Kink Me! #35
Kink Me! #35
[Flat Kink Me! #35 is flat!]
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Welcome to Kink Me! Merlin #35! :D
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"Kill me now," he muttered when he saw the length of the shower queues. The woman in front of him looked back over her shoulder, eyes glassy, and smiled. She had multi-coloured flowers painted on her forehead, and what looked like muddy thumbprints on her cheeks.
"You know what they say, man. We all die at Camlann, then we're reborn." She looked him up and down, her smile widening. "Ooh, nice shirt. That's from the first Berlin tour, yeah?"
Grimy, groggy - and now itching, courtesy of the midges Gwen had sworn would not be a problem - Merlin looked down at his chest and winced. He'd been so desperate for a wash he'd pulled on the first thing Freya handed him, which as it happened was her "Ladydrakes: Get Le Fay-ted" tee, with a sketch of a leggy brunette sitting astride a man in a horse mask and chaps. On Merlin it was too short and skin tight; everything between his navel and hips was horribly exposed.
"Erm, no idea," Merlin said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Not mine."
The woman laughed. "That's the spirit," she said, flicking at Merlin with her camp towel. He stumbled back, knocking into a bevy of bedraggled youth in mud-spattered wellies. They were wearing novelty bobby hats and loudly debating something to do with the members of the Once and Future Knights.
"Easy there, tulip," one of the larger lads said, catching Merlin round the shoulders and eyeing him up and down. "How 'bout you, then, eh? Arthur Pendragon: suck, fuck, or take home to your mum?"
"What ever happened to shag, marry, throw off a cliff?" Merlin muttered, trying to tug Freya's shirt down then, when that failed, crossing his arms over his belly.
The boy laughed. He had rosy cheeks and big, horsey teeth. "Nice! I like that. Say, just how old are you, mate?"
"Twenty-seven," Merlin, replied, extracting himself from the boy's grasp.
There were cries of "Whoa!" and "Geezer!" from the group, but the lad just leaned in and prodded Merlin's belly.
"Well I think he's fit. Fancy a shag, tulip? "
Merlin cast one last desperate look up the queue, which had not budged, and fled.
He pushed through the milling crowds, not quite at the point of panic, but close. The day was shaping up to be a hot one, the damp fields steaming in the morning sun. He just needed a bit of air, a place to sit on his own and breathe. He was halfway back to their campsite - thinking a cramped tent was probably the best he could do, and better than commandeering a Porta Loo - when he remembered seeing something on Freya's festival map about a meditation grotto. Down past the burlesque venue, was it? No, the Avalon Stage.
Merlin veered off the track, thinking, if memory served, that he could reach the Avalon Stage by cutting through the adjoining campsites and looping around disabled parking, which was infinitely preferable to wending his way back through all the vendors and the growing crush of hungry festival-goers.
A quarter of an hour later, stumbling through a wooded area - sweaty, thirsty and covered in bits of twig and leaf - Merlin was prepared to admit that he was lost. He was just about to fling himself down on the nearest likely-looking log and give in to the panic when he spied the pond.
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