Legolas and Eowyn

“Well I will wish…” Legolas leaned down and whispered in her ear, “for one night of passion with a beautiful human slave.”

Eowyn’s eyes widened. “I can promise you that will never happen,” she said. “How could I stroke your ears if my wrists were chained to the bedposts?”



After the banquet

Legolas unhooked the clasps of his ice-blue robe and shrugged it off his shoulders. “Melmenya?” He had been hoping that Eowyn would unbraid his hair and comb it out for him. “Melmenya?

Still no answer. She seemed to have locked herself in the bathing room.

With a disappointed sigh, he sat down at the dressing table, carefully removed his coronet, unbound and unlaced his single braid, and ran his mûmak comb through his long pale-gold hair.

What is she doing in there?

He leaned forward, critically examining his face in the mirror—Do I really look like a girl?—until a creak behind him drew his eyes away from his own reflection and up to that of the bathing room door, and of the woman standing framed within it.

Without a word, she emerged, walked to the bed and sat down upon its edge, her eyes lowered, her back rigid, her hands clasped in her lap—naked apart from her thick mane of golden hair and the five lengths of scarlet ribbon she had tied around her wrists, her ankles and her throat.

Dear Valar, Eowyn nín!


With a conspiratorial smile, Legolas rose from his chair and, swaggering slightly, stood before her, legs apart, hands on hips. “Unlace my leggings.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was hardly time to register the look of mischief on her face before she swooped down and nuzzled him, rubbing hard against the soft ridge of his growing erection.

The elf gasped.

Twisting her head, she caught his lacings in her teeth and pulled, rearing up and arching her back to undo the knot—and forcing Legolas to clench his muscles at the sight of her breasts bouncing with the movement. Then she was back, burrowing behind the flap of his leggings, pressing her lips to his hot, hard flesh and giggling when it jerked in response.

“No!” he cried, catching her by the shoulders. “No! Stop!

She raised her head.

“That was bad,” he scolded. “Very, very bad. You must obey me.”

She smiled broadly.

“You are an insolent slave. You must be punished.” He leaned forward, lifting her up off the bed, and kissed her mouth roughly.

Eowyn simply returned his kiss—at the same time taking the opportunity to reach inside his leggings and wrap her cold hand around him.

“Ow!” With something less than his usual fluid grace, Legolas shuffled forwards and dumped her back on the bed, hastily pushing her fingers away.

No! You are not playing the game,” he complained. “You are a behaving like a wanton! And you looked so sweet and innocent when you came out of the bathing room...” He ran his hand through his hair in despair.

He did not see Eowyn’s expression suddenly change as she watched those loose strands fall back around his face. “Do you wish to start again, my lord?”

Legolas frowned. She had lowered her eyes again now, and was looking suitably contrite, but... “How do I know I can trust you this time?”

“You are my master,” said Eowyn.

Common sense vied with masculine pride, and lost. Legolas sat down beside her. “Undress me then,” he said, sternly. “Take off my boots.”

Eowyn slid to the floor and, kneeling at his feet, carefully loosened his laces. “Please lift your feet, my lord,” she said, meekly, drawing off each boot in turn.

Legolas watched her graceful body bend and stretch. “Come here,” he said, hungrily.

“Where, my lord?”

He caught her by her bound wrists and drew her forwards, bringing his knees together to imprison her between his thighs. “Here.”

“Why, my lord?” she asked, innocently.

“It is not your place to ask questions.” He pulled open his leggings. “But if you please me tonight, mûlvelui, I shall reward you well.” He took her hand and gently curled her fingers around his hard shaft.

Eowyn eyed him dubiously. “You are too big for me, my lord.”

It took him a moment to recover his composure. “Many have said so,” he agreed, enjoying the game now. “But they were grateful afterwards. Kiss me.”

Sinking down between his legs, Eowyn pressed her lips to his smooth, ruby flesh.

Legolas stroked her hair. “Yes,” he whispered, “yes, I can see that you will be well rewarded, mûlvelui, very, very well re—”

Eowyn opened her mouth, and slowly sucked him in.

“Oh! Oh, sweet Eru! Stop!” He grasped her head and held it, and waited, absolutely still, until the danger had passed. Then, with a gentle caress, he said, “Put your arms on the bed and lean forward, mûlvelui.”

And he slid to the floor, and knelt behind her.


Two elves might have held themselves on the bittersweet verge of release all night—delaying the crisis with subtle techniques—but for an elf and his slave there was no such choice, and Legolas deliberately thrust his mûlvelui over the edge, laughing at the torrent of curse-ridden compliments that suddenly burst from her lips.

Then, with a ecstatic cry of his own, he arched his back, and let himself join her in joyful abandon.


“Were you surprised?” asked Eowyn.

Legolas nodded. “After you had said it would never happen,” he replied, pulling at one of her bonds, “that you would never submit to a master—”

“Do you think that you were in control?” She grinned.

Deliberately, Legolas draped the scarlet ribbon around his own neck and tied it in a neat bow. “Maybe not, melmenya,” he said, smiling, “but let us see if you can do any better.

Híril nín.




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Back to Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Legolas' undergarments
A glimpse…


mûlvelui … 'sweet slave'.
You have to wonder why the elves have a word (mûl) for slave…
Híril nín … 'my lady'.