Legolas turned the key, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open.

“Good evening, your Highness. Come in.”

The young elf hesitated for a long moment, then—unconsciously clearing his throat—he stepped inside, dropped the latch and re-locked the door.

He turned towards the centre of the room.

Beruthiël’s chambers—situated, as he was trying hard to forget, next to his father’s bedchamber—were richly furnished, hung with figured silks, carpeted with darkly patterned rugs, and scented with the heady spices of Far Harad...

But if the perfume, simmering in a small bowl set over a candle, was—as he suspected—a love potion, he had no need of it tonight—not since the moment his tutor had bade him a happy Conception Day and given him the key to the courtesan’s door—

“Are you ever going to look at me?” Her words were filled with laughter.

Legolas raised his eyes.

“Am I really so frightening?”

“No—” His voice cracked; he took a breath. “No,” he repeated, firmly.

“Good.” She smiled. “Then come closer.”

When he did not move, she beckoned, coquettishly. “Come on!”

She was beautiful—small for an elleth and as slender as a young girl (though he knew that she was older than his father), with a flawless, heart-shaped face, huge grey eyes and a mane of rippling golden hair—dressed in a filmy silk shift that lifted her bosom high.

Legolas shuffled forward.

“Happy Conception Day, your Highness.” Her voice was like warm honey.

“Thank you.”

“That colour suits you.”

Legolas glanced down at the long, full skirts of his first formal robe, of silver-green brocade, given to him by his father to wear at his Coming of Age ceremony. “Thank you.”

Beruthiël smiled. “It would be wicked of us to spoil it. Take it off.”


“Go on. Untie the sash.”

“Yes... Yes, of course.” He pulled the embroidered silk from around his waist and draped it over the back of a chair.

“Now the robe,” said the elleth.

Biting his lip, Legolas unhooked each delicate mithril clasp in turn, then—after another moment's hesitation—pulled the garment open, shrugged it off, and stood, head bowed, wearing only his sleeveless undershirt, his fine silk leggings and his doeskin boots.

“Oh my,” said Beruthiël, softly.

Legolas raised his eyes.

She was staring at his groin with undisguised admiration, and he realised that, though confined within the fabric, he must be plainly visible to her. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze—only to find himself transfixed by her cleavage.

“Come here.”

He moved a little closer.

She reached for his waistband, and Legolas was forced to close his eyes to block out the teasing bounce of her breasts as she loosened his laces.

His ceber broke free.

“There,” she said, curling her hand around him, “does that not feel better?” She trailed her fingers upwards and, using her thumb, gently explored the broad length of his shaft. Then she leaned forward, and kissed his very tip.

Swallowing hard, Legolas nodded.

She smiled up at him mischievously. “Take off your undershirt—good—and now your boots...”

She leaned back to give him space. “Now, what shall we do with you?”

She had moistened her hands with some oily substance and she was stroking his hard flesh with a shameless motion that almost pulled his legs out from under him. “You are beautiful, your Highness—like a mighty mallorn tree...”

Legolas, hands on hips, gritted his teeth.

The elleth laughed. “A fine young tree with plenty of sap in him—but not, I think, quite ready for this.” She released him so suddenly that, having braced himself against her vigorous caresses, he almost lost his balance. “Let us be rid of your leggings.” She grasped the ends of his laces and pulled until the knots unravelled. “There—slip them off—and put them with the rest—that is right...”

He turned back to her, completely naked.

Beruthiël stroked his straining flesh. “Is this your first time, your Highness?”

He nodded.

“Then shall we get down to it without further ado?”

“Yes. I mean. Please...”

“Take me to the bench, over there.”

Legolas frowned. “Not the bed?”

“No, for your first time the bench will be better—trust me.”

He scooped her into his arms, and carried her to the strange contraption—a high stool with four sturdy legs and a long, padded seat—and gently set her down.

“Do you want to take me from the front—face to face, like this—or,” —she turned over—“ from behind, on all fours, like this?”

Legolas blushed. His mouth was dry. “Which do you like better?”

“Oh, meleth!” Turning back to him, Beruthiël caressed his cheek. “I doubt that it will last long enough to matter to me, your High—”

She caught the flash of disappointment in his eyes and relented. “Face to face,” she said, “so that I can see your lovely smile. Come—put your feet beside mine—now take hold of my knees and lift my legs onto your hips—good. Now I am going to take you in my hand”—she smiled, reassuringly—“and just—there,” she said, “hold my thighs and drive yourself home—ah—yes! That is right! That feels—oh, that feels good...”

“You are so warm!” Legolas whispered, hunching over her and, panting hard, he instinctively drew himself almost fully out, and thrust again. “Oh!” His face was transformed with joy.

Beruthiël suddenly grasped his shoulders and held him still. “You do understand, your Highness, the difference between coming for pure pleasure and spilling your seed in earnest?”


“Good. Then stand up.” She pushed his shoulders. “Arch your back a little—does that feel good? Now, take me.” She sank back on the bench, letting her head loll over the edge of the seat.

“But...” Legolas frowned. “What must I do, my Lady?—I mean, to satisfy you.”

Beruthiël smiled. “Do not worry about me, your Highness. Tonight is all about you. It will be my honour to satisfy you. ”

The bench was sprung so that the seat rocked crazily with his every thrust. He was lasting well—and showing a gentleness and sensitivity she had not expected in one so inexperienced. Beruthiël waited until he had settled into a rhythm he seemed to like, then she raised her hips and used her inner muscles to pleasure him to the utmost.

Valar, it had been such a long time since she had felt anything so good! The Prince was obviously gifted—

Come, your Highness,” she cried, suddenly, “come now, Legolas. Come for me!

And immediately she felt his body jerk, and his warm, wet seed splash deep inside her.


He was ready again in moments.

Beruthiël took his face in her hands. “You must understand that, under normal circumstances, I would require another payment now,”—he began to withdraw—“no—not tonight!”

She smiled. “Tonight you may have me as many times as you wish—it is my gift for your Coming of Age.”

“Thank you,”—he bowed his head, shyly—“thank you, my Lady.” Then he turned his head and, taken by surprise, Beruthiël had no time to remove her hand before he pressed his lips to her palm.

“That is something else I would not normally permit,” she said, softly.

He frowned.

“Kissing.” She lay back on the rocking bench. “But, tonight, as I have said, belongs to you so, tonight, you may do exactly as you wish, your Highness.”


Gazing up at his beautiful face, she watched him experiment with different lengths and depths and speeds of stroke, thrusting and grinding and pounding hard (though always considerately) and—frequently at first—coming with a cry of almost pained surprise.

It must be his size, she thought, and the vigour of his youth, that—oh! OHHH! She gripped the edges of the seat and silently rode out another orgasm.

It was entirely unprofessional, so he must never know what he was doing to her.

No one must ever know.

It must remain her own guilty secret.

She smiled. But, Valar willing, he would become one of her regular patrons.

And then it would be a wonderful guilty secret.




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Back to chapter 12

Chapter 12

Eowyn uses her feminine intuition.