Truth be told, Arthur was expecting something more along the lines of a Wheel of Fortune scenario, perhaps with added indignities involving hot wax or chicken entrails - divination not being a subject he knows much about - so this business with the apples isn’t so bad.
The High Priestesses have provided a cushion for his knees, there is a familiar, pleasing scent emanating from the tub, and someone's evidently been in to build up the fire. Arthur can hear it roaring and crackling away in the grate, and though his feet and shins are bare, he's in no discomfort.
"So, shall I - " Arthur stiffens. "What was that?"
"What was what, sire?" says the woman on his left.
"That noise. Odd clicking, smacking sound, like…" Arthur tilts his head, listening intently. Now that the sound is gone he's unsure, but for a moment there he'd had a vision of Merlin's face, gormless with exhaustion and thirst.
Arthur clears his throat, gives a shake of his head. No doubt Merlin's out cold by now, snoring into his pillow, felled by all the rich food and strong drink. "Never mind. What next?"
In answer the woman on his right gives his shoulder a squeeze, then releases him. She begins to sing, and soon the others join in.
Duck-apple duck-apple One two three four Five pips at each heart Be it dozen or score. Duck-apple duck-apple Six seven eight nine Ten times you may taste Ere you catch what is thine. Duck-apple duck-apple Part your lips wide Open your heart and Let true love inside.
On the last few lines Arthur feels wet fingers on his face, tracing patterns on his forehead, smearing water over his mouth. When he parts his lips, as much to take a fortifying breath as to abide by the verse, one of the women anoints his tongue in a similar fashion, breaking from her singing to whisper something in the old language.
"You have been sanctified this night, sire," she adds. "This body, this mouth - all that you do with it is sacred, and carries the courage of your heart."
Arthur shivers, though not from cold. The words are intimate, almost more so than the touches. He feels his blood rising, warming his cheeks, rousing his cock, making his skin hyper-aware of all that is touching it. His loose, finely-woven shift. The courser fabric of his bonds. The velvet nap of the cushion.
He is mightily relieved when, with a final repetition of the last verse, the sorceresses announce that they will retreat to the antechamber to await his selection.
"No peeking," they remind him, tapping his blindfold. "You must use only your wits, and your mouth."
Truth be told, Arthur was expecting something more along the lines of a Wheel of Fortune scenario, perhaps with added indignities involving hot wax or chicken entrails - divination not being a subject he knows much about - so this business with the apples isn’t so bad.
The High Priestesses have provided a cushion for his knees, there is a familiar, pleasing scent emanating from the tub, and someone's evidently been in to build up the fire. Arthur can hear it roaring and crackling away in the grate, and though his feet and shins are bare, he's in no discomfort.
"So, shall I - " Arthur stiffens. "What was that?"
"What was what, sire?" says the woman on his left.
"That noise. Odd clicking, smacking sound, like…" Arthur tilts his head, listening intently. Now that the sound is gone he's unsure, but for a moment there he'd had a vision of Merlin's face, gormless with exhaustion and thirst.
Arthur clears his throat, gives a shake of his head. No doubt Merlin's out cold by now, snoring into his pillow, felled by all the rich food and strong drink. "Never mind. What next?"
In answer the woman on his right gives his shoulder a squeeze, then releases him. She begins to sing, and soon the others join in.
Duck-apple duck-apple
One two three four
Five pips at each heart
Be it dozen or score.
Duck-apple duck-apple
Six seven eight nine
Ten times you may taste
Ere you catch what is thine.
Duck-apple duck-apple
Part your lips wide
Open your heart and
Let true love inside.
On the last few lines Arthur feels wet fingers on his face, tracing patterns on his forehead, smearing water over his mouth. When he parts his lips, as much to take a fortifying breath as to abide by the verse, one of the women anoints his tongue in a similar fashion, breaking from her singing to whisper something in the old language.
"You have been sanctified this night, sire," she adds. "This body, this mouth - all that you do with it is sacred, and carries the courage of your heart."
Arthur shivers, though not from cold. The words are intimate, almost more so than the touches. He feels his blood rising, warming his cheeks, rousing his cock, making his skin hyper-aware of all that is touching it. His loose, finely-woven shift. The courser fabric of his bonds. The velvet nap of the cushion.
He is mightily relieved when, with a final repetition of the last verse, the sorceresses announce that they will retreat to the antechamber to await his selection.
"No peeking," they remind him, tapping his blindfold. "You must use only your wits, and your mouth."
* * *
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