The power of the Ring

Arwen was by now deeply besotted with Frodo, and he in turn was falling, though neither of them nor anyone else really understood or appreciated it to the power of the Ring. Legolas Thranduilion, the guest from Mirkwood, and the guests from Erebor, Gloin and his son, were still en route, and Gandalf was in the midst of preparing and rehearsing for greater issues. Even as the Ring wove a slow and dark tapestry, he missed the deeper malices that were slow in the harvesting would be swift in the felling. Malevolent laughter burbled up from within deep and unhallowed depths, the languid soul-voice of a vanquished fiend.

It was to the success of the fiend that the laughter was interwoven with Arwen seeming very affectionate and flushed indeed around Frodo, and it was the slow and subtle fell will of the Ring that meant that nobody questioned why someone betrothed to another had the subtle flush of constant arousal and desire, nor why the bed continually creaked, nor Frodo's possessive looks. Even Frodo's blatant groping of the ample swell of Arwen's ass in public attracted no attention, the Ring deceiving just enough that people dismissed the sight as simple affection.

Even when the supposed affection was kneading and parting and pushing her ass together to a point that Arwen was flushed and panting in public. None questioned Arwen's low necklines or her leaning and kneeling beside or before Frodo, either.

And so came one evening when Arwen, as was her usual habit now, invited Frodo to her room. Taking a half-hour to bathe so she was fresh, and to shave at the will of Frodo and the strange whispers both heard and neither could quite focus on, she sat on the bed, legs spread wide, the freshly bare twat exposed and her tongue out in a sultry fashion as her eyes waited at the door eagerly, seeming to blaze with a near-supernatural power.

Even among so beautiful and otherworldly a race as the Quendi, Arwen's beauty was spectacular to behold, and it was rumored, though the truth of this potential was unknown among the Quendi and Eldar, that she was Luthien Tinuviel reborn, that some grace of Melian the Maia permitted a thing that was not possible. Arwen herself had always more than slightly resented being overshadowed by a long-dead ancestor and the fell joke of fate that she resembled this person and yet she knew something else awaited her.

The tie to Aragorn had been strong but it was the will of fate, of the immaterial and immanent splendid ones who dwelt in Aman of Old, that she choose that. It was not her choice. But Frodo, with a cock that was massive for a hobbit, the largest she'd ever sampled and the only seed she'd ever tasted which was sweet. The taste was never the same but always sweet and addictive, and the rush, oh the rush of him inside her, filling her womb, that......that was the most potent and terrible splendor she'd ever had.

He came in, furtively, hiding behind the Ring. Arwen saw him, nude, that erection, her tongue hanging sensually from her lips and licking along it, a red streak that had her aroused and her body heated with a flame that was but the stronger, her pussy a gushing river as strong as the one she'd tamed.

She looked at him with that literal smouldering gaze of burning eyes, and with a confident smile he removed his ring, grinning as his erection that was slimy with precum saluted her.

She heard him say "You, on top" and smiling amiably, she obeyed, lowering herself with a guttural groan, eyes rolling, biting her lip. Her flush was very, very visible on her body, and the squelching of her pussy touched the lingering part of Arwen which was still her, unaffected by the Ring. But even that one had resented how while bound to him, Aragorn clearly did not treat that bond equally in reverse, so even that part was enjoying the feeling of Frodo's massive erection, and of the orgasm that had been long awaited and came quickly, a set of strong clenching and a guttural groan, Frodo's hands squeezing her ass nearly painfully.

Arwen leered, then leaned forward, her breasts rubbing against Frodo's face, the gap in their height making a scene that would have been totally ludicrous without the Ring and even with its fell power was still more hilarious than not. Frodo and Arwen didn't care, as she was rasping out her cries and he motorboated her tits like a halfling possessed, rutting into her with a speed and power far beyond that of a being of their relative sizes.

Arwen came twice more in succession, leaning back, her body sheened with sweat.

The glow was no longer quite metaphorical, but a subtle greenish tinge that had a slight effect in the veins around her eyes, and which was slowly but surely beginning to be echoed in Frodo's own eyes. The two were monomaniacally frozen into their debauched pleasures, and Arwen rasped out another roiling orgasm, as Frodo's cock began to throb and his knuckles whitened on her ass. Arwen bit her lip with a pleasure that was overpowering.

Frodo groaned on a more bestial note and his cock flooded her womb. Arwen was hoping to bear Frodo offspring, to be truly marked irrevocably and provingly as his.

As they gasped, Frodo pulling out of an Arwen who slurped the cock clean and then rested beside him, flushed, delighted, tamed, claimed, neither paid attention to the slow and rumbling hiss from the ring:

Agh ishi-burzum krimpatul.