"Quickly my lady, hide!" Lancelot whispered feverishly as he delicately laid a hand on her hip and helped shove her gently under the Round Table, where the Knights usually held their meetings.

"Oh! Oh, Lancelot, I will!" she whimpered happily, and then sleeked her fingers down his noble legs.

"Gui-guinevere," the knight gasped, and then moaned in exquisite pleasure as she leaned forward and touched him after he had already sat himself in a chair, "what are you doing?!"

"I have wanted your fresh prick for so long," the Queen consort purred insistently, just like a kitten except for a lot more erotic.

Autor dipped his quill into his ink bottle and licked his lips. He glanced at the door once, twice, trying to keep his scandalous writing nearly as covert as the Knight and his Lady. The fingers of the boy's free hand twitched against his thigh, but he was sure he'd remain resolute this time.

He straightened his pages and tried to ignore the shameful heat curling in his belly.

Suddenly, Lancelot found himself without his clothes and chain mail down below and his roaring, throbbing manhood was on full display in all its erect glory.

"You beast!" she giggled, playfully coy. She laid her voluptuous mouth upon him and avoided scratching it with her teeth somehow, and in response the knight tipped his head back and made a sound that righteous people in a choir would not.

"Guinevere, you... this is not what a lady should do!"

"Then let me never be a lady!" she cried loudly, ever strong and ever impudent, and so she therefore immediately divested herself of the top of her gown, baring her most excellent mammary flesh.

Flushed and dizzy, Autor grit his teeth to choke off a groan. His thin pianist's fingers had long drifted towards the front of his trousers, and each feather-light stroke sent white-hot fire through him.

And Lancelot did ever admire such a strong woman (it was why he fell in love with her in the first place), though he did have his concerns and so he voiced them eloquently. "But you are staining the knees of your dress."

"It is worth it such that I may be with you under this table as that is the best desire of my life because I've always wanted to do so," she said, and both of their hearts delighted in such a notion.

"I love you," said one.

"I love you too," said the other.

And after that not once did she take her mouth away; it was like to drive him madder than a hornet's nest.

The boy thrust into his sweat-slicked hand, panting. He'd long abandoned his precepts of impurity and a weak mind. Now he was driving himself towards a cliff, burning inside and out, narrowed down to gliding against his hand and spreading ink across his parchment.

Queen Guinevere's ardent orbs bounced rapidly as she rotated her head around Lancelot's interested man scepter.

Lancelot couldn't decide if he were in hell or heaven, as the things the Lady were doing to him were so sinfully pleasurable and yet it was so incredibly wrong of him to betray his king, which just added to the excitement. "YES! DO NOT STOP, MY LADY! MY LADY!" he shouted happily, wriggling sinuously due to her effective ministrations.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh! OH, LANCELOT!" she screamed just as a strong woman does, writhing and moaning and thrashing her head about, managing not to scrape her crown on the table, and then she was just about t-"Autor! Dinnertime!"

The boy gasped, startled, and his hands slipped. "Damn it!" Autor hissed. An upended ink bottle blotted out the written evidence of his wrong-doing, but his body still trembled with his pent-up desires.

"I'm coming!" he cried, regretting the phrasing as soon as he said it. He stuffed himself into his trousers before cleaning up his desk, and then headed downstairs.

The writer was a bit disappointed that the story was ruined. It was one of his best.