legolas and culurien

“You slept with two sisters?” whispered Eowyn as they walked back to their seats. “They must have made your life a misery—” She had a sudden thought. “Not together?”

“Well...” Legolas hesitated. “Only once.”


“It was during a harvest ceremony. They ambushed me.”


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?”


“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 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.


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.


Eowyn smiled wickedly. “Were you very badly hurt?”

Legolas grinned.

“Can we go back to our chambers?” she asked, suddenly serious.

“Melmenya!” He stooped to whisper in her ear. “I thought you were never going to get jealous...”




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