clitorisjones

The Will of Another 03

Tue, 03 Jul 2007 02:16:21 GMT

Warnings for this chapter: Strong AU, as always. BDSM-esque themes.

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Upon his awakening, the slave noticed that his Master was no longer in the bed beside him before he had even opened his eyes, and once opening his eyes, noticed that the collar was on the nightstand no longer. Light though the cloth was, the slave could feel it around his neck. It was morning, and it was past time to complete the games of last night.

“It is late,” his Master told him, which caused the young Elf in the bed to sit at once, heedless of anything but his Master’s disapproval, to scramble from the bed.

The muscles of his forearms ached from hanging from his wrists the night before, he felt sticky and smelled from the oil lingering on his flesh and in his hair, and the opening between his legs ached fiercely from the abuse he’d so gladly begged for from his Master and his Master’s guest.

Without hesitating, the slave dropped to his knees the moment his Master came into his view. He bowed his head to the stone floor, his hands clasped behind his back, so that his rear stuck up in the air, the slave closed his eyes in misery that he’d not been awake but a moment, and already his Master was displeased.

“Lazy, tithen-mûl. You are lazy,” his Master reprimanded, coming to stand directly before the supplicant Elf on the floor. Placing one booted foot on the slave’s shoulder, his Master applied pressure to the slave’s body, keeping the smaller Elf’s face tight to the stone beneath it. “It has been a very long time since you have broken this rule. Perhaps you have forgotten your training, and need to be reminded.”

The foot was removed from his shoulder but the slave did not move. He heard his Master’s footsteps as he walked across the room, and he then heard the noise of his Master rifling through a drawer, picking up and discarding several things before he must have found what he was looking for.

“This will help me to remind you, tithen-mûl. On your feet,” his Master demanded, and the slave was quick to obey.

He rose from the floor, his head hanging low so that he would not be forced to see the displeasure in his Master’s face.

Sitting on the bed, his Master then ordered, “Over my knee.”

He had experienced this punishment before, especially when first he had worn the collar, when he had not swift to follow his Master’s orders. Immediately, the young Elf climbed across his Master’s lap, his waist folded against the right of this Master’s thighs, his knees bent to keep his balance, and his torso lying across his Master’s lap.

“I am most displeased to find you so lax in your duties, tithen-mûl.” His Master rubbed his hand over the slave’s bare bottom, kneading and spreading the slave’s arse, and held out the object he had selected so that his slave could see it.

The slave knew this toy well. It had a wide base that served as a handle of sorts, and above this base was a thin portion that was followed by a thick, ample shaft, which slowly tapered into a dull point at its top. The whole of it was no longer than the slave’s forefinger. Without oil, this simulacrum of a phallus was pushed inside his tender orifice, the shaft filling his passage, the thin portion allowing his orifice to close around it, and the base helping to keep it in place within the slave.

This was his punishment – he had displeased his Master, and he would now be reminded of his place. Usually, such castigation would not be completed in one session, but stretched out over several nights and mornings such as this, until the slave could be sure not to repeat his error. The slave knew that he would be required to keep this phallus inside of him for several hours after leaving the room or perhaps all the day, should his Master wish him to.

Keeping the smaller Elf bent over his knees, his Master used his finger to prod at the object’s base, shifting it, pulling at it and releasing it before it could come free of the slave’s body. Though not very long nor as wide as his Master’s shaft, the device hit upon the inner font of pleasure within the slave, and because of his Master’s skillful actions, the slave was soon writhing in his Master’s lap, his lewd behavior just what his Master wanted.

The first strike against his rear by his Master’s flattened hand left a perfect, scarlet imprint upon the slave’s skin. The second strike, made to the other cheek of the slave’s spread and wriggling rear, left a similar mark. Each strike thereafter blended these imprints together, until the slave’s entire arse became the same empurpled shade. The pain of these slaps was escalating and his Master increased his tempo, striking the slave’s rear systematically, leaving no inch of milky skin unblemished with the reddening force of his hand.

Between blows, his Master would intermittently caress the hardening shaft and filling sacs of the slave’s sex, teasing him with this momentary pleasure before striking the slave’s flesh again. Each blow made the slave’s orifice contract around the phallus lodged within him, and each infrequent palpation of his engorged cock made him squirm on his Master’s lap, until the slave was panting and sweating. When he began to lift his arse to meet each blow of his Master’s hand, the blows stopped.

“On the bed,” his Master ordered him, and the slave complied eagerly, crawling carefully from his Master’s lap, and knowing just how his Master wanted him to lie on the mattress.

The footboard of the bedstead had been altered from its original design. Whereas it had once consisted of several planks of wood nailed to each post at its end, his Master had removed the topmost of these planks so that there were only boards at the bottom, below where the planks under the mattress held it aloft. This left an opening at the bed’s end between the posts of the bed, and was often used by the slave’s Master for the purpose of tying his thrall. Here, the slave lay, spreading his legs as far as they could be spread, so that his Master could attach him to the bed.

Not his ankles but the slave’s thighs were tied to the posts with ropes that hung there always. This left his entire lower body pulled low on the mattress, his rear nearly hanging from the foot of the bed. To the posts did the Master tie his slave’s wrists, as well, such that the slave’s body was nearly doubled over where it lay, with the slave’s torso bowed so that he would face his Master during this torture.

From the chest of drawers where such items were kept, his Master withdrew another object with which the slave was well familiar – a thin rod of flexible metal, covered in braided leather, on which was attached by a looped cord a small square of iron that was also covered in several thick layers of cowhide.

Fully dressed, his Master walked to where his slave was bound and stretched before him. As if testing the paddle he held, his Master slapped the square end of it against the palm of his hand lightly, but even this light strike created a loud wallop as the leather hit his skin.

“You will wake before the sun rises,” the elder, stronger Elf demanded, tightening the last knot expertly. “I have cleaned the room this time, but next time this room will be spotless before Anor graces the sky, else you will be licking the dust from the stone floor.”

With that said, his Master began to run the leathered object over his slave’s body, beginning with the inside of his thighs, traveling down to the dark hair surrounding his arousal, and underneath his shaft, where his Master bounced the paddle lightly under his slave’s tightening sacs. The slave moaned, twisting his lower body into the feeling, which also jarred the phallus inside him and caused him to moan harder.

Annoyed that the thrall was enjoying his punishment overly much, his Master struck out with the paddle, the flat of it hitting the slave just where the soft flesh of his inner thigh met his groin. He started, his body jumping and twitching at the intensity of the pain. This did not faze his Master in the least, and the one strike was followed by another in the same spot, and then a third, and a fourth, until his moans of pleasure became a small whimper of discomfort.

“Tithen-mûl,” his Master whispered, quieting his slave because the young Elf needed to hear what his Master told him. “I have waited a long year for your return, and the first day you are back, already you have disappointed me.”

He moved slowly around the thrall’s thighs, slapping each in turn now, moving closer and then further from the slave’s sex, until with measured, careful movements, the Master slapped between the younger Elf’s extended legs, hitting both the base of the polished stone phallus inside the slave’s body to jar it and striking the fragile flesh between the globes of the slave’s arse as well. The intumescence of the slave’s shaft was more agonizing than this assault on his rear, for the pain of this delicate bruising was only heightening his subservient lust.

“I am sorry, Master,” he whined pitifully, losing himself completely to this treatment, for here in his Master’s room, there was no shame in supplication. “Chastise your slave, Master. Please.”

Quickly, his Master removed the phallus from his slave’s body only to replace it with his long shaft. Although his opening had been stretched by the phallus, it had been without oil, and he cried aloud now at the added pain of this dry entry. His inability to keep quiet earned him a strong reprimand from his Master, who only thrust his shaft harder to enter his thrall’s unprepared opening once more with a vicious stab. When the slave cried out again, his Master used his leathered paddle to strike the slave’s chest, his aim accurate as he hit sadistically the tender bud of the thrall’s nipple, and then the other one.

“Watch me,” his Master ordered, grabbing the young Elf by the back of his neck to pull his head forward, while with his other hand, his Master pushed the slave’s genitalia roughly to the side, displaying for the slave the sight of his Master’s shaft as it pushed its way inside of his slave’s exposed and tormented aperture. “Watch me as I rend you in two, tithen-mûl. Watch my shaft splitting you. Beg me to take you,” he ordered.

“Please, please Master, take your slave harder,” he wailed softly, inciting his Master to further his assault, letting loose the thrall’s limp shaft and the back of his neck, so that he could grab instead his slave’s hips. Pulling the slave hard into him, his Master forced the slave’s body into meeting each of his brutal thrusts. He could not look away from the strange spectacle – his Master wanted him to see this aggression, but moreover, the slave wanted to see for himself, so that he would always remember this lesson.

“You deserve this, slave,” his Master told him, his grip on the slave’s legs becoming bruising, and the rope chafing the thrall’s skin each time his body was pulled taut within its confines.

Between the agony of his abused orifice and the humiliation of begging for his Master to punish him in this way, the slave’s untouched sex wilted, for the slave was feeling no gratification at all any longer. He could not close his legs or push his Master away. He could only lie there, watching his own body being used by his Master for the elder Elf’s pleasure, pleasure taken because his Master enjoyed his slave’s pain and did not cared during this punishment if the slave felt any satisfaction at all.

Searing his abraded inner flesh with its heat and salt, his Master’s seed filled him, though this did not stop the elder Elf from continuing his thrusting, ramming his erection within his slave to milk from himself the last tremors of pleasure. He exited and then reentered the thrall’s body, distending the vulnerable opening again and again, to continue to bring the younger Elf as much suffering as possible before his chastisement was complete.

Master, breathing harshly but appearing completely impassive about having just violated his slave so savagely, looked down at his slave. Finally, his Master removed himself from his slave’s body when his own shaft was soft, and wiped the seed from his member onto one half of the slave’s rear, marking him with this mess. As if an afterthought, the elder Elf picked up the phallus from where he’d thrown it onto the bed, and looking directly at his slave as he did so, shoved it back inside his thrall’s maltreated opening, before walking away to the washbasin, leaving his thrall still tied to the bed, his body dripping his Master’s semen, and his arms and legs aching from the ropes.

He waited a moment until he was certain that his Master was finished with him, when his Master was washing his shaft of the faint tinge of blood and seed.

“I am sorry for disobeying you, Master. Thank you for punishing me,” he whispered, as was expected of him. He was feeling more disgusted with himself than usual after a night of their games, when he had told himself only the night previous that he would not wear the collar again, and already, he had woken with it on and submitted without a second thought. “I willingly await more punishment tonight.”

“No,” his Master told him. “I have no need for you tonight,” he continued dismissively, adjusting his robes and then using the burnished silver looking glass on the table to check that his hair was in proper order. “Lindir is planning to come by my chambers tonight to continue his training.”

As he was wearing the collar, the slave did not ask why Lindir would have need to come by his Master’s chambers for training, or what this training incurred. It was not his place, even without the collar around his neck, to ask. However, the rejection and jealousy began at once, made all the more acute by his not knowing. His Master had no one else who wore the collar but him – he had believed this because his Master had told him so. But now, his Master told him otherwise.

“Besides, they were out looking for you last night,” his Master told him, finally removing the scrap of cloth that signified his slave’s submission, and then untying the ropes at his thrall’s wrists. “They knocked on my door several times in the night. I finally rose to find out what they wanted, which is when the guard told me that you had gone missing.”

“Why did you not wake me?” he asked, no longer bound by the collar to keep quiet. Once free of the ropes that his Master was removing from his limbs, he climbed to his feet to find his clothing, to leave as soon as possible so that he could learn what was happening, but also to flee more castigation.

His Master threw the slave’s boots at his feet, telling the thrall with anger clear in his voice, “I did not wake you because then you would wish to leave, and there were guards roaming everywhere all of last night. I will not have you seen leaving my quarters in the early hours of the morning.”

Even without the collar, the slave cowed to this annoyance, and so did not question his Master further. Instead, he grabbed his boots to put them on his feet; however, when he sat back on the bed to pull them on, the phallus still wedged inside him shifted his aching orifice, and he quickly made as if to stand.

By pushing his slave on the shoulder, the Master shoved the slave back into sitting, earning him a yelp of agony from the thrall. A wide smile graced his Master’s face. “Wear it until the evening meal,” he told his slave of the device entrapped inside the younger Elf’s aperture. “Perhaps I will call for you yet, to aid me with Lindir.”

With that, his Master turned away, not acknowledging his slave again, not even when the thrall whispered his thanks and goodbye before exiting his Master’s bedchambers to enter the sitting room, and then leaving surreptitiously by the door to the gardens outside.

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The moment that his twin walked through the door, Elladan hung his head to hide the tears of relief that overwhelmed him.

Elrohir walked directly to his father’s desk, where Elrond was sitting, his own relief to see his youngest son both alive and ostensibly well causing him to gape somewhat.

“You have been looking for me, Adar?” the younger of Elrond’s sons asked the Elf Lord, his tone so innocent and confused that Elladan knew at once that his twin had no idea what had happened the night previous. “I have been asked by every servant I have passed if I had come to see you yet.”

“Where have you been, Elrohir?” the worried father finally exclaimed, rising to his feet as if to run to hug his son, but the youngest of his progeny had long rejected his father’s affection, and Elrond never quite made it to Elrohir to complete this task. “Sit my son, are you well?”

Refusing the seat offered him with a shake of his head, Elrohir only leant against the edge of his father’s desk. He explained, “I am fine, Adar.”

Elladan found this hard to believe, not when last night he had felt so clearly his twin’s pain and disquiet. He came to stand before his brother, beside his father, to seize his twin’s arm, assuring himself with this touch that his brother was there and presumably well. “But I could feel you. I could tell that you were in pain! How can you not be injured?”

Elrohir jerked his arm away from his twin, giving his brother a confused glare. “I am not injured at all. You are mistaken.”

“Then where were you this last night, Elrohir?” their Ada tried again.

“It does not concern you, and should not concern you, Ada,” the young Elf Lord told his father quietly, respectfully, but firmly as he continued, “I will not divulge such information, for it is not only my secret to keep.”

Their father huffed his disbelief a time or two, shaking his head with incredulity. “Perhaps once you see the state of your chambers you will think otherwise.”

Elrohir does not even know how serious this is, his twin thought. All this past night of worrying over his brother, and Elrohir would not even tell them where he had been to protect some maid’s honor. It rankled Elladan’s nerves, to be sure, but it also worried him, because if Elrohir would not take their inquisition seriously, then he would not be careful of danger. And to Elladan, it was clear that whoever had entered Elrohir’s chambers to strew such carnage about had intended it as a warning.

“Show him the note,” he told his father, but took for himself the lambskin off Elrond’s desk. Handing it to his twin, he nodded to the missive he held in hand, saying, “We found it in your room, amidst the bowels of a fawn.”

Elrohir’s eyes grew wide: he took the note gingerly, now aware of what substance stained the lambskin. The younger twin scanned the scrawl written upon the letter, his eyes growing ever wider for the short moment it took to read the words thereon. Once through, he swallowed thickly, his jaw moving compulsively side to side in a nervous habit that Elladan knew meant that his twin was thinking.

“It is a repugnant joke,” Elrohir claimed finally. The young Elf smiled falsely and rolled the lambskin up, sticking it deep in his tunic’s pocket.

Elladan had read the letter so many times that night that he could have recited it on command – not that there was much to recite. Scrawled upon the lambskin was merely this, ‘Welcome home, whore.’

“Some she-Elf’s bondmate, no doubt,” their father ranted, his relief now anger, and his anger growing at the glibness of his son. “What Elf have you angered by seducing his mate, Elrohir?”

The question would not be answered, nor did their father even give Elrohir the time to answer it, but continued his line of thought. “You have been back in the valley one night, Elrohir, and already you are making me wish I had not sent for your return!”

Upset and beyond himself from worry and frustration, the Elf Lord crossed his arms over his chest, standing before Elrohir expectantly.

Elrohir had blanched to the color of the grey slate tabletop on which he leant, and lowered his head in deference to say, “I am sorry, Ada.”

As it was clear that neither father nor brother would receive any information from their reclusive and reticent family member, Elrond walked around his desk and sat heavily in his chair once more, waving the twin off with his hand, and saying, “Hold your tongue, then, Elrohir. But if some jealous smith wishes to throw you into his forge for debauching his wife, do not expect me to interfere.”

Simply, his twin told their father again, “I am sorry, Ada. This will not become your problem, I promise.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Lord Elrond said, having already turned to the stack of papers he had on his table before him, while Elrohir was making his way to the door. “And Elrohir,” he called before his youngest son had left, “the servants have not cleaned your room, as I had intended to keep it as it was, should it still provide some clue to your whereabouts. Now that you are found, you will be the one cleaning up this mess?”

Elrond’s question was not really a question at all, and Elrohir knew this as did his elder twin. “Of course, Ada,” he agreed just as he slipped out the door.

Although he wanted to stay to console his father’s troubled mind, Elladan followed his brother hurriedly out of the room, intent to find the cause behind both his twin’s absence and the carnage they had found in Elrohir’s rooms, and thinking that he would admit it to him if not their father.

“Brother, wait,” he implored, grabbing his twin’s arm to stop him from his stride down the hall. “You know more than you tell us. What is happening?”

Yanking his arm from Elladan’s grasp, Elrohir did not bother to even look at his twin as he told him harshly, “Leave me be,” and then continued to walk away from him and down the hall.

His twin had a life that he did not share with Elladan. Some might find this strange, especially those that had known the brothers since they were Elflings, for when young, the two had been inseparable and had argued little. As the two had grown older, they had also grown apart.

“Do you not even want help cleaning your bedchamber, Elrohir?” he shouted as a last effort to stay in his brother’s company, and therefore hopefully find some explanations.

Stopping for just a brief moment, the younger twin did not turn around, but called back even as he began again to walk away, “It is my mess. I will see to it.”

Although it pained Elladan that he and his twin were not as close as they had once been, he did not take offense. They were children no longer, and if his twin wished to have his secrets, well, Elladan loved Elrohir enough not to meddle.

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His brother and father had not warned him for what had been done to his rooms. They had mentioned a fawn and filth, but not this disaster. He had never seen so much blood inside a building – during a battle or even in the slaughterhouse, yes, but inside a room, no. Slowly, Elrohir turned himself in circles, his eyes not able to capture all of the gore at once, his mind unable to comprehend how someone had taken the time and effort to affect this scene of butchery and blood.

It is no wonder that Ada and Elladan were worried, he thought, sighing to himself. Despite his reluctant attitude when speaking to his family, Elrohir had not been immune to their guilt-inducing questions. Listening to his father’s disappointment in addition to his Master’s this morning, and with their castigation sounding so familiar, was making Elrohir’s stomach churn.

Taking the rolled piece of lambskin from his pocket, he looked at the handwriting, hoping that he might recognize it. There were many Elves who might be suspect, many who might know of Elrohir’s perversions without him having seen the culprit’s face during the game. Someone knows, he wondered, sitting charily on his bloodstained bed. He was already dirty, he smelled awful, and he was surprised that his brother and father had not noticed.

Why would anyone do this?

Kneeling down to the filthy floor, Elrohir grunted as the bruises on his thighs and the ache between his legs were agitated. It hurt him to move even that much. His Master had been especially rough with him this morning, and the device still ensconced in his arse was only aggravating him into constant pain.

Someone knows, he thought again. What if it is one of Master’s guests? Or what if one of the servants has caught wind of this?

He did not know where to start. His Master that morning had called him lazy, had made him promise never to leave such disarray in his Master’s room again. If his Master saw what state his slave’s room was in right now, Elrohir would likely not be able to walk for weeks after the punishment.

Opening the blood covered box atop his equally soiled nightstand, he found the contents within luckily unfouled. His fingers brushed over the item he sought – a long red ribbon, one that he’d found in the gardens one day several years ago. His fingers already sticky with the blood that tainted everything in the room, Elrohir tied this ribbon around his neck. The moment it was on, he could pretend that his Master had told him to clean this mess, and he would not hesitate to do it, nor stop to wonder why it had been done. With this makeshift collar, Elrohir would not need to think at all, nor fret, nor care.

He would be free of the worry that someone in Imladris knew that Lord Elrohir was slave to the will of another, and was apparently enraged by it.

The Will of Another 02

Mon, 29 Jan 2007 21:18:20 GMT

Everywhere there was blood – on the floor staining the carpet, on the curtains hanging over the window by the equally splattered writing desk and chair. The red liquid stained even the mantle above the lifeless fireplace, the blood dripping from the slab of stone onto the floor. Only the tall ceiling seemed to be spared of the fluid, though along the tops of the walls, where the juncture between the stone of wall and ceiling met, there were smirches of briny claret.

But especially, on the bed there was blood. So much blood, the Elf thought. No one person could have lost this much blood.

Where there had once been a quilt of a pure, pale brown, there was now a dark, crimson discoloration. It seeped ever outwards even as he watched, the tinge growing larger, causing the Elf to stop in his tracks at the thought that this must mean that there was much more blood than even appearance belied to be spreading so quickly and thoroughly through the cloth.

What has happened here?

He knew that whatever had happened here, it had happened only moments ago. The pungent, unmistakable smell of evisceration was just growing in the air. Elrond walked with a faltering step across the threshold of the inner chamber, his knowledge of healing, his urgency to find out what had occurred, and his panic that he now stood in one of his son’s rooms and could find no son, only blood, could not break the hold his shock kept over him.

“Elrohir,” he whispered to the dark room, his feet unable to take him closer to the bed, where he feared he might find some remnant of his progeny. He had come here on a father’s worried whim to find his son, but had instead found this inexplicable massacre.

“ Ada!”

The Elf Lord whirled around to the source of the call, expecting to find Elrohir coming from the armoire against the wall or from the antechamber that Elrond had just walked from. He expected this to be some prank, and if it were, he also expected that his twin sons would be cleaning the stables for the rest of their immortal lives for frightening him like this.

His panic nearly broke into a smile as he saw that it was indeed one of his sons running through the sitting room towards him, but in that split second, he knew that it was Elladan, not Elrohir, and his near smile fled him, his panic escalated to see the anxiety on Elladan’s visage.

“Ada,” Elladan shouted again, his voice no softer than when first he called, though he now stood beside his father, and the loudness of the younger Elf’s voice shook Elrond from his stupor: he stumbled backwards to give the younger of his sons the space required to enter through the doorway. “Where is my brother?” Elladan asked as he pushed past his father, though he fell silent upon seeing the state of his twin’s room.

Elrond turned back to the butchery, as well, and could find no explanation to give Elladan. He remained as he was, wishing to check the carnage of the chamber to find some sign of life from his missing son, while still expecting that Elrohir would appear, laughing in amusement at his brother and father’s reaction to this mess. But not even Elrohir would have created such destruction in his room, not for the sake of a laugh on his part.

“I could feel you as you stood here, Ada.” A mewling howl of discontent erupted from Elladan, again shattering Elrond’s stupor. His son muttered, his voice growing ever louder as he spoke, “I felt him. I feel him now. He is in pain, Ada! Where is my brother?”

So desperate did Elladan sound that Elrond reached out to him, automatically seeking to comfort his child as any father would in such a trying time. In his aggravation, Elladan knocked away his father’s hands, and instead used his own to grab Elrond’s shoulders. By this grasp, he shook his Ada to garner some response from him other than his strange acceptance to so gruesome a circumstance.

“Where is he, Ada? Where is he?” the elder of his twin sons suddenly screamed, enraged by his father’s silence. “Have they taken him to the healers? Ada?”

Still, Elrond could not speak, he could not move. The blood in the room overwhelmed his senses. It was all that he could see, all that he could smell, and all that he knew for that moment.

Drawn by the shouting, one guard, and then another appeared at the door, their faces growing vapid as they walked together towards their Lord, into the bedroom, where they then stopped. Together, the two guards peered about the empty, moon lit room, seeing Elrond as he wavered on his feet under Elladan’s rattling inquisition.

Elladan gave up on trying to acquire an answer from his father and pushed Elrond away from him in his aggravation. The Elf Lord watched despondently with the awed guards as his son searched the room. Neither guard spoke, for they were waiting for some word from Elrond as to what they should do – as no word came, they were as useless as their Lord in aiding Elladan find his twin.

Suddenly dropping to his knees, Elladan let loose another wail of anguish. There on the floor, hidden beneath the table beside his son’s bed, was an indistinguishable mass of blood. Innards were strewn out from under the bed, and Elrohir crouched down low to pull from beneath the frame a long bone, muscle and sinew trailing its whitish, glossy surface, as if the flesh had been sliced from it with hurried precision.

That is not Elrohir, his mind decided, and his heart soon following in his mind’s path to deny what his eyes saw. It is some cruel trick. There is a sensible explanation for this.

There would never be a time, Elrond knew, for his elder son to be weeping on the floor, keening so loudly that he would draw the attention of every Elf in the near vicinity of his brother’s rooms, if this were a hoax. His twin sons were wont to their drollery; this was not a joke. This was real, as far as Elrond could tell.

It took only a moment after this new discovery for the elder of the guards, who had seen such gore before and recovered before his less seasoned fellow sentry, took the arm of his friend, telling him, “I will sound the alarm, Armine! Stay here with our Lords!”

Armine shook his head in compliance, his horrified daze becoming a calm awareness, as he tried once more to usher Elrond out of the bedroom. Seeing that he would gain no information from Elladan, who was still on knees beside the mass of mangled flesh and bone under his brother’s bed, Armine asked of Elrond, instead. “My Lord,” he said, “what is happening?”

He pulled his arm from the guard’s grasp, for he did not want to leave Elladan in here alone, and he truly did not want to leave the room at all, not yet. His mouth working more slowly than his brain, he heard himself ask aloud, “Where is Elrohir?”

Seeing that he would get no answer from Elrond, either, Armine looked about the room to find a place to seat his despondent liege. As nothing in the room had gone untainted by blood, the sentry soon gave up and tried to move Elrond from the bedroom a final time. The Elf Lord would not budge.

“Ada,” Elladan cried out to gain his father’s attention. “It is not him,” the elder of his Elven sons wailed in both relief and despair – relief that his brother was not the one lying butchered on the floor, and despair that they still did not know of where Elrohir could be. “It is not even an Elf! It is a fawn,</span> Ada!”

With this, Elladan tugged at the edge of a cloth, pulling with it the foul mess of what was once a deer. Its belly had been opened from neck to groin, the flesh over its stomach was hanging in gruesome, loose strips along its exposed ribs. The missing viscera, it seemed, was that which was under Elrohir’s nightstand, and the bone he found moments ago that of the fawn’s front leg, though it had been hewn from its hoof.

No matter the disgusting sight, Elrond could not have been happier to see it. Relief swept over him, and for a moment, Elrond smiled at the thought that he would soon be given the chance to lecture his youngest for worrying him so. Perhaps then, this is all deer blood, and not that of Elrohir at all. He pushed past Armine to fall to his knees beside Elladan, who held in his blood soaked hands the skull of a very young deer, its shape evincing that this was no Elf that had been slaughtered here on the floor.

As if he did not notice how vile a thing he held in his hands, Elladan’s grip on the skull grew tighter. “I knew that I could feel him. He is alive, Ada. We must find him. I can still feel his pain.”

They had no conception of what was occurring. There was no prior experience to guide the Imladrian leader’s actions. He sat there, watching as Elladan continued to search under the bed, dragging out with his bloodied hands the rest of the dismembered carcass, before he began to search the bed. Under the soaked sheets was a large section of the skin of the mutilated deer, the spots on its hide not having yet faded with age. Turning his attention back to the filth on the floor, he wondered what this meant, and still he expected Elrohir’s laughter to begin from some hiding place in the room, to evince that this was all a farce.

“What is this?” he asked aloud to no one in particular when his absentminded inspection caught something more out of the ordinary than the presence of the butchered fawn itself.

Within the shredded and foul entrails of the slain deer, the yellow of lambskin was buried in the waste of the animal’s viscera. Much like Elladan, Elrond gave not a second thought to fumbling through the blood and gore if it would help them find Elrohir. He groped under the nightstand until his fingers latched onto the rolled parchment, and he pulled it out.

With Elladan peering over his shoulder, Elrond untied the sanguinary ribbon on this strange missive and unrolled it. Even here, blood and muck tainted the lambskin, and so, heedless of the ancient carpets, Elrond wiped the parchment against the floor, though he only managed to smear the blood thereon rather than clean it from the letter. The dark script on the parchment was scrawled and long, barely legible even through the blood; however, what it said was clear enough for the half-Elf.

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“Do you hear that?”

Groaning as his slumber was interrupted, his bedmate rolled away from the person lying beside him. “I hear nothing, Legolas. Go back to sleep.”

Of course you hear nothing, you silly twit, the Elf thought with an amused, loving smile that with his closed eyes, the advisor could not see. You have your pillow over your head. Rather than voice this aloud, he rephrased his question, asking, “Erestor. Someone is shouting. Shall we not go see what is amiss?”

Although Erestor squirmed into settling himself more comfortably in his bed, Legolas sat up. He was not drunk as was Erestor, nor was he particularly happy with the advisor at the moment. He had come to the dark Elf’s rooms tonight for entertainment, and Erestor had been too drunk to provide it. Now that something entertaining was happening, Legolas wanted to enjoy it. He nudged at Erestor’s back, just as knocking began at the door.

The advisor groaned again, much louder this time, and pulled at the blankets covering his body in an attempt to cover his head, as well. “It is likely someone who has had too much drink, like I have. Let someone else lead him to his room. Ignore him.”

The knocking was insistent, that of someone who would not be dissuaded to let the two lovers sleep. “Answer your door,” he teased Erestor. “I do not feel like dressing, so unless you wish me to open your door this late at night, nude and in your rooms, then perhaps you should forgo your drunken sleep and get up!”

With this last bit, he pushed at the advisor’s back, shoving Erestor until the Elf finally groaned a final time in acquiescence. Legolas knew that Erestor did not wish for any to know of their clandestine time together, and so knew that this rebuke and threat would work to cause his lover to rise. Comically, Erestor stumbled out of bed and nearly fell forwards into the chair nearby, as he tried to grab the clothing sitting thereon.

Forgoing pulling on his breeches and barely tying the sash of his night robe, Erestor shouted to the insistent visitor, “It makes me walk no faster for you to keep beating on my door.”

Realizing that the Elf he sought was at least awake, the one outside ceased his knocking and instead tried turning the knob. It was unlocked – Erestor’s grumpy, slow shamble to the outer room and thus the door to his chambers became certain and hurried as he sought to keep the visitor from entering. Luckily for the two lovers, Erestor’s hand met the knob just as it was thrust open, and putting his shoulder before the door, the advisor halted the wood slab before it was thrown open and the Wood-Elf in the room behind him made visible.

“My apologies, my Lord Erestor,” the breathless, anxious guard addressed the advisor, speaking to him with the respect due his position, though he was a bit abrupt in speech. “Lord Elrond has sent me to ascertain that you are well.”

From where he laid on the bed, Legolas could see through the bedroom doorway and into the anteroom to where Erestor stood, highlighted in the faint illumination from the torchlight of the hallway. He could also see his lover as he shook his head in confusion. “All is well, here. Why is Lord Elrond concerned for my safety?”

The guard did not answer this question but offered many queries of his own, asking, “Have you seen Lord Elrohir? We cannot find him, nor Lindir, Glorfindel, and one of the guards is not at his post. What of Prince Legolas? Have you seen him? He is missing, also.”

Just from the tone of the guard’s voice, despite not knowing the Elf personally, Legolas realized that now was not the time for hiding underneath the covers. Erestor did not seem to agree with the Prince, however, and so answered a bit too quickly, “I have not seen Thranduilion.” He added on afterthought, “Nor have I seen anyone else since sundown in the hall of fire. But it is early in the night yet, and many are outside enjoying themselves still.”

Again, Legolas heard the advisor ask, this time with more impatience, “Why is Lord Elrond seeking the whereabouts of his guests and family so late this night?”

Legolas listened as the guard took in a deep breath before he answered. “Something ill has befallen Lord Elrohir. As we do not yet know what has happened, or who is responsible, Lord Elrond wished for us to account for everyone in his household. We have been going door to door until we find everyone. Elrond fears that someone else may also have been assaulted.”

Forgetting that he was supposed to be hiding the Prince’s presence within his rooms, Erestor looked back into his bedchamber from where he stood, his gaze meeting Legolas’ for a moment. He answered the guard without looking to him, “Both Glorfindel and Thranduilion are wont to walking the grounds in the evening, and Lindir you will probably find singing to the moon or some maiden under a tree. Why do you not look for all three in the gardens?”

On the door where it was cast, the shadow of the guard’s head bobbed as if he were nodding. “We have looked, but I will look again. I hope nothing ill has happened to them. Lord Elladan fears the worst for Lord Elrohir.” He could not see the guard, but Legolas heard his weary and worried sigh. “Stay in your rooms, Lord Erestor, and keep the door locked to all visitors.”

The moment said door was shut and the lock turned, Erestor hissed to Legolas, “Put on your clothes, young one! If the guards do not find you in the gardens, they will sound the alarm and all of the valley will be out to locate you.”

Numbed at the strange turn of events this night had taken, Legolas did not move from where he sat on the bed. Instead, the young Elf merely watched as Erestor began gathering the Prince’s clothing from the floor, tossing it piece by piece at the quiescent Wood-Elf. “What has happened, do you think?” he asked his wise, older lover.

“How would I know? Now hurry. Pretend you know nothing of what has happened.” Grabbing from the floor the Prince’s boots, Erestor tossed them towards Legolas’ feet and ordered, even as he took his own breeches from the floor, as well, “Out of here and to the gardens. Wait there for someone to find you, and I will seek you out later to tell you what I know. I must find Elrond and see that he is well.”

No sooner did Legolas have his boots on than he fled Erestor’s chambers, scaling down the tree outside the advisor’s balcony. Erestor would be forgoing the sentry’s advice to remain within his room so that he could see to his Lord, and this was a task that Legolas did not begrudge him, but still the Silvan was perturbed.

Frowning, the young Elf looked about to ascertain if there was anyone around. I do not see why I had to leave.

On the one hand, Legolas knew why his new lover was so keen not to have any know of their affair. Erestor was much older than the Prince, he maintained an image of aptitude and decorum that he did not wish to be tarnished with rumor of his couplings – and with a young, male Wood-Elf, no doubt! However, it also burned the Prince to have been thrown out of Erestor’s rooms so unceremoniously, especially when he was confused and concerned about the strange happenings to which the guard had only eluded.

I wonder what is occurring, the Elda pondered, slipping with little difficulty past a sentinel at the edge of the courtyard. I hope no one is injured. The short conversation between Erestor and the Imladrian guard had not offered much information by way of what was going on, but Legolas thought he would soon find out, even if had to seek out Lord Elrond himself. He was a Prince, after all, and his curiosity would be satisfied even if he had to use his station to procure information.

For a few moments, the Wood-Elf sped through the shrubs and between the trees of the woods at this part of the valley, seeking to place himself farther away from the house and within the cultured gardens before he stopped his flight.

Although he had been in Imladris for only a few months, visiting for diplomatic reasons at his father’s behest, Legolas had not had much chance to acquaint himself with the sons of Elrond. Both Lords Elladan and Elrohir had been absent from Rivendell until only today, when both had returned with their fellow warriors from some task of importance. His attempt to befriend them that evening at the dinner table had been rebuffed, albeit genially. Legolas was many years their junior, and he imagined that they had been weary from their journey. Besides, he had already found company with Erestor, and so had not minded, truly, but still, the Prince wished no ill upon Elrond’s sons.

Certainly, this is all some misunderstanding. For Elrohir to have gone missing, and for Elladan to fear the worst for him… and Lord Glorfindel to be absent, as well… and Lindir. He is the bard, is he not? he asked himself, slowing to gauge if any guards were near before he entered one of the many garden gates to maintain his alibi.

“Prince Legolas!” came a call behind him, which stopped the Silvan after a few steps past the gate, and long before he had reached the gardens proper. He waited where he stood, allowing the sentinel to catch up to him. Indeed, it was the same Elf who had been to Erestor’s rooms to check on him, for Legolas could tell by the guard’s voice when he asked, “Are you well, Prince?

He had been running wildly through the grounds to reach the pleasance, and even now, he was breathing heavily and his clothing was mussed. I must look as if I am running for my life!

“I am enjoying the night air,” he assured the guard. “Is something amiss?”

The sentinel watched Legolas adjust his clothing and smooth his hair, suspicion passing over his features. Finally, he spoke, saying, “Lord Elrond has asked that all of his family and friends remain inside the Last Homely House for the remainder of the night.” Taking the Prince none too gently by his arm to guide him towards the nearest entry into the house, the guard pulled Legolas along with him towards the nearest entrance into the great home. “You have given us quite a scare,” he reprimanded, as if scolding a child, “for we have been searching for you for an hour or more!”

Employing a bit of hauteur into his question, and his jaw tensing more at the lecture he was being given, Legolas questioned, “What is the matter, sentry?”

However, the guard did not give a true answer, although he did release the Wood-Elf’s arm. “Nothing to be worried over, Prince Legolas. There is just need for caution at the moment, and Lord Elrond wishes to see to your safety.”

It was apparent from the accompanying wary glare that the sentry gave him that Legolas would receive no more response, for clearly the guard did not trust him. But the Prince let himself be escorted back into the Last Homely House and back to his rooms, where he would wait for Erestor to come to him to tell him what had happened.

The Will of Another 01

Tue, 12 Dec 2006 03:06:10 GMT

Title: The Will of Another
Author: ClitorisJones(thethird)
Summary: The slave is in love with his Master, but he finds from an unexpected source that there is more to love than what his Master is offering.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: FPS, BDSM, torture, humiliation, lemon, etc.

Click here for all chapters.

This is the first chapter in a story that will grow ever darker, if I decide to keep writing it. Just so you know, “tithen-mûl” means little slave. Identities, pairings, and warnings will be given for each chapter, because I do not want to reveal what will come. However, the identities of some characters will not be revealed except through the story.

Warnings for this chapter: Light bondage and other bdsm themes.

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There was someone in the room, this much he could tell. Indeed, with a horsehair sack covering his head, the Elf could see nothing, nor could he be seen. The blindfold made even his eyelids crawl with discomfort, so scratchy was the fabric. The urge to reach up to rub this itch was great: he did not move a muscle, even though as of yet, his hands were not yet bound.

Held tight by a thick, coarse hemp rope tied around his head, a substantial, long block of rough wood was wedged between the top and bottom rows of his teeth, making coherent speech impossible and stretching his lips wide open, even at the sides of his mouth. It would not remain there once this visitor began his fun. He had only to cry out one word to stop everything, to bring this game to a halt. But now, he could say nothing. He had nothing to fear, however; his Master would not be far away, and knowing his slave better than the slave knew himself, his Master would stop anything that he thought might hurt the thrall beyond his endurance. The Elf had a habit of keeping quiet when he should have already brought the game to a halt, and his Master knew this.

The creak of a drawer being pulled open came from his right, and the Elf tried not to turn towards the sound out of anticipation. The slave knew that this visitor had come here before, for this one was aware of the items tucked away within his Master’s bedchambers. Depending on what toys the guest decided to use upon him, and in what manner they were used, the slave could guess who it was that had come tonight, should he have truly visited his Master’s chambers before. Every visitor had a different method of inducing his own pleasure, a unique stroke to the lashings they bequeathed upon his flesh, and even the comportment of their completion identified them to the slave – not that he knew them outside the bedroom, or rather, if he did, he could never have placed any of them among the populace.

Indeed, most of them never even saw his face, either. His identity would have shocked them, they might have been appalled to find such an important Elf the object of their perversions, or they might have enjoyed themselves all the more to find that someone so irreproachable was now at their mercy. Only a few of his Master’s visitors, the closest of his Master’s friends, had any idea of from whom it was that they were exacting their pleasure. These visitors the Elf could count on one hand, so few were they, and outside of this chamber, none ever mentioned what occurred within, nor did they treat the slave any differently for it.

Many of these unknown and unseen visitors to his Master’s chambers were visitors to the realm itself. This was to ensure his safety, so that none would recognize the slave by his body or hair, or if he spoke by accident. These guests to his Master’s pleasure were not brought here to firm some concord or coerce the visitors into agreeing with the Lord of this realm. The slave was not a whore, not a plaything to be kept by any of the visitors, and his time with them was not in trade. His Master invited these guests because it pleased him to share his slave, not because it pleased the visitors. If in doing so he facilitated any agreements or treaty, then it was only by happenstance, not by design.

The slave waited impatiently. He desired to shift his weight from one foot to the next, to shrug his shoulders, which ached from standing so still and straight for so long, or to cough behind the impediment to his breathing and speech, to clear his throat. He did none of these things. One never knew when his Master’s visitor would take offense to such simple actions, believing the slave to be acting impertinently. It would only make tonight harder for the slave to incite anger from the guest. He was tired and wanted this to end quickly tonight.

Of course, most of them preferred it when he struggled, when he pretended not to enjoy their perversions, so he also realized that it might be wise for him to agitate the guest, to foment the visitor’s anger and lust promptly, so that it would be sated rapidly, as well. They grew more aroused to think that they were punishing him, taking him against his will, and even though he was not entirely in their power, being as at any moment he could stop this game, he had come to enjoy the immersion of himself in another’s control. If they wished him to struggle, then it only heightened his own excitement to pretend he was being taken by force.

Despite his tiredness, thinking about the visitor taking him fast and hard alleviated this fatigue, and the slave found himself more aware and intent on what the guest was searching for in the drawers. It would not do to displease his Master by hurrying his visitor along.

He played each night he wore the collar as if his Master were watching, whether his Master was watching or not, and having his Master observe him as he thrashed and resisted under the pinning weight of a visitor, or whimper helplessly as a guest took him violently from behind, brought his Master joy, he knew. Besides, even should he not be watching, his Master could be gauging for himself the performance his slave gave a guest. He straightened his tired shoulders further and tried to stand perfectly still, to project an appearance of obedience and discipline, just in case his Master was viewing the guest’s activities, or his slave.

The slave knew that it also thrilled his Master to know that these guests were as much his Master’s slave as was he. Should any of them speak about their time in his Master’s chambers, they would be as much ostracized by their friends and family as would the slave and his Master. This was a place of perversion, the likes of which Elves did not participate, not with their mates and loving wives. But here, with another male, anonymous to each other, they could do as they wished without reprisal, assuming they followed his Master’s rules. If any of them who knew the slave’s identity ever spoke of it, they would find themselves the object of ridicule and blame, for hadn’t the guest also participated in the slave’s degradation?

The visitor took his time in choosing what object, belt, or other device he would use; else, he was merely teasing the slave by making him wait for what might come. He was not sure to whom his Master had loaned him tonight, except that whoever it was, they were not one to converse. Some of his Master’s friends enjoyed taunting him as they abused him, or provoking him and humiliating him with their words before they ever touched him. Those that knew who he was seemed to desire to do this more so, or they preferred instead to have the slave talking, to beg them, to plead with them, and to verbally acquiesce to their every desire. The reversal of power seemed to excite them.

No, he could not yet tell who his Master had invited to join them tonight. In a few moments, when the guest began, he would have some idea, and thus would know what to expect and how best to act to please his Master’s guest.

The rules were very simple. Unless given explicit permission from his Master, visitors were not allowed to remove the sack covering his head, they were not allowed to bruise him above his slave collar, they could not break skin, and visitors were not welcome to maim the slave permanently. If he wished, Master would be watching all of this, or he would be sitting in the room outside the bedchamber, likely sipping his glass of wine and reading by the firelight, while his slave was tormented in the bedchamber. Only with his Master’s most trusted friends would the hood be removed, and only with them had his Master ever joined in during these sessions.

He kept quiet, knowing that his Master may be in the room, watching and waiting for his slave to break the rules, or perhaps to call an end to this before it had even begun. Above all, he did not wish to disappoint his Master. His Master’s opinion meant more to him than his own, his Master’s displeasure could be more painful than any crop or chain, and likewise, his Master’s delight at his slave behaving and acting in accordance with what he had taught him would bring the slave untold happiness.

Hands fumbled at the hem of the sack and then squirmed their way underneath the cloth covering his head. He would see who it was that tortured him tonight. Without thinking, the usually obedient slave twitched at the touch out of the longing for it not to be so. These nights passed by more pleasurably when he was not also forced to endure seeing the visitor – depending on which of his Master’s guests was here. His body became absolutely still when he realized his mistake in moving, and he waited for either his Master or the guest to discipline him for showing any reaction to this handling.

No castigation came, and the hands did not remove the sack. Instead, they met at the back of the Elf’s neck, where the deft fingers untied the knotted rope and gently, the rough wooden block was removed from his mouth. It slid out from underneath his hood, along with the visitor’s hands, and the slave breathed deeply, licking his dry teeth and lips, and was glad that these small actions could not been seen by anyone in the room. No, tonight he and the guest both would remain nameless.

His arms were raised above his head, and the sounds of the chains dangling down from above were quieted as the guest grabbed them to pull them down to fasten the cloth-covered manacles. With each click of the metal as it enclosed his wrist, the slave felt himself becoming increasingly ensnared within the game. This guest was not one he could recall being here before, for he seemed to know what he was doing but was not certain in his actions.

Suddenly, there was another in the room. The slave knew it was his Master just from the confident sound of the boots hitting the bare floor. Without speaking, his Master was showing the visitor how to raise and lower the slave by his chains. The slave could hear the pulley’s muted squeak as the chain was pulled through it, raising the slave by his hands from the floor, until his Master and guest were satisfied, and one of the chain’s links were hooked into a stake on the wall to keep the dangling slave securely in the air.

The steady footsteps of his Master walking across the room signaled to the slave that he had left the guest and slave alone for now.

The walls of his Master’s rooms were doubly thick. Between two layers of the rock that formed the walls was a layer of wood. This clever means of drowning out the sound had been part of his Master’s punishment when the slave had been too noisy one night and had woken the Elves in the rooms next to his Master’s chambers. For three days, the slave had worked only at night, never seen by the servants who brought the wood and mortar, who hauled the goods necessary for the slave to do his Master’s bidding.

No one had questioned his Master’s desire to alter his quarters in this way. No one questioned his Master about many things, for he was a powerful Elf whose judgment and acumen were rarely wrong. His life outside the councils and libraries and studies of the valley was his own.

Suddenly, a hand trailed down the back of the slave’s thigh. It was hesitant and jerky, as if the visitor was not sure of what he was doing. The fingertips of the guest lingered upon the slave’s skin, smoothing across the downy flesh of the slave’s inner leg, following the curve of muscle there until it met with the juncture between thigh and torso, close to the slave’s nether regions. He considered whether to open his legs for the guest to continue his exploration, but the guest removed his hand, and the slave remained motionless.

He was fully prepared for whatever this guest wished to do tonight. As per his Master’s instructions, he had cleaned himself as was necessary for the pleasure of the guest, he had rubbed fragrant oil on himself to both make his skin supple and please the visitor with the aroma, and he had braided and bound his hair around his head to hide it from view.

If it had been any of his Master’s other, less experienced guests, already he might have been on his knees and hands on the floor, panting at the brutal thrusting into his passage; as it was, the slave was pained by having to wait to find out what ordeal he would endure from this hesitant and reticent visitor.

His Master had always preferred humiliation and control over inflicting pain, as did the greater part of the guests who came to the Master’s chambers. The items his Master had were made for these purposes. What the visitor had selected from the drawer, the slave soon discovered, was a thong made of leather, where at one end was tied a small silver ring. Under the sacs beneath his sex did the visitor gently wind this thong, and then up and around his shaft. It was not tied – not yet. It would not be tied until the slave’s shaft was hard and his need great. He knew this thong well, for he had made it himself.

In fact, most of the toys and objects in the room were fashioned by the slave who now dangled from one such invention. He had spent many a night carving phalluses from wood when he should have been carving arrows. He had sat at his Master’s feet by the fire, sewing the very horsehair sack that now covered his head, when he ought to have been in the hall of fire with his friends. The thong he had made by order from his Master, when he had first begun his training, and had not followed his Master’s order to refrain from spilling his seed.

As the slave was high in the air, the visitor could stand comfortably as he caressed the slave’s nude body from his shoulders almost down to his feet. His hands smoothed over the taut muscles of the slave’s expanded torso, down his hips and thighs, and then back up again. Just this touch was awakening the slave’s shaft, and as the guest must have noticed his playmate was responding to this, he began to grow more confident in his actions. The guest stepped closer, his damp, hot breath teasing along the slave’s torso, until the heat and wetness engulfed the thick bud of flesh on the slave’s chest, where it was laved gently before released, only for its twin to be treated the same.

No, this was not the usual course of events at all for the slave. His body responded to this temperate enticement out of habit, not out of lust. For a few moments, the guest continued this attention, breathing heavily as he found various points of interest on the slave’s torso to lick and lap.

Without even knowing who this guest before him was, the slave could imagine his confusion as the guest stepped back to note that the evidence of the slave’s lust, his shaft, was growing no more full or heady under these tame attentions. He willed his shaft to comply with the guest’s wishes; the visitor wanted to use the thong, and it would be of no use unless the slave was thick with need.

The befuddled guest began to rub the slave’s flaccid shaft, trailing his fingernails along it experimentally with one hand, and with the other, he held the slave’s hip in hand, as if keeping the Elf hanging before him from moving away from these attentions. Again, the slave barely reacted, until the guest’s nails gouged lightly at the swollen glans of his shaft, creating a sudden prickle of pain to race along the slave’s member.

Experimentally, the visitor did this again, this time digging his fingers into the flesh more roughly, though not so hard that it would break the skin. He dragged his nails along the sleek, hardening shaft, pausing as an unwilling shudder from the slave caused the hanging Elf’s body to twitch of its own accord, and to the slave’s consternation. With his other hand cupping the sacs beneath the slave’s sex, the guest grew bolder, squeezing these sensitive organs tightly, rolling them between his fingers, while he continued his heightening assault on the skin of the slave’s shaft.

All his tiredness and reluctance forgotten, the slave found himself twisting his hips in aggravation and welcomed pain. He had gone without for so long, that now, when he should most be trying to earn his Master’s favor so that he could later obtain his own release, the slave could not seem to stop his reactions to the guest’s torment. Fortuitous for the Elf slave, this wanton response to the visitor’s painful stimulation seemed to excite the guest, and the visitor soon replaced his grasping hand with his equally avaricious mouth, his teeth resuming the rough chafing of the slave’s skin on his shaft. His other hand joined its fellow behind the slave’s back to knead the supple rear there, the guest’s fingernails now abrading the globes with more force than he had the slave’s shaft.

Pressing together the two globes of the slave’s rear, the guest then spread them far apart, his fingers sliding over the slave’s skin to grip the silken, more sensitive flesh there, his fingertips grazing the delicate breach. Squeezing and releasing the slave’s shaft with his mouth and his rear with his hands, the guest moaned unintelligibly around the slave’s sex, while the slave hung his head in concentration, his belly contracting and expanding with the strain of not moving anything else of his body, not his hips to thrust his shaft more fully within the painful embrace of the guest’s mouth, or his rear to thrust backwards into the forcefully massaging hands.

When the slave was gasping quietly for air under the hot and scratchy cloth of the sack over his head and when the guest was satisfied that that the slave was on the verge of no longer having a choice as to whether he found his release or not, the visitor finally tightened the thong around the slave’s shaft with a harsh and final tug, looping it closed around the iron ring a final time to keep it in place.

He breathed. It was all he could do. There was a suddenness in the events of tonight, an abruptness that despite his careful preparations, the slave was not at all prepared for. It seemed that this visitor did not require much of the slave. For some of them, it would take several hours of hearing the slave’s anguished cries or reddening his hide before they were ready to violate him, to take him roughly and quickly and spill their searing seed inside of his slick passage. This visitor was already preparing to enter the slave. He hoped that this did not mean that the guest was not pleased with him.

A finger, thankfully oiled, brushed between the cleft of his rear, before it slowly stabbed into his body. The sensation halted his breathing. How long it had been. The slave had most wished that it would be his Master who would be doing this, not some stranger, but he was in no position to complain. One could not have chosen to be a slave to another’s desires without being willing to acquiesce to him in all matters. Besides, his Master might allow him release later, and so, the slave enjoyed all the more what he received now, knowing that the thong would keep him from release, and thus prolong this torment perhaps until his Master was the one to relieve him of it.

A second finger, more oiled than the first, penetrated the tight void between his legs, jabbing and questing in the guest’s desire to prepare the slave for his own pleasure, not for the slave’s lust. The slave’s gratification was not in the guest’s interest anymore, not since the thong had been tied. Any pleasure that the slave may feel was only a way to increase his later pain in the denial of his release.

Slow and hesitant, the thick, short shaft of the visitor was wedged between the cleft of his rear. Surprisingly, his Master’s guest wrapped his arms around the slave, hugging them together as if they were lovers, and unintentionally pulling the slave’s body backward, which caused him to sway in his bonds once the guest had released him. Now it was the slave’s turn to be confused but he did not have the time or mind to think of it now.

With this strange show of affection completed, the guest grabbed one of the downy, pale thighs of the slave in each hand. He lifted the slave’s legs, bringing his feet completely off the floor, and thus his weight was less supported by the manacles in which he was bound and more by the guest. The slave tried to keep his legs up and apart for his Master’s visitor, to help the guest achieve his satisfaction.

With a guttural grunt, his Master’s visitor spread the slave’s rear with one hand and used his other to guide his own shaft to the slave’s breach, which he entered crudely, painfully, causing the slave to buck forward in surprise, to evade the pain, but once relieved from it, to buck back against the visitor’s shaft to feel such agony again.

This is what he was accustomed to, this is what would arouse his Master, and thus bring the slave pleasure before the night was over. He imagined what the guest was seeing, and sought to make it more gratifying. His rear, spread as wide as possible, his hands hanging from constraints, his feet and legs high in the air in utter submission to the pleasure and pain that the guest gave him – the imagining aroused him just as much as the battering of the visitor’s shaft piercing his arse.

“Moan for me,” the guest pled in a voice disguised by lust and necessity, speaking for the first time since entering the chamber. “Show me that you want this.”

He did want it. The slave wanted this, perhaps not for the same reasons as the guest, not because he wanted the pleasure itself, or because he wanted the guest’s pleasure, but because he knew that in the next room, his Master was likely sitting on the soft couch there, imagining the same that the slave was imagining, listening and waiting for the moan that the guest demanded he make. And so, he whimpered a harsh and deprived, wordless plea, and when the guest pushed inside of him roughly, striking the spot deep inside his opening that made him cry aloud, his mendacious moan becoming truthful and urgent.

At his every sighing sound, the slave found himself bounced upwards, the guest’s thrusts turning insistent and greedy, until his opening became numbed by the constant motion of the visitor moving inside of him. While his aperture may have become accustomed to this activity, his channel had not, for within, the guest’s sex perpetually inflamed his desire, though he had not the chance to relieve it, for he could not even reach down to stroke his own shaft, nor did the continual thrusting increase his desire with the hope of some end, but only with the mounting of a pleasure that because of the thong he could not hope to allay.

The weak light of the only candle in the room was even fainter when seen through the horsehair sack he wore over his head. He kept his eyes open out of instinct, however, when the guest’s plunges into his body grew violent, the grip on his hips, driving his body up and down onto the visitor’s member, became brutal and bruising. This violence only caused him to moan harder, his arousal incited by these actions, and with a final, sadistic stab into the slave’s body, the visitor found his release, his hot seed filling the slave’s passage in several short lived spurts, each one accompanied by a shiver and groan from the guest.

They remained as they were for a moment, the slave dangling by his wrists from the ceiling with his legs aching and held up in the air for the guest, the guest with his shaft inside of the slave, and his fingernails digging sharply into the thralled Elf’s hips.

With his rapture complete, the guest did not remain any longer than he must, but withdrew from the slave’s body, saying neither thank you nor goodbye as he made his way quickly around the room to adjust himself however necessary before leaving. A good number of the visitors found themselves ashamed of what they had done once their lust was satisfied, and would make haste from his Master’s chambers. This always amused his Master.

When he was sure that the guest was finished with him, the unsatisfied slave lowered his trembling legs. He could hear his Master speaking in the room beyond, telling the visitor something in hushed tones. The slave could not tell what was said, but a laugh followed whatever his Master had jested, a cachinnation that portended to the slave that he had behaved well, that he would be rewarded and not punished for his behavior tonight. His Master’s visitor was pleased, and this would please his Master.

Thinking that he knew that laugh, that he knew who it was that had visited his Master tonight, who had defiled him and left him wanting more, the slave could not place a name with this certainty. He did not truly want to know whom it was that had come tonight. His being able to sit at the council or dinner table tomorrow depended upon this anonymity for both himself and the guest.

After a few moments more of the visitor’s laughter and his Master’s subdued enjoyment, the slave heard the snap of the corpulent door being shut. At once, his Master was in the inner chamber with his slave.

He unshackled the slave’s hands, and the slave let his body fall slack over his Master’s shoulder. This was a ritual that would take place each time the slave endured a visitor to his Master’s chambers, and the young Elf knew it well. That he was being released from his bonds evinced that he had indeed pleased his Master’s visitor, for if the guest had been unsatisfied, the slave might have been left to dangle from his bonds for a while more. Always wary of keeping his slave in good health, he was never allowed to remain in this pose for too long. But if being punished, the slave would only be switched to a different position, such as bent over his Master’s desk with his hands then tied to the legs of the table, or he would be forced into kneeling on the floor with his forehead upon the cool stone, his hands tied behind his back.

Keeping his body pliant, he was carried to the bed, where his Master placed him tenderly upon the thick, soft blanket there. He laid there, not moving even to rearrange his limbs more comfortably, as when his Master returned from gathering the items he required, he would do it for his slave. First, the sack from over his head was removed, and the slave breathed in deeply the cooler and fresher air of the room. His hair stuck to his head and face in damp strands, the sweat having plastered them to his skin.

With a pan of water sitting precariously on the bed beside where the slave lay, his Master dipped a cloth in the liquid and began to pat at the rapidly forming bruises upon his slave’s hips, then starting with the young Elf’s heated brow and moving ever downwards, bathed the slave. The coolness of the water eased the throbbing beginning to form in his flesh. Gently, the slave was washed clean of the unguent that had been used to lubricate his passage, the seed that clung to the globes of his rear and that had trickled down between his legs. When all else had been soothed and washed, his Master ran his cool cloth over the straining flesh of his slave’s sex, wiping away with the streaming seed there, spilled in the slave’s incomplete lust. Not even the cold of the water dampened his desire – the heat that was trapped within his shaft only grew with the cold touch of the cloth.

It had often occurred to him that his Master enjoyed seeing his slave hurt because he so much enjoyed comforting him – at least, he hoped beyond anything that this was the case.

Pan in hand, his Master finished his task of seeing that his thrall was clean and mostly comfortable. The mess that the visitor had made of his Master’s toys and room, the young Elf would be charged with cleaning up tomorrow.

“I thought you would need to be trained again, for so long have you been gone,” his Master told him as he sat upon the bed again. Drawing the submissive Elf to him, the stronger being rolled his slave upon his side, facing away from him, and then laid himself out behind the younger being. “I have missed having you here, as have many in the valley.”

As he had been taught, the slave said nothing because he had been asked no question. He could feel the hard length of his Master’s arousal pressing against his abused and aching rear. Though his flesh had been soothed by his Master’s comforting, the tie around his shaft had not been removed, and the slave wanted more than anything to be taken by his Master. It had been so long since he had enjoyed his Master’s attentions. He had been gone for over a year, and during that time, he had not sought pleasure with another, nor by his own device, just as he had been ordered.

But it was not his place to ask for anything. If his Master wished to take his slave, he would do so. If he wished to allow his slave release, then it was only by his wish that the slave would find it.

“You were given reprieve tonight. Once they had heard that our warriors had returned from Lorien, they knew that my little slave had returned as well. This visitor was not the only one wishing to come by my chambers. I would have invited them all in turn, had I known you were so ready to resume your training.” His Master inspected his slave, not with his eyes, but with his hands. Palpating his servant’s body lightly with his fingers, his Master listened to the slighter being’s breath, catching every sharp intake as he hit upon sore areas of his thrall’s body. “And yet I expected much less from you. You surprise me every time you enter my chambers for these games.”

This praise made the slave forget his pain, his need for release, and all else except his joy to have his Master extol his performance that night.

Finally, his Master’s foraging and exploring hands lighted upon his servant’s weeping, adamantine shaft. Unable to stop himself, the slave’s hips shifted forward, his body seeking to finish the pleasure that the visitor had started. Immediately horrified that he had acted without permission, the slave bowed his head and waited for his punishment; however, his Master pressed himself harder against the young Elf, encouraging by whispering into his slave’s ear, “You have served me well tonight, tithen-mûl. I am proud of you. You may find your release.”

Having been granted the permission his body required before he could even hope to achieve fulfillment, the slave pushed his hips forward, increasing the pressure of his Master’s hand on his shaft. For a few moments, his Master allowed this.

Taking the chance that his Master was truly in a good mood, the slave asked in a voice timid with uncertainty, speaking for the first time since he had entered his Master’s chambers earlier that evening to prepare for their session that night, “ Will you take me, my Lord?”

The hand on his shaft tightened, becoming so painfully tight that the slave could no longer feel the constant sting of the strap tied around the base of his arousal. He feared he had upset his Master by speaking out of turn. The fingers of his Master’s hand relaxed and next were removed, and though he thought this was his Master’s denial of his pleading, the slave soon felt the tie of the thick cord looped securely around his genitalia loosened and then, it was gone.

This in itself nearly caused the slave to lose himself, but while he had been granted permission to find his release, he knew that he would have to wait until his Master gave it to him. He would not disappoint his Master, not after having already earned his approbation.

As his own desire was already swollen with need, his Master kneeled on the bed and pulled the slave by his bruised hips roughly to his knees, as well. Pressing down upon his slave’s back, he forced the smaller Elf’s upper body and face into the soft mattress and the blanket over top it, and with his hands lying limply out above his head, the supplicant slave was the epitome of obeisance to his Master’s lust. He could hear the Elf behind him loosening the belt.

“I heard you moaning for our guest tonight,” his Master told him, just as he slid his shaft inside the waiting slave’s body. “You begged for him to take you with your sweet moans.”

He had been well stretched by the guest tonight, and so it was with no pain that his Master took him now.

“Can you feel how hard you have made me, tithen-mûl, after listening to you moan for our guest? Do you know how much I wanted to take you immediately after him, to feel the heat of his seed still filling your tight passage, before I filled you with mine?”

Even when his Master drove his shaft hard into the slave with all of his force, his hands broadening the slave’s rear, and thus his opening as he pounded within the slave, the obedient Elf took it all without complaint, for truly he wanted more.

“Moan for me. Show me that you want his,” his Master ordered of him as the guest had done earlier that eve.

He moaned loudly, his voice harsh and broken, eager and needy, as if this in itself would grant him release. He moaned because his Master had asked him to, and yet, he did it also because his Master had begun to shove his shaft within the slave’s opening as fast as he could, using the slave’s hips to pull the slave backwards and then push him forwards to meet each thrust of his Master’s shaft.

“Come for me, tithen-mûl,” he demanded, his hand seizing the slave’s sex painfully. It took only a single stroke for the slave to lose himself in his Master’s hand, although his Master did not stop thrusting, and it seemed that with each succeeding strike of the shaft within him against the inner walls of his body, the slave found a higher intensity to his pleasure, until he sobbed into the blanket and could feel no more.

“I can see that you kept your promise, and did not find release during your time away,” his Master snickered at the amount of seed that his slave had expelled.

Removing himself from the slave’s body, he held his hand out to the slave, who lapped up his own seed with relish, crawling around on his hands and knees to do so better, and once his Master’s hand was unsoiled, the satiated slave did not need instruction to finish his task of cleaning his Master, but took the solid shaft before him within his mouth.

Now his Master moaned. The slave knew that his Master enjoyed watching the slave lick the seed and oil from the shaft that had only moments before been entrenched within the arse of his slave. To increase his Master’s pleasure, he laved his Master’s shaft with his tongue thoroughly, tasting not only his Master’s seed, but that of the visitor, and the briny, darker taste of his own passage, clean though it had been. Lewdly, the slave suckled his Master’s shaft, causing the Elf before him to reach his peak in watching his slave’s debauchery.

Twisting his hand in the slave’s braided hair, he held the slave’s head so that his lips were flush with his Master’s body, his Master’s long shaft probing deeply into his gullet, and left the slave no option for removing himself as his Master’s hips twitched forward, and he found his own completion within his slave’s throat. When the slave had no air and began to gag, his Master finally let him pull his head away, and then watched as the slave tried not to spit up his Master’s seed as he coughed into the blanket beneath him.

“I will let you rest now.” The Elf before him abruptly removed the collar from his neck and then leant over the nearly prostrate slave to lay the faded and stained scrap of cloth on the table beside the bed. “You must be tired from your journey.”

He pulled his fellow Elf into lying on the bed, though the slave’s coughing had only just subsided. Not bothering to allow the slave to wash himself, to obtain a drink to wash away the taste of seed from two different Elves, or to even make himself comfortable where he was pushed into laying, his Master sighed and draped himself over the slighter being before him.

The one he called Master was now just another Elf, as was he. Without the collar and their games, the two were on equal standing – nay, the slave, in times outside the bedroom, was truly the better of his Master, at least in lineage and power. But even without the collar, he did not argue against his Master’s wishes and remained as he was.

Listening to the soft sounds of his fellow Elf breathing, he stared at the collar on the nightstand, waiting for his aching flesh to lull him into sleep. He had told himself that his return home would mark the beginning of a new time. When first he had accepted this offer, and become the object of his Master’s games, he had envisioned a time like this, when he would end this charade and enjoy this Elf as his lover, not his Master. Out of habit and entrenched respect to his Master’s wishes, the slave, tired from his journey home to Imladris and wanting nothing more than to sleep, had worn the collar tonight regardless, and was already capitulating to his Master’s will rather than his own.

I will not wear it another time, he told himself, pulling at the arm swathed over him like a blanket. I will explain this to him tomorrow.

He had long thought that if this were the only way he could enjoy his Master’s love, his body and esteem, then he would suffer for it, if that were what it took to be near him. His Master did not love him, not as he loved his Master. As the candle spit its last light out before dying, the slave wondered if his Master loved him at all, but as such ruminations would only bring him grief, he backed himself into the slumbering form of the only one whom he had ever shared a bed with, and fell into slumber still studying the collar on the nightstand.