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A thousand years earlier
The Elvenking’s Great Hall was hung with garlands of corn
and rosy red apples; its tables, arranged in a single ring, were
decked with offerings of fruit and dried flowers; at its centre,
a circular patch of beaten earth, strewn with ears of wheat and
barley, formed a ceremonial threshing floor...
Legolas leaned back in his chair and watched the Mistress of
the Ceremony cover his father and the Harvest Queen in a thick
velvet blanket. The rite had been celebrated and the assembled
guests were more than ready to make their own offerings to the
Valar—but his lover (of just a few years), the Lady
Tindomerel, had disappeared before the Choosing, and was still
nowhere to be seen.
Legolas sighed. What would he do if she did not return? He could
certainly not abstain—it was his duty as Crown Prince to
participate.
But neither could he make love to another elleth...
Could he?
“Would you care for some wine, your Highness?”
Legolas turned towards the voice. “Lady Culurien—yes—thank
you.” He accepted the jewelled goblet with a polite smile,
bowing his head before raising the wine to his lips and drinking
deeply.
A delicious glow immediately filled his chest, instantly soothing
his nerves, and he smiled again. “Thank you, híril
nín. I—oh—” The warmth was still
spreading, travelling down through his belly and into his groin,
lapping pleasantly around his ceryn. “My lady”—his
smile broadened—“what have you given me?”
“Just wine, your Highness,” she answered, demurely.
“Are you looking for my sister?”
“Yes...”
“She did not want to join with you in public—she awaits
you somewhere private,” Culurien explained. “Shall I
take you there?”
“Please.” Legolas rose to his feet—the combined
effects of the heady wine and a sudden, urgent arousal making
him sway uncharacteristically—and followed the alluring elleth
between the piles of coupling elves, out through the great double
doors, and across the main thoroughfare to one of the most spectacular
of the many garden caverns that graced his father’s palace.
“In here, your Highness.” Lady Culurien took him by
the hand and drew him inside.
The night sky, visible through shafts cut in the cavern roof,
was moonless, but someone had filled the garden with hundreds
of tiny lanterns that sparkled like golden stars amongst the dark
foliage of the êgvor and the mithorn, and
beside the surging torrent of the ornamental waterfall.
Legolas inhaled the scents of leaf and water—and felt himself
respond eagerly to their vital essence.
He bit back a moan—“Where is Tindu?”—for
she was not in the garden.
“I do not know, your Highness,” said Culurien. “She
should be here...”
She turned towards him with a dazzling smile. “But perhaps
you will accept me as a substitute—for a little while, at
least.” And she drew back the ends of his sash until his
robe fell open, slid the heavy brocade from his shoulders, and
let it fall.
Legolas stumbled away, retreating until his bare back touched
the rough stone wall.
“Ah...” He closed his eyes and leaned against the cold,
damp rock, hoping that the shock would help him regain some self
control. But the insistent song of running water only fed his
arousal, and although some still-functioning part of his mind
told him that it was wrong, he was finding it harder and harder
to resist Culurien’s skilful hands.
“What would your sister say, híril nín,
if she were to find us—oh!”
The elleth had wrapped her arms around his waist and was sliding
down to her knees, stroking every inch of her body against his
ceber.
And then he broke, laying his hands upon her head to encourage
her—but she needed no persuading to press her cheek to the
solid ridge of his confined ceber and to rub him through
the sheer silk of his leggings.
“Tindu...”
“Tindu will not mind if we start without her.”
Clinging to the wall—for he was shaking violently now—he
watched her undoing his lacings.
“Sweet Eru,” she gasped, setting him free, “Tindu
did not exaggerate—and it is as beautiful as the rest of
you!” She wrapped both hands around his thick, straight shaft,
breathing endearments against his sensitive flesh. Then she slid
her hands down between his thighs and gathered up his ceryn.
Legolas moaned, brushing himself against her lips. “Please...”
“Poor elf...” Culurien kissed the head of his ceber.
“Come here, your Highness.” Taking him by the hand,
she rose, and led him to a low stone bench, running the full length
of the cavern, and gently sat him down. “Just leave everything
to me...”
Holding her skirts in one hand, she straddled him, sinking down
upon him with a satisfied sigh. “Yes. Stay still, melethron
nín,” she whispered. “Leave every—”
But Legolas—though on the verge of ejaculation since they
had entered the cavern—knew instinctively that he would never
come in that position and—with a cry like a rutting warg—he
wrestled Culurien to the ground.
...
Despite his desperate state, Legolas had to work hard to spill
his seed—pleasuring Culurien several times whilst striving
for a release of his own. And when it finally happened—far
from satisfying him—it seemed only to leave him more aroused
than before.
Still painfully hard, he raised himself up on his hands and gazed
down at the elleth beneath him.
Culurien was already drifting off into reverie, her mouth curved
in a grateful smile. Gently, Legolas withdrew and, still leaning
over her, took himself in his hand.
“Lasdithen?”
Ceryn Manwë! Tindomerel!
Guiltily, Legolas turned to face his lover’s anger—but
the elleth was smiling.
“You were magnificent, Lasdithen,” she said. “I
watched you—like a bull with an entire herd to service, my
love...” Already naked, she crouched beside him. “Take
me, Lasdithen. Take me as you took her.”
...
Lying on his back with his knees drawn up, Legolas held Tindomerel
by the waist, helping her to ride him without the pain of taking
him too deeply.
“What—ah—what did Culurien—give me—in
that wine?” he gasped.
“Just—oh—ohhh!—just a love potion—oh—Lasdithen!”
“When—when will it—ah—wear off?”
“By—by morning...”
“And—ahhh—” He gritted his teeth and
held her still, struggling to catch his breath, still unable to
reach his goal. “You—you planned this—together?”
She leaned forward and brushed her bare breasts back and forth
over his face. “Culurien and I share—oh Legolas—Legolas!”
S he arched her back as an orgasm rushed though her, twisting
her body. “Everything, my love—everything—OH!
OH! EVERYTHING!”
...
“Now my sister again,” sighed Tindomerel, stretching
luxuriously.
Legolas, tired but still unsatisfied, turned back to Culurien
who, fully recovered from their earlier coupling, rolled onto
her belly and came up on her hands and knees, presenting him with
her perfect rump.
Laying his hands on its delicious curves and bending slightly,
Legolas slid himself between her thighs and, grasping her hips,
entered her from behind, sinking deep with a murmured, “Thank
you, híril nín.” Then, leaning in close—cupping
her breasts and nuzzling her neck—he began the long, exhausting
task of bringing them both to a climax.
...
“Ai! Ceryn Manwë!”
Legolas froze in mid-thrust, sobbing with anticipation, then
drove himself deeper and held himself there, body rigid, whilst
Culurien, pinned on her belly beneath him, writhed in ecstasy.
Legolas waited until she had stilled; then he withdrew, rolled
over and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, panting.
“Me again,” said Tindomerel, giving him a long, lingering
kiss before swinging her leg over him and rubbing herself up and
down his still-straining penis.
Legolas shook his head weakly. “I cannot Tindu. You are
killing me, meleth nín.”
But, moments later, he seized her waist and turned her onto her
back.
...
Tindomerel shuddered in a fit of pleasure.
Lying on his side behind her, Legolas—in his exhaustion—was
repeatedly misjudging his withdrawals, letting his penis slip
from inside her only to re-enter her with an almighty lunge, which
thrust her into another orgasm, whilst he remained
unsatisfied...
The potion had been expensive, but—Tindomerel smiled blissfully—the
Mistress of the Ceremony had earned her money.
...
Beyond exhaustion now, Legolas sat motionless on the rock
bench whilst Culurien, impaled upon his never-ending ceber,
stretched down his legs to grasp his ankles, and rocked her hips
backwards and forwards, moaning...
Idly, he stroked her beautiful buttocks.
Suddenly, Tindomerel rose and, straddling her sister’s body,
offered him her breast, pressing the hard nipple between his lips.
Legolas sucked.
And—whether it was the unexpected intimacy with Tindu, or
whether the potion had at last run its course, he could not tell,
but —as his mouth worked hungrily, he felt his spirit rush
down into his ceryn, felt the delicious ripples begin and the
longed-for wave build, and he arched his back and prayed for release
until, screaming, “Na vedui!”—long and loud—Na
vedui! At last!—he came, emptying the whole night’s
frustration into his lover’s sister.
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