Black Traitor

BLACK TRAITOR

By Milly of Isengard
NC-17 for violence and explicit sex
Violence / Slash / Hurt / Comfort / Domination
Gandalf / Saruman / Legolas / Sauron

Black Treachery!

GANDALF


Eyes of obsidian flame, glittering with malevolence and madness- I
see my tormentor approach me, through sight blurred by pain and the
stinging wind.

I shiver against the bitter cold, and my back is pressed painfully
against the wall, dangerously close to the edge – in more ways than
one.

His hand reaches for me – long, elegantly cruel fingernails. I do not
flinch, but I allow him to touch me. Why does he do so?

So high above the world, we are, and we are alone together.

He thinks nothing of the danger.

Does not even consider it.

am hobbled by my own adherence to the Light. And well he knows it.

"Don't you wish I were dead, Gandalf? Don't you long to kill me, to
murder me now? Have I awakened the beast in you yet?" Smirking,
hateful. Mocking me.

He caresses my face with obscene affection, and I realize with
mingled shock and horror, that he does so with some sincerity, and
even lust.

I don't know what I feel. I do not hate him. I once loved him as my
guide, my teacher, yes, even a friend. My only true peer.

His touch reaches something inside me, and it stirs to grudging life,
unbidden.

I am huddled on the icy stone floor, and he kneels down slowly to me.
There is a look on his face, that I cannot read. There is a feeling
in my body and soul, that I cannot determine, as well.

"Gandalf? Answer me! What do you feel? What are you thinking? Will
you see it my way, now, and save your life? For I would much rather
have you at my side, than dead in the ground!"

Closer, now. He leans in very close. I can easily smell the pipeweed
on his heated breath.

"I will kill you, if you force me. Or cripple you. Do you doubt it?"

His hand again, gracefully and strangely touching my hair, thenthen
he whispers in my ear:

"Do you choose death? Or will you live? Tell me, what is your
decision?"

I ought to be repulsed, enraged, repelled. His closeness to me should
be maddeningly awful.

It is maddening.

But in a different way.

I shift uneasily, as I become aware of my – my excitement. Yes, it is
true, I am perhaps under the spell of his Voice, that notorious and
irresistible Sound.

Is that it?

He straightens up, suddenly, and I immediately feel regret for it-

(Stay down here with me, cease your foul deeds and words, drop those
flowing white robes on the black floor of your Tower, lie with me
here on top of the world, do no more evil and say no more lies, only –
only do not leave me like this)


You have already crippled me.

Ah, you are a demon, you are.

Beautiful, horrible being.

Without thinking and without reason, I reach out with both hands and
wrap them around his hips- he tries to back away, alarmed, with a
startled snort of anger.

But I hold on tightly.

"Gandalf!" He snarls at me in dark curses- the Black Speech – but he
does not do the obvious thing, and push my hands away.

I find my strength returning, out of nowhere, and Saruman realizes
his mistake, too late.

In the blink of an eye, I have gotten the upper hand, and I grasp him
fiercely, relentless.

Still, he does not even attempt to take my hands off him, my hands
wrapped tightly around his waist, and now it is he who is against the
wall.

He looks at me in horrified disbelief- most likely believing I am
about to throw him off the Tower. Perhaps I ought to. No one would
fault me for it. Except myself.

"Gandalf- no! No!"

But I do not force him over the edge, to certain death below, after
an agonized endless fall.

I push him down, instead, to the floor, down to the frozen black
crown of Orthanc, with the mystic lines drawn into it, a silent
enigma.

"Yield to me, Curumo." I say quietly. He looks at me with relief and
confusion, then understanding. "Yield to me." I say again.

I trace my hands down his sides, and he starts to say something in
Quenyan – "Be silent!" I shout at him, unwilling to allow him any
chance to use the Voice.

Saruman stares at me as if I am something he has never seen before,
and falls slowly back onto the floor.

(Be silent, be silent, submit, and be silent. YIELD to me, fallen
brother, black traitor)

TRAITOR.
I whisper it to him, as I slowly lower myself on him.

You
sold us all.

BLACK TRAITOR.

And now it is his turn to be mesmerized, as I work my own magick, and
he makes no sound, no sound al, sl, save for a soft, labored
breathing.

The look in his eyes is one of stunned amazement, and some fear,
even. Dread, and yet, bitter anticipation. The conqueror conquered,
longing angrily for release, unwilling to admit either defeat or
desire.

The air hundreds of feet up is painfully cold, and yet I feel only
heat now, and the ache. Ah, the huge, swelling ache.

"I ought to kill you." I whisper in his ear, as my hand finds, and
then loosens the reptilian clasp of his outer cloak. My tongue curls
up under the long grey beard, and I hear a muffled moan from him,
barely audible.

(YIELD to me, Curumo, surrender to me, and perhaps I will spare you.)

All the fight, all the viciousness, is gone from him. He lies under
me, scarcely moving, and nearly silent. I pull the grey cloak off his
shoulders, and then search for the belt for the inner robe.

I am so anxious, the delay is unbearable.

I ache, oh, how I do ache now. There is a mighty living staff under
my own robes, and it will suit him better than that metallic one, and
he has already dropped that to the floor. It lies like a forgotten
plaything in the sleet.

I do what I will to him- my magick is strong, and I work it on him
without remorse, taking him over utterly.

My hand feels under his gleaming robe, and I find what I seek- and as
I strongly suspected, he too, is suffering from the same malady as I
am.

Hard as the pitiless walls of the Tower. Hard, and hot, hot as the
fires that his demon Uruks are stoking below us.

(What would they think, if they saw us here, with my hand on your
cock, my old friend? What do you think? You lying under me, in all
your subdued anger and hate, allowing me to do this to you, what
would they think when they see you come in my hand, or perhaps it
will be in my mouth, what would the Orcs think? Would they still fear
you and respect you?)

I grasp him, and stroke slowly. And now that I have his full
attention, he gasps loudly, and clutches at me. I ignore his response.

Wordlessly, I turn him with one movement, and I press him down to the
floor again, face downwards, not enough to harm him, but just that
fine line to keep him under control. My control, now.

He understands, finally, what I am about to do, and so feigns
resistance. His struggle against me is unconvincing: he is very
powerful, and I have no doubt he could put up a fierce fight.

(yes, I understand, you must make me believe you are trying to
resist. I understand. But you must understand I will not let you go.
This is the end of your dominance over me. You will submit, and let
it happen. What I desire, and what you desire as well.)

"No, Curumo, stop trying to move away. There is no escape." And now
there is perhaps, a real sense of panic: he is not used to being made
to submit, ever.

Does he think I am truly going to harm him? Perhaps he does. Well, he
will soon understand. Everything will be clear.

In a last attempt to regain the upper hand, he makes a lunge for the
staff, and I merely kick it away from him. "Really, Saruman, you are
only making this more difficult." I tell him calmly.

He makes an angry, wild sound, and I restrain him, pushing him down
hard to the floor. I don't want to hurt him. I do want to make him
understand- that it is over. His wicked dream of psychotic domination-
is OVER.


In a matter of seconds, I am on him, and I find my way swiftly,
carefully, gently even.

My fingers probe and push, and my "unhappy" partner thrashes under
me, and as I slip my finger deeper, his sounds become different, much
different.

The movements are more like a writhing now, than the frantic,
panicked attempts to throw me off him.

"Calm yourself, I am not hurting you, as you well know! Why must you
cling to deceptieveneven now? There is no need for this, it is only
you and I here, alone with the sky. Allow yourself some pleasure
again, don't you recall what it was like?"

I try to reach his heart, as I reach this inner part of him
physically.

I withdraw my fingers, and in their place I put something more
appropriate; I can hear him muttering in Quenyan, confused, strange
ranting.

I push against him very slowly, and then move back and forth gently,
letting the liquid that is already trying to erupt forth from my
painfully hard organ, smooth and ease the way.

No more delays, I cannot wait any more, not one moment longer, I am
about to explode.

I push into him as slowly as I can bear to, and he makes a quiet,
throaty moan as I do so; I begin to move inside him and he does not
protest, or try to pull away, but only gasps softly.


Ah, such ecstasy: beyond all describing.

He is trying to say something, I lay my face close to his from behind
and kiss his hair, listening.

"Olorin- Gandalf- please…" his voice is intense, excited, urgent: "
Hard- harder. Do it – harder- !"

I wrap my arms around him, and give him the full benefit of my eight
inches, although not roughly or as hard as he might have wanted.

He trembles violently under me, with a long shuddering and a deep
sigh, and I feel my own time is come, and I flood his insides with
the river of my passion for him, that until tonight, lay like a
sleeping giant inside me.


EPILOGUE:


We sit together, drinking the dark wine he loves so well.

He is, of course, technically a prisoner of war, but he is hardly
treated as such.

There had been angry talk of executions and banishment, and I had
used all my influence to restrain those who would see Saruman come to
a more fitting end.

He has escaped execution, and all punishment. Well, nearly all
punishment.

I keep him here, in this place, where I come when I will, and leave
when I will.

He is under my Will.

I keep him firmly under control, and never resistant to me.

I will not ALWAYS keep him this way, of course.

There will come a day when I can bear to let him go, go wherever he
likes.

But not yet. Not yet, my Curumo. Not today.

Perhaps - perhaps tomorrow.