The gentle scent of pine and cypress wood, mingled with the earthy aroma of volcanic minerals, enveloped Artoria Pendragon as she stepped into the secluded onsen. Far removed from the clamor of battlefields and the weight of a kingdom, this traditional Japanese inn, nestled deep within a mist-shrouded valley, offered a sanctuary she hadn't known she desperately craved. Her signature blonde hair, usually meticulously bound, was allowed to cascade freely, shimmering like spun gold in the soft, diffused light filtering through the shoji screens. She wore a simple yukata, its soft cotton a stark contrast to the heavy armor she was accustomed to, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the King of Knights felt a profound sense of peace settle over her.

Having been summoned once more, yet without an immediate crisis demanding her sword, Artoria had found herself at the suggestion of a rather insistent Chaldea staff member, indulging in a period of "rest and cultural immersion." The idea had initially seemed frivolous, but as she gazed at the meticulously raked sand garden outside her room, the koi lazily circling in their pond, she began to understand the appeal. This was a place for reflection, for the shedding of burdens. And perhaps, for the first time, for herself.

The onsen itself was a masterpiece of natural beauty and human design. Steam rose lazily from the various pools, some carved from ancient stone, others made of polished wood, each promising different therapeutic properties. Artoria had chosen the outdoor bath, hoping the crisp evening air would help clear her mind. As she carefully disrobed in the changing room, her fair skin, usually hidden beneath layers of fabric or shining armor, was exposed to the cool air, a stark canvas awaiting the warmth of the water. She folded her yukata neatly, her movements precise and deliberate, a habit born of countless years of discipline. Her gaze, however, lingered on the steam-wreathed path leading to the baths, a flicker of anticipation, an unfamiliar feeling, stirring within her.

Lowering herself into the scalding, mineral-rich water, Artoria let out a soft sigh, her muscles protesting briefly before gratefully surrendering to the heat. The sensation was exquisite, a balm to both body and soul. She closed her eyes, allowing the steam to kiss her face, her long blonde hair fanning out around her like a halo on the water's surface. Thoughts of Camelot, of the Grail, of her past burdens, began to recede, replaced by the simple, profound pleasure of the moment. It was then, through the shimmering veil of steam, that she first noticed him.

He was a man unlike any she had encountered in her long history, yet his presence radiated an ancient, almost primordial strength. His skin was the color of rich, dark earth, glistening with moisture as he emerged from another section of the bath, his broad shoulders and powerful physique testament to a life lived in harmony with nature, or perhaps, with a force more fundamental. He moved with a quiet dignity, his eyes, dark and intelligent, briefly met hers across the steaming water. A jolt, like a tiny spark of lightning, passed between them. Artoria, usually so composed, felt a blush creep up her neck. It was an interracial encounter, not of battle, but of unexpected, raw allure.

He offered a polite, deep bow, a gesture of respect that Artoria, ever the sovereign, returned instinctively. His voice, when he spoke, was a low rumble, rich and resonant, like stones shifting in a riverbed. "Forgive my intrusion, King of Knights. I did not expect to find such nobility gracing these humble waters." Artoria was surprised he knew her. "My reputation precedes me, it seems," she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "And you, sir? I confess, I do not recognize your lineage." He smiled, a slow, captivating unfurling of his lips. "I am simply a guardian of these springs, a spirit of the land, if you will. You may call me Aethel. And it is my honor to welcome you, Artoria Pendragon."

Aethel. The name felt ancient, powerful. As he settled into the pool opposite her, the distance between them felt charged, electric. He had a regal air, not of a king, but of an elder god, intimately connected to the earth. The air, already thick with steam, grew heavy with unspoken tension. Artoria found her gaze drawn to him repeatedly, unable to resist the pull. His arms, thick with muscle, flexed as he rested them on the stone edge. Her eyes then dropped lower, catching the subtle, powerful outline of his form beneath the water, the undeniable hint of a significant presence. A deep, unfamiliar heat began to stir low in her belly, a sensation entirely separate from the warmth of the onsen. She was King Arthur, a legendary hero, yet in this moment, in this place, she felt utterly, undeniably feminine, vulnerable, and curious.

The following days unfolded like a dream. Artoria found herself drawn to Aethel’s company, their conversations spanning ancient histories, philosophies, and the simple beauty of the natural world. He spoke of the earth’s energies, of the balance between creation and destruction, with a wisdom that resonated deeply within her own understanding of the world. Each evening, they would meet at the onsen, a ritual that became the highlight of her day. The steam, the dim light, the shared silence, all served to break down the walls she had meticulously built around her heart. She found herself confiding in him, speaking of the loneliness of kingship, the sacrifices she had made, the burdens she still carried. He listened with an unwavering gaze, his dark eyes understanding, never judging.

One evening, as the moon rose, a luminous pearl in the velvet sky, Artoria and Aethel were the only ones left in the outdoor bath. The water shimmered under the moonlight, reflecting her blonde hair and fair skin like polished ivory. The air was cool, but the water was blissfully hot. Aethel, sitting closer than usual, reached out, his dark hand gently tracing the curve of her shoulder, sending a shiver through her. "You carry too much, King," he murmured, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of her collarbone. "Here, in these waters, you are simply Artoria. A woman deserving of peace, of pleasure."

His touch was surprisingly tender, yet potent. Artoria's breath hitched. She had not been touched with such intimacy in… centuries. The warmth of his skin against hers was an intoxicating contrast, a dance of light and shadow. Her eyes met his, and in their depths, she saw not the ancient guardian, but a primal male hunger, tempered by profound respect. Her own desire, long dormant, flared to life, hot and insistent. The heat in her belly spread, a throbbing ache that demanded release. She leaned into his touch, her head tilting back slightly, exposing the delicate line of her throat.

"Aethel," she whispered, her voice husky, barely audible above the gentle lapping of the water. "I… I am unaccustomed to such… attentions." He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that vibrated through her. "Perhaps it is time, my Queen, to allow yourself to be attended to." His hand slid lower, beneath the surface of the water, finding her hip, pulling her gently closer. The sheer warmth of his body pressed against hers, the smooth, hard muscle of his thigh brushing her own. Her breath caught in her throat. The "Blacked At The Onsen" experience was beginning, not with force, but with an irresistible, sensual magnetism.

The water, which had been a barrier, now became an enhancer. His fingers, strong and calloused, began to caress her bare thigh, slowly, deliberately moving higher. Artoria gasped, her eyes widening as his touch reached the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, teasing, igniting. Her body, accustomed to the rigor of battle, now trembled with an entirely different kind of anticipation. He leaned in, his musky scent, a mix of earth and exotic spices, filling her senses, eclipsing the scent of the onsen. His lips, soft yet firm, found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, sending shivers racing down her spine. "Beautiful Artoria," he murmured, his voice a balm and a challenge. "Let yourself go. Let me show you what true surrender feels like."

Her resolve, once an unyielding shield, crumbled under his relentless, tender assault. Her hands, which had wielded Excalibur, now found themselves gripping his shoulders, clinging to him as his kisses trailed down her neck, finding the hollow of her throat. Her head swam, the world narrowing to the exquisite sensations his body evoked. Beneath the water, his hand continued its journey, finally cupping her mound, pushing aside the soft, blonde curls that guarded her femininity. A low moan escaped her lips as his thumb brushed against her clitoris, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through her core. Her legs instinctively parted, inviting his touch deeper.

His fingers worked their magic, teasing and stroking, making her wet and aching for more. Artoria had never experienced such explicit intimacy, such raw, unbridled desire. Her body felt alien, yet exquisitely alive. She arched into his touch, her hips lifting slightly, a silent plea. "Please, Aethel," she panted, her voice thick with longing. "I… I need more." His eyes, dark and knowing, gazed at her, a silent question. She answered it with a fervent nod, her blonde hair swirling in the water around her flushed face. He pulled her closer still, until her breasts, heavy and sensitive, brushed against his chest. The contrast of their skin, his dark and warm, hers pale and now flushed crimson, was striking, utterly primal. This was the interracial passion she never knew she desired.

Then, she felt it. The unmistakable, colossal presence of his erection, brushing against her belly through the water. It was immense, thick, and undeniably hard. The rumors of "BBC" were not mere exaggerations, she realized with a gasp that was part fear, part thrilling anticipation. Her mind, ever analytical, tried to comprehend its sheer size, but her body, purely instinctual, only craved its fulfillment. Aethel shifted, moving to kneel behind her, his powerful arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. Her bottom pressed against his hard shaft, sending a fresh wave of heat through her. He nudged her legs wider, his hand guiding her, positioning her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild drum in her chest.

"Look at me, Artoria," he whispered, his voice deep, vibrating through her spine. She turned her head, her eyes meeting his over her shoulder. His gaze was intense, possessive, yet filled with a tenderness that allowed her to completely surrender. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pressed the tip of his colossal erection against her trembling entrance. A gasp tore from her throat. It was immense, far larger than anything she could have imagined. Her tight, virginal passage protested, clenching around just the tip, but her desire was stronger than any apprehension.

He began to push, slowly, reverently. Artoria cried out, a mixture of pain and ecstatic pleasure. The sheer volume of him stretching her open, filling her, was overwhelming. She squeezed her eyes shut, digging her nails into his biceps. "Aethel… it's… too big," she whimpered, but her hips were already beginning to tilt, seeking more of him. "No, my Queen," he rumbled, his voice thick with arousal. "It is perfect. You are perfect. You were made to take me." And then, with a deep, guttural groan, he plunged forward, pushing past her resistance, burying himself to the hilt within her depths. The shock was absolute, breathtaking. Artoria screamed, a long, drawn-out cry that was swallowed by the steam and the lapping water. She felt utterly, completely filled, stretched beyond her limits, her very core aching with the glorious invasion.

He paused, allowing her body to adjust, his powerful frame trembling with restraint. Inside her, the head of his "BBC" pressed against her cervix, a sensation both invasive and incredibly thrilling. She felt him pulsing, thick and hot, deep within her, stretching her walls, claiming her. Her hands now clutched his, fingers entwined, her blonde head falling back onto his shoulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The onsen, a place of peace, had become a crucible of raw, primal passion. She was Artoria Pendragon, the Once and Future King, being ravished, taken, blacked, in the most exquisite way imaginable.

"That's it, my King," he whispered, his voice rough with desire. "Embrace it. Embrace me." He began to move, slowly at first, each thrust a deliberate, powerful declaration. The water swirled around their entwined bodies, a liquid embrace. With every withdrawal, Artoria felt a pang of loss, only for it to be replaced by a wave of intoxicating fullness as he plunged back in, deeper, harder. Her body quickly adjusted, the initial shock giving way to an intense, undeniable pleasure. She moaned, a continuous, needy sound that even she barely recognized. Her hips began to move of their own accord, meeting his thrusts, riding him with an abandon she never knew she possessed.

His rhythm grew faster, more insistent. The water splashed around them, the sounds of their coupling echoing softly in the night. Artoria's blonde hair became soaked, clinging to her flushed cheeks. She threw her head back, eyes closed, lost in the overwhelming sensations. He was relentless, powerful, driving into her with a force that threatened to shatter her, yet only made her crave more. "Aethel!" she cried out, her voice raw with passion. "Oh, Aethel! I… I'm going to…!" Her body tensed, an exquisite pressure building deep within her. He responded with a final, deep thrust that pinned her against him, holding her there as her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, beautiful convulsion that left her breathless and trembling. Her legs shook, her entire being vibrating with the aftermath of her climax.

But he wasn't finished. After her first shattering climax, he continued to drive into her, his powerful hips pounding against her buttocks, his "BBC" filling her so completely it felt as though he reached her very soul. She was still reeling, but his insistent movements quickly brought her back to the precipice. Her body, now fully awakened, responded with an almost desperate hunger. She clawed at his back, leaving faint red marks on his dark skin, her moans growing louder, less inhibited. The pleasure was too immense, too all-consuming to fight. She was Artoria, the king, yes, but now she was also Artoria, the woman, utterly consumed by a man's powerful desire, utterly blacked and loved in this sacred onsen.

Again, the pressure built, sharper, more insistent than before. Her body arched, her spine bowing as she chased the feeling. He hit her deepest spot with every thrust, making her scream his name again and again. "Give it to me, Artoria," he commanded, his voice a low growl of pure lust. "Give me all of you." And she did. Her second orgasm hit her even harder than the first, a wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that left her weak and gasping for air. Her legs felt like jelly, her core clenching convulsively around his thick shaft, milking every last drop of pleasure from him. Her blonde head rested on his shoulder, her chest heaving.

Aethel held her tightly, his own breaths coming in ragged gasps. He slowed his pace, but did not withdraw. Instead, he began to knead the sensitive flesh between her legs, sending ripples of aftershocks through her still-trembling body. The thought of his sheer size, of how completely he had filled her, was almost unbelievable. She could still feel every inch of his "BBC" stretching her, deep inside her. The interracial union was not just physical, but soul-deep, breaking down barriers she hadn't even realized existed.

Finally, with a guttural roar, Aethel found his own release, pouring his hot, thick essence deep within her, filling her to overflowing. His body tensed, his muscles straining, as he emptied himself into her, a primal act of possession and profound connection. Artoria cried out again, not in pain, but in joyous acceptance, feeling his warmth spread through her, a physical manifestation of their shared climax. He collapsed against her, his weight pressing her gently deeper into the water, his arms still wrapped around her as if she were the most precious treasure.

They remained like that for a long time, the only sounds the soft lapping of the water, the distant calls of night birds, and their own ragged breathing. Artoria felt utterly sated, her body tingling from head to toe. She felt stretched, full, and gloriously, wonderfully ravished. The onsen, once a place of quiet contemplation, had become the stage for her most profound awakening. Her blonde hair floated around them like a silken veil, entwined with the dark strands of his own. The stark contrast of their skin, her fair body against his dark, powerful form, was a testament to the beautiful, unexpected encounter that had just transpired.

As the first hints of dawn began to paint the sky, Aethel slowly shifted, pulling out of her with a soft, wet sound that made her shiver, a faint ache of loss mingling with the lingering pleasure. He turned her in his arms, cradling her against his chest, his gaze soft and tender. "You are magnificent, Artoria Pendragon," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "More than just a king. A woman of incredible passion." Artoria leaned into his embrace, a soft smile gracing her lips. She had come to the onsen seeking peace, a respite from her duties. She had found something far more profound: a surrender of self, a passionate awakening, and a connection that transcended worlds. The memory of being blacked at the onsen, filled to overflowing by Aethel's powerful, interracial love, would forever be etched into her soul, a secret fire that would forever burn brightly within the heart of the Once and Future King.