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Legolas turned the key, lifted the latch, and pushed
the door open.
“Good evening, your Highness. Come in.”
The young elf hesitated for a long moment. Then—unconsciously
clearing his throat—he stepped inside, dropped the latch
and re-locked the door.
He turned towards the centre of the room.
Beruthiël’s chambers—situated, as he was trying
hard to forget, next to his father’s bedchamber—were
richly furnished: hung with figured silks, carpeted with darkly
patterned rugs, and scented with the heady spices of Far Harad.
But if the perfume, simmering in a small bowl set over a candle,
was—as he suspected—a love potion, he had no need of
it tonight—not since the moment his tutor had bade him a
happy Conception Day and given him the key to the courtesan’s
door—
“Are you ever going to look at me?” Her words were
filled with laughter.
Legolas raised his eyes.
“Am I really so frightening?”
“No—” But his voice cracked. He took a breath.
“No,” he repeated, firmly.
“Good.” She smiled. “Then come closer.”
When he did not move, she beckoned, coquettishly. “Come
on!”
She was beautiful—small for an elleth and as slender as
a young girl (though he knew that she was older than his father),
with a flawless, heart-shaped face, huge grey eyes and a mane
of rippling golden hair—dressed in a filmy silk shift that
lifted her bosom high…
Legolas shuffled forward.
“Happy Conception Day, your Highness.” Her voice was
like warm honey.
“Thank you.”
“That colour suits you.”
Legolas glanced down at the long, full skirts of his first formal
robe, of silver-green brocade, given to him by his father to wear
at his Coming of Age ceremony. “Thank you.”
Beruthiël smiled. “It would be wicked of us to spoil
it. Take it off.”
“I—er—”
“Go on. Untie the sash.”
“Yes… Yes, of course.” He pulled the embroidered
silk from around his waist and draped it over the back of a chair.
“Now the robe,” said the elleth.
Biting his lip, Legolas unhooked each delicate mithril clasp
in turn, then—after another moment's hesitation—pulled
the garment open, shrugged it off, and stood, head bowed, wearing
only his sleeveless undershirt, his fine silk leggings and his
doeskin boots.
“Oh my,” said Beruthiël, softly.
Legolas raised his eyes.
She was staring at his groin with undisguised admiration, and
he realised that, though confined within the fabric, his erection
must be plainly visible to her. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze—only
to find himself transfixed by her cleavage.
“Come here.”
He moved a little closer.
She reached for his waistband, and Legolas was forced to close
his eyes to block out the teasing bounce of her breasts as she
loosened his laces.
His penis broke free.
“There,” she said, curling her hand around him, “does
that not feel better?” She trailed her fingers upwards and,
using her thumb, gently explored the broad length of his shaft.
Then she leaned forward, and kissed his very tip.
Swallowing hard, Legolas nodded.
She smiled up at him mischievously. “Take off your undershirt—good—and
now your boots,”—she leaned back to give him space—“now,
what shall we do with you?”
She had moistened her hands with some oily substance and she
was stroking his hard flesh with a shameless motion that almost
pulled his legs out from under him. “You are beautiful, your
Highness—like a mighty mallorn tree…”
Legolas, hands on hips, gritted his teeth.
The elleth laughed. “A fine young tree with plenty of sap
in him—but not, I think, quite ready for this.” She
released him so suddenly that, having braced himself against her
vigorous caresses, he almost lost his balance. “Let us be
rid of your leggings.” She grasped the ends of his laces
and pulled until the knots unravelled and the flap fell open.
“There—slip them off—and put them with the rest—that
is right…”
He turned back to her, completely naked.
Beruthiël stroked his straining penis. “Is this your
first time, your Highness?”
He nodded.
“Then shall we get down to it without further ado?”
“Yes. I mean. Please…”
“Take me to the bench,”—she jerked her head to
the left—“over there.”
Legolas frowned. “Not the bed?”
“No, for your first time the bench will be better—trust
me.”
He scooped her into his arms, and carried her to the strange
contraption—a high stool with four sturdy legs and a long,
padded seat—and gently set her down.
“Do you want to take me from the front—face to face,
like this—or,” —she turned over—“ from
behind, on all fours, like this?”
Legolas blushed. His mouth was dry. “Which do you
like better?”
“Oh, meleth!” Turning back to him, Beruthiël caressed
his cheek. “I doubt that it will last long enough to matter
to me, your High—” She caught the flash of disappointment
in his eyes and relented. “Face to face,” she said,
“so that I can see your lovely smile. Come—put your
feet beside mine—now take hold of my knees and lift my legs
onto your hips—good. Now I am going to take you in my hand…”—she
smiled, reassuringly—“and just—there,”
she said, “hold my thighs and drive yourself home—ah—yes!
That is right! That feels—oh, that feels good…”
“You are so warm!” Legolas, hunching over her,
panting hard, instinctively drew himself almost fully out, and
thrust again. “Oh!” His face was transformed
with joy.
Beruthiël suddenly grasped his shoulders and held him still.
“You do understand, your Highness, the difference between
coming for pure pleasure and spilling your seed in earnest?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then stand up.” She pushed his shoulders. “Arch
your back a little—does that feel good? Now, take me.”
She sank back on the bench, letting her head loll over the edge
of the seat.
“But…” Legolas frowned. “What must I do,
my Lady?—I mean, to satisfy you.”
Beruthiël smiled. “Do not worry about me, your
Highness. Tonight is all about you. It will be my honour
to satisfy you. ”
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