The Camelot Theatre 2/2
It was a bad week. Everything seemed to be going wrong and the authorities almost caught him several times. His mind was too distracted, slowing his hand when it needed to be quick, making him less cautious than he should have bee. Morgana attempted to mother him and to feed him enough food to keep him from starving. Morgause had even been there to offer Mordred a chance to work for her, if he found pickpocketing was not providing him with the necessities of life. It was hard to concentrate on the conversation as Morgause curled around Morgana’s back and continued to finger-fuck her into oblivion as Mordred ate what food they had provided for him.
“Think about the offer,” Morgause said, all business as her fingers moved at a brutal pace that had Morgana cry out and arch back against her.
“I think you have your hands full at the moment,” Mordred said, leaving with a full stomach and feeling a bit steadier on his feet.
He now stood back in the theatre, already half-hard from watching Morgause and Morgana. It was then at the end of such a rotten week, with the weight of hunger and empty pockets, that an idea came to him. It was a stupid idea. A horrible idea, but his feet had him moving before he could even stop himself.
It took a lot of maneuvering to press himself the stage, at the very front of the audience, and as the actors came out and started the play, the growing audience, which now packed every nook and cranny of the theatre, pressed forward so that it was hard to breathe.
The press of wood against his chest was worth it when Merlin came out. This time he wore a lavender dress, that swirled up when he moved, to show lean calve muscles and the dark coarse leg hair. Once or twice Merlin’s gaze would rove out over the audience and would catch Mordred’s gaze before moving on. Every time it was enough to make his cock jump in anticipation, even though it would have nothing but his own fist to take pleasure from, or one of Morgause and Morgana’s whores if they were feeling generous.
As they entered into the fourth act, Mordred could not take it any more, the hard press of wood against his straining erection was driving him crazy. Closing his eyes against the sight of Merlin and focusing instead on the words of Arthur, he started to palm his hard and leaking cock through his trousers.
He became exceedingly aware of the fact that there were hundreds of people crowded around him, how their bodies pressed against his, and that if anyone just glanced at him it seemed to Mordred it would be very obvious what he was doing. Yet he could not stop. The pleasure was building too fast and before he realised it his hands were down his trousers and moving fast and furious.
That is when it happened. Merlin’s gaze landed on him and for the first time Mordred had ever seen, he faltered. A deep red crossed his face and he blinked, watching as Mordred, unable to stop, gave a quiet gasp and came from the force of Merlin’s eyes.
Merlin straightened himself, coughed, and then continued on, stepping back into his role effortlessly.
The part of Mordred that was still functioning after that mind-numbing climax, knew he should run for it. He would never be able to show his face at Camelot ever again. It would be an end of an almost year long obsession. The one thing in his life he had ever gotten attached to and here he was being caught in the act. Yet his feet refused to move and he stood completely still as the cast began the last act of the play.
His mind, now racing from the possibilities of what might happen, almost missed the fact that Merlin did not seem as graceful as he usually did on stage. Glancing at him, he watched as Merlin spun around and for a second, he was almost sure that the outline of a hard and erect cock was visible in the folds of the dress. Wishing that Merlin was in the same skin-tight tights that Gwaine was wearing as he pretended to court Merlin, Mordred viciously eyed Merlin’s crotch trying to see if he was imagining or not.
As Merlin turned slowly away from Gwaine, Mordred could tell there was no mistake. Merlin, the famous actor Merlin, was hard and erect under his fancy dresses in front of hundreds.
Mordred’s spent cock twitched with excitement at that knowledge.
As the play wrapped up, Mordred could barely wait to get to the back door and find a second release. A private place where he would be able to imagine what Merlin’s cock would look like. What it would be like to bunch up the material of the skirt and have everything on display. If the audience would watch, as entranced by Merlin’s performance as they were when he was fully clothed, enchanted by the spell he cast over them.
As the final bow was taken, Mordred met Merlin’s eye for the third time. The dark and lustful property was enough to bring him to full hardness. Licking his lips, he felt a thrill of victory as Merlin blushed a tiny bit, seeming more bashful than anyone who could act in front of hundreds of people had any right to look.
It took too long to get to the back door. The crowd of people, jammed into the yard, were in no hurry to leave. Finally as he squeezed past the wooden doors and made it out into the smoky haze of the street, he quickly parted from the crowd and made his way into the back alleyway. Luckily none of the whores or drunken lechers were about, and without ceremony, Mordred dropped his trousers around his knees and started to pull his cock, playing with the foreskin a bit to get him back to full hardness.
A cut-off groan broke through the pleasure, and Mordred froze. There it was again, a groan of stifled ecstasy, and it was not coming from the alley, but the door itself.
“Arthur!” a voice cried, and there was no mistaking it. He would know those deep tones anywhere.
Mordred pressed his face against the door and peered through the cracks. It was not the best angle, but he could just barely make out Merlin, still in his dress bunched up around his waist, and the golden Arthur thrust into him from behind.
“That’s it,” Arthur said, and it shook Mordred to the core. He had never heard the man speak, though he had imagined it so many times. Imagined how the words he wrote would sound from his lips, and it was nothing like Mordred had imagined.
In many ways it was a come down. He had pictured it deep and throaty, like sex and rough - dirty without mercy. Instead it was lighter, polished and upper class. He sounded like every other noble who sat in the higher tiers of the theatre and looked down on the peasants such as himself.
Still, the way his muscled buttocks clenched with every thrust, every push into Merlin, was enough to bring Mordred to the cusp of an orgasm on sight alone.
“He was here again was he not,” Arthur whispered, forcing Mordred to pay attention or else lose what it was that was being said. “Your street urchin, the one with the eyes of fire and ice. You always are more of a slut after he comes.”
“Yes, yes,” Merlin murmured, pushing back and Mordred wished he could see where they joined, could make out Merlin’s leaking cock, but his view was blocked.
“Are you thinking of him now?” Arthur demanded, and quickly pistoned his hips so fast, so hard that Mordred had to stuff a fist in his mouth to keep from crying out. As if he were the one being pounded into and stuffed with Arthur’s cock.
“Can’t say anything,” Merlin gasped once Arthur slowed his pace back down to allow Merlin a chance to speak. “You are the one who brought him to my attention. And today ... oh god ...”
“What of today?” Arthur asked, and his voice was deeper, rougher and his hips losing some of their controlled movement, and becoming erratic. “Tell me what caused my best actor to stumble like an amateur. Did you think no one would notice the swell of your cock under the folds of your skirts? That perhaps they would not be able to see how desperate you were, how you leaked against those precious fabrics like a common street whore? Tell me the cause. Come on, Merlin, tell me what the street urchin did.”
“He touched himself,” Merlin gasped and Mordred’s brain was filled with buzzing. He could not tell what was being said. They were speaking of him. They were using their words, precious words that had been tormenting Mordred for months, and they were pleasuring themselves with them through him. Through his boldness, through his obsessions, he was the one making Arthur lose his rhythm and Merlin arch back like one of Morgause’s workers.
Mordred came with a blinding speed and as he struggled to calm his breathing he leaned back against the door. Peering in, he could see that Merlin and Arthur had also finished. Though, unlike the whores he had seen, they did not separate and make themselves presentable. Instead, Merlin had turned around and they hugged each other close, petting at their arms and backs and calming each other in a way that seemed more intimate than fucking.
“You okay?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, yes, that was perfect,” Merlin muttered, kissing Arthur’s jaw.
“Are you sure you still want me to write you as a woman? You do know it was a jest the first time,” Arthur muttered.
“I like how it gives you pleasure, and besides the fans expect it,” Merlin said, laughing slightly as if there was some joke in there that Mordred was not privy to.
“Mmm, at least it is not my step-mother’s dresses any more,” Arthur laughed, fingering the folds of Merlin’s dress. “Lady Catarina was not amused that they kept disappearing. And I had such a lousy servant he could not find those dresses anywhere.”
“Oi, I was a wonderful servant,” Merlin protested.
“You are the messiest person I know,” Arthur scoffed.
“You love my mess.”
“No, just you,” Arthur said softly, cupping Merlin’s cheek. “Just love you.”
Mordred felt something hard break in his chest, and suddenly everything felt too much. This was too intimate, he should not be seeing this. More than fucking, than touching, than anything else Mordred had no right to see this moment. He was a nobody, the dirt of the street, and he knew that men like him did not find happiness like this. Pulling his trousers back on, he did not look where he was going and stumbled over a few barrels that had been stored in the back alley.
The crash of the barrels were deafening, and Mordred took off at a run, only barely aware of the back stage door opening and a voice yelling after his retreating form.
Morgana found him one week later deep in the city in one of his favourite alleys.
“Mordred?” She asked, squatting down to his level where he was curled against the hard brick. She said nothing, simply took his hand in hers and held on, giving what little comfort she could.
“When was the last time you ate?” She asked a while later. Mordred shrugged, the gnawing pain of his stomach was a constant presence, what little scraps he had managed to find barely making a difference. “You cannot live like this. Mordred I am worried about you.”
“I am sorry,” Mordred said, because the last person he wanted to hurt was Morgana. The one person who fed and watered him, looked after his needs and protected him.
“Pickpocketing was fine when you were a child, but you cannot live like this. It is only a matter of time before you are caught. I have found a job for you,” Morgana said hesitantly.
“With Morgause?” Mordred asked.
“No, no ... I had noticed how you seemed to love the theatre and I spoke with Arthur. They have need for stage hand,” Morgana said.
“I cannot go back to Camelot,” Mordred whispered.
“Why? Were you caught?” Morgana asked, and Mordred felt his face flush as he thought of what he had been caught doing. He touched himself. Merlin had said that. He had seen. There was no way he could go back. “Arthur would not care about that. Despite his many and unending faults, he does not hold peoples professions against them even if they are ... morally questionable.”
Mordred said nothing.
“Fine. How about this? If you go right now, and speak to Arthur about this job, no matter what he says, I will have Morgause feed you each meal for two days. That is worth more than you could pickpocket in a week,” Morgana said smugly, petting his hair as if she had already won.
The deep pain in his stomach brought his defenses down. Arthur would turn him away, he might even be humiliated and belittled, but at least there would be food. Mordred had definitely put himself in worse situations for far less.
“Very well.”
Upon entering back into the theatre, Mordred found it eerie to be there with no people. He felt as if there were ghosts in every seat, staring at him, judging him for entering this magical sanctuary. Arthur stood on stage and waited for him.
Mordred was surprised that Arthur did not seem shocked to see him.
“I thought perhaps you were the pickpocketer that Morgana spoke of,” Arthur said, apparently reading Mordred’s face like an open book, as Mordred joined him on the stage. “I am pleased that you managed to come. You have been missing for three of our performances. We were worried something had happened to you.”
“We?” Mordred asked, feeling wrong footed and completely lost by the conversation.
“Merlin and I,” Arthur said idly. “We saw you retreating from the back alley the other day, and we were worried you would never come back. When Morgana came to plead your case, we hoped it would be enough to bring you once again to our humble abode, and it seems fortune has smiled on us indeed.”
“Morgana said you had a job?” Mordred said quietly.
“Yes. Stage hand, would you like it?” Arthur asked.
“Yes.”
“Very well, it is yours. First rehearsal is tomorrow morning. Gwaine has insisted he fall through the trap door during the battle scene. You will hide beneath the stage and once you hear the cue, you will release the door and help Gwaine get back onto the stage in time for the next scene.”
“Thank you sir,” Mordred muttered, bowing hesitantly and made to leave the stage.
“Where are you going?” Arthur demanded, sounding vaguely amused.
“I was just ...” Mordred trailed off, unsure how to respond.
“We still need to discuss the second arrangements,” Arthur said as he strutted forward. “Tell me, Mordred, have you ever been with a man in an intimate situation?”
Mordred felt his cock twitch, and swallowed thickly.
“Yes,” he said truthfully.
“Have you been with two men at the same time?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Merlin said, as he came out from one of the stage doors, in trousers and a tunic, which seemed odd and completely out of place. It was hard to see Merlin without a dress on. “Arthur and I would like it very much if you would join us as we, ah, merry-make.”
“Really Merlin, merry-make?” Arthur scoffed. “We can all be thankful that you are not the writer. Otherwise you would be having the Knights say ridiculous things like turniphead, or clotpole.”
“You love my words,” Merlin retorted, and Mordred felt his breath catch as Merlin boldly cupped this front bulge of his pants and rub sensually against it.
“And what would you call it?” Arthur asked, and when had he moved to stand so closely behind Mordred. He appeared there, his breath playing over Mordred’s ears and his words caressing him.
“Fucking,” Mordred groaned, as Merlin pulled his cock out, fully on display. Arthur traced one finger down Mordred’s neck and every nerve tingled in response. He was now painfully hard within his trousers.
“And are you good at fucking?” Arthur whispered into his ear. “Do you enjoy it? Do you get hard and leak from the mere thought of it?”
“Yes,” Mordred whimpered, eyes unable to leave where Merlin’s fist lazily stroked up and down.
“Then, if you would not mind, show us. Show us how good you are at fucking,” Arthur prompted.
It was all Mordred needed to fall to his knees and take Merlin in his mouth. Everything was too much, the empty theatre with those invisible eyes watching him gag when he got too eager, whimper as Arthur’s spit-slicked ink stained fingers lowered his trousers and played with his hole.
Everything came to him in snippets of sensation. The rough material of Merlin’s trousers pressed against his face, the dark smell of Merlin’s arousal, the way Arthur’s fingers still caught the skin of Mordred’s arse as they pried him open. Suddenly there was a blunt tip, so much larger than the finger and he knew what the audience would see now. They would see him, pierced and stuffed like a roasting pig. His cock leaked its precum and he could not contain the groans he let out, even though they were muffled by Merlin’s cock.
Shock poured through him as two hands, one shorter and blunter, the other long and spindly, met on his cock and brought him to pleasure so intense he cried out against Merlin’s cock. Still the hands milked him for more, demanded more, kept him pulsing until he was too sensitive.
Finally Merlin pulled out and Mordred felt his release hit his slack face. Arthur was not too far behind, choosing to remain in the tight embrace of Mordred’s arse to spend his seed in.
Afterwards, as Mordred’s senses came back to him, he noticed the soothing feel of fabric cleaning off the mess on his face. He tried to turn his head, instinctually not trusting the kindness being shown to him.
“Let him,” Arthur commanded, wrapping his arms tightly around Mordred’s smaller frame. “Let us take care of you.”
It felt odd, to be naked and held, to be stroked and petted and for no other purpose than to offer comfort.
As Merlin wiped the last of the semen from his stomach, he reached up and gently took Mordred’s mouth into a gentle and hesitant kiss. He had never been kissed before, never known the slide of lips against his. As Merlin pulled back, Mordred let out a small whimper, before Arthur cupped his jaw and kissed him softly.
Mordred felt some unknown emotion emerge, it was small and painful and bright and terrifying. He had never felt it before and could not name it.
“We have a room, not far, come stay with us,” Arthur offered.
And that night, sleeping curled between Merlin and Arthur, a roof over his head and one full meal in his stomach, he realised it was hope.