| 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.”
|
