“
            “Oh, no, no, no, you wouldn’t want that, heavens no,” Merlin said, covering half the distance between the bed and where Arthur sat, and then just dithering in place. “I mean, how special is it, really? Some merchant went up there and scraped it off a bunch of rocks on the mountaintop and brought it down here…kind of disgusting, actually, if you think about it…”
            “Oh, so now you’re saying that a rare treat that the King and all the nobility found delicious is disgusting?”
            “A-all I’m saying is…just think about it. Even up there, the snow can’t be that deep, and you don’t know exactly where on the mountain they got it. Maybe that merchant was really lazy and just scooped it up from the first snowbank he came across. One that had animals and birds walking across it all season long. Or there could be pebbles in it. Maybe I just saved you from chipping a tooth.”
            “Well, I guess I’ll never know, will I, since all I have is what you scraped off the floor.”
            Merlin’s mouth formed a thin, hurt line. “I didn’t just scrape it off the floor! That was what was left in the bowl!”
            “After you dropped it!”
            “Well…I didn’t do it on purpose! I tripped!”
            “And of all the times to trip and drop my food, you had to do it then.”
            “Oh -- listen to you! You’re being such a big baby about it.” Merlin swiped a hand through sweat-spiked hair. Not even the prince’s private chambers were immune from being maddeningly hot and stuffy.
            That fit of pique got Arthur to finally put the bowl down. It made a ringing thud as he slammed it onto the table, and shot out of his seat. “What I’m being is far too lenient with you. I am the Crown Prince, and you are just some peasant servant, and you’ll not go calling me names.”
            “Oh, well, I’m sorry, Your Royal High Crybaby-ness!” Merlin sputtered, as he sketched an elaborate, mocking bow. “Go on and eat your dirty snow, and send for me when you need your diaper changed.”
            Of all the stupid things that Merlin had done that day, that was the stupidest. Arthur was already too warm, but this latest indignity made the blood pulse hard in his temples. Before Merlin could rise out of his bow and do something wiser, like flee, Arthur had closed the space between them, and seized him by the back of the neck. “I should have you thrown in the stocks for this. And then thrown into prison. And then horse-whipped.” The heavy weight of his grip kept Merlin bent over at an awkward angle. “And even then, I’ll bet you still wouldn’t be able to wrap your mind around how you’re supposed to properly speak to your master.” His grip wasn’t just squeezing the back of Merlin’s neck; it was trembling there, he was so angry. “You thick, lowborn idiot.” So carried away was the prince in his wrath, that before he knew it, he was bringing his free hand crashing down onto Merlin’s lean backside, punctuating each heated word with a heavy, solid blow.
            An instant later, he realized what he was doing, and let Merlin go, giving him a shove as he backed away. Merlin walked a few paces and straightened up before standing stock-still, his back to the prince. His shoulders were hunched, and Arthur could see the bright scarlet of embarrassment tinging the backs of his ears.
            “All…all right, then,” Arthur said, shaking the hot tingling out of his hand, and trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “That’s over and done with, and you’d best remember how to speak to your betters from now on.” Merlin just kept standing there. “Oh, come now, Merlin. Now who’s being childish?” He raised his hand, feeling a brief and rare moment of indecision; then he reached forward and grasped his servant’s shoulder, giving it a jerk.
            Merlin made an awkward sort of flailing, trying to bring his hands to the front of his trousers for a moment, then moving them swiftly away again, as if realizing that was just going to attract Arthur’s gaze. Which it did, of course. And then, Arthur saw the reason for it. Bulging against the front of Merlin’s loose trousers was a very obvious erection.
            “What’s that?” Arthur blurted, even though he most assuredly knew what it was. An embarrassed laugh snorted out of his nose. “What…what the hell is wrong with you, Merlin?”
            Merlin rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I-it’s nothing, it’s just…this thing. That I have.” His face was beet-red, and his eyes bright, as if he was just a hair’s-breadth away from crying from dismay. “It’ll go away,” he mumbled.
            “Yes. Well.” Arthur shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He realized that he was still staring at It, and tore his eyes away, the heat of a blush tinting his cheeks. “You may go, then,” he said, slowly, “…as soon as you show me that you’ve learned your lesson.”
            Merlin ducked his head in a nod, and swallowed hard. “Yes, my lord. I’m…I’m very sorry for talking to you like that. I was quite out of line.”
            Arthur nodded, and settled back down in his chair – rather gingerly, as if he’d been the one who’d just had his bottom wailed on. “You may as well take my boots off, before you go. You can take them with you and clean them off,” he said, his tone rather painstakingly nonchalant. He reached over to take up the bowl again. “And…I’ll eat what’s left of my iced fruit.”
            “Right,” Merlin said quietly, and knelt at Arthur’s feet, deft fingers working at the bootlaces. Arthur regarded him for a moment – just to satisfy himself that his servant was finally behaving himself, of course – and plucked the strawberry from the bowl. Of course Merlin had been too much of a clot to bring a spoon, too…but with what little there was, he could make do with his fingers.
            He bit the tip off of the large berry, and gave a little grunt of pleasure at how cool and sweet it was. Even the metal of the bowl was still quite cold, and he touched it to his own bared stomach, sighing as the coldness soothed skin that had been far too hot and sweaty all day long. He swirled the berry in the drizzle of juice and honey, gathering up a bit of crunchy ice on the fruit’s flesh, and took another slow, careful bite, his lips making a soft slurping sound as he sucked at it, mingling the sweet taste of the berry’s juice with the earthier taste of the honey. Of course, he had tasted such things before, but the cold crunch of the ice along with it took it to a whole new level. He could feel the heat and tension of the day ebbing away…for the most part. Perhaps sucking at a fat berry while Merlin’s face was so close to his lap was not the most…fortuitous thing. He shifted in his seat as the servant dragged the one boot off of his foot, prompting the kneeling lad to look up curiously. Merlin blinked, and kept staring at what he had suddenly noticed.
            “What are you looking at?” Arthur said, his tone trying to warn his servant’s gaze away.
            It seemed to work, for Merlin quickly dropped his head again. “Oh, nothing, Sire,” he said, meekly. Arthur started to take another bite of his dessert. “It’s just that, whatever’s wrong with me, it seems to be contagious,” the damnable manservant said, and so help him, he was smiling one of those infernal cheeky grins of his, as his gaze slid upward to look pointedly at the faint outline of hardened cock that showed against Arthur’s breeches.
            Arthur nearly choked. “Yes. Well. As you said, it will go away.” A brief pause as he swallowed, and then: “And this should go without saying, but as your lord I order you not to speak of this to anyone.”
            “Of course, Sire. Your secret’s safe with me.”
            “Good.” Arthur swirled the butt-end of his strawberry around and around in his bowl, trying in vain to shake the chain of thought that kept winding round and around in his head.
            “I mean, what is it with you?” the prince blurted out at last. “You don’t…get like that every time I yell at you, do you?”
            “No, Sire. That gets a bit tiresome, actually.”
            Arthur frowned. “Well, what is it, then? Was it because I did this?” He reached forward and grabbed the back of Merlin’s neck again, chilled fingertips digging into the warm flesh and dragging his head forward. He heard an explosion of breath from Merlin’s lips, and felt his servant’s long fingers curling around his booted leg and clutching tightly. He could also feel his own breeches fitting that much more snugly around his crotch. “Is it?”
            “M-m-maybe,” Merlin panted. “I dunno! It just happened.”
            “But it’s never happened before. Do you like it when someone gets physical with you, Merlin? I’d never pegged you as the rough-and-tumble type.”
            “No one ever does,” Merlin sighed.
            Arthur set the bowl aside, licking his lips thoughtfully. “Stand up,” he said, fingers dragging across Merlin’s scalp as his hand retreated. “I want to see it.” Merlin frowned at him, and he frowned back. “Oh, come now. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone.”
            Merlin stood up slowly, his erection still tenting his trousers. The shaft that sprang free of the cloth was long and thick, and stood up straight and proud over a large, heavy-looking set of balls. Arthur swallowed hard, tempted to claw his way out of his own, too-tight breeches. “You definitely have nothing to be ashamed of,” he murmured.
            He leaned forward, fingers sliding underneath his servant’s ballsac, and ran his thumb over the taut, velvety skin. The digit nudged Merlin’s left nut far down inside the soft sac, and his palm closed over it to give it a slow squeeze that was relentless in its ever-increasing pressure. Merlin gave a soft, squeaking groan, and his rigid shaft gave a pulsing jerk.
            “I knew there was something about you,” Arthur murmured.
            “Oh, you have no idea.” Arthur’s hand tugged him forward with that crushing grip. “Sire.”
            “That’s better.” Arthur smiled and pulled again, roughly polishing both of the firm orbs in his iron grip. With his free hand, he reached up and grabbed the front of Merlin’s tunic, tugging him down rather awkwardly to lie face-down across his lap. He settled his hand across the back of his servant’s neck, fingers teasing at the side of his throat, his other hand sliding up and back over Merlin’s buttocks. “Another thing, that you must always abide,” he said, dragging his fingernails over the juncture between ass and thigh. “If I ever am harming you, you are to tell me.”
            He felt Merlin nod, his voice sounding small and far away. “Yes, my lord.”
            He drew his hand away from the servant’s warm flesh, paused for a moment, and then brought his palm down, hard, onto the other lad’s buttock. His cheek was a supple amalgam of soft, giving skin and lean muscle, that gave only a faint ripple when his hand impacted with it. But Merlin’s whole body gave a far greater shudder on his lap. Arthur felt his own cock grow painfully-hard, and he rolled his hips. Merlin’s body was a pleasing weight atop his legs, holding him down. And his skin showed marks very well; he could already see a clear handprint on the flesh that he’d just beaten.
            “You don’t know why you are the way you are.” He gave Merlin’s ass another hard slap. “And I…I don’t know, either. Just that I have been this way, for as long as I can remember.” Every sentence brought a pause, and every pause brought a slap, and every slap brought Merlin writhing in his lap, panting hard now, his erection hot against Arthur’s leg. “No one has been able to handle it. No one has understood. The girls whisper, don’t they, about what a brute I am?” He was shaking with excitement, his hand grabbing flesh that he had bruised, and kneading it. Merlin’s groaning was sweet music to his ears. He grabbed at his servant’s tunic and dragged him up again; it was clumsy, and fumbling, and at the end of it Merlin was on his knees before him as he leaned forward on the very edge of his chair. The cloth of his breeches scraped across his turgid length. “Am I a brute, Merlin?” he asked, as his hand grasped his servant’s erection, and scraped a thumbnail over its taut head. The tip of his thumb was wet with thin, slick pre-cum.
            Later, he did not recall what Merlin had answered him, if he had answered at all. He only remembered that at some point, Merlin had darted his head forward, and kissed him, and he had kissed him back, deeply.
            The rest of that night was hot, and bruising. The more he abused his manservant, the more Merlin seemed to adore it. And, by the time they had both collapsed, trembling and spent and covered in slick sweat, Arthur realized that he not only had thoroughly enjoyed Merlin, but that he adored his bruises, and his cheekiness, and his appalling lapses in dexterity.

            “Arthur,” he heard Merlin saying, as he closed his eyes. “There’s something I should tell you…” Arthur wanted to hear it, but he was tired, and somehow underneath Merlin’s touch, he was growing comfortably cool again. He couldn’t remember anything that might have been said after that, when he woke up the next morning. But the taste of strawberries and honey was still on his tongue.