These Chains

Title: These Chains
Series: Innocence Stripped Away
Author: Orchyd Constyne
Contact: soultornasunder@gmail.com
Website: http://www.hithanaur.net/
Update List: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/nairn_orchyd/
Fandom: LOTR
Archive: OEAM, AFF.net
Disclaimer: I do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Rating: NC-17
Beta: Fimbrethiel
Cast: Erestor/Glorfindel/Thranduil
Summary: Forty-seven years following the events of "Something Special, Something Sacred", Glorfindel finds himself witnessing a new side of the submissive life he never knew could exist.
A/N: This does follow "Something Special, Something Sacred" as well as "The Bridge We Cross", and precedes the upcoming full-length sequel "To Serve". :) All Vesta's fault, as per usual.

---

"I hear you calling and it's needles and pins,
I want to hurt you just to hear you screaming my name.
Don't want to touch you but you're under my skin,
I want to kiss you but your lips are venomous poison.
You're poison running through my veins,
You're poison, I don't wanna break these chains..."
Poison -- Alice Cooper

---

Mirkwood, Third Age 2085

His eyes never leave my body as I evade the blade of his best warrior yet again. The heavy weight of his gaze is a constant companion to me, something I have been burdened with since entering the realm of spiders. The heat of the midday sun has forced me to shed my tunic, to reveal to him my body, but the Elvenking's smile, his eyes, everything about him, reminds me of ice, of the snow that kisses my valley late in the seasons, and I can feel my skin prick under the frosty stare.

I have only heard tales of his cruelty, of his... tastes. His tastes, frighteningly enough, parallel my own, but if the rumors are true, I am relieved it was Erestor who found me and bound the beast of guilt inside me. I would have been a perfect complement to Thranduil, if the whispered words were to be believed: no limits, no boundaries, always begging for more. I nearly broke Erestor's heart, his spirit, as I did mine, but where Erestor had stopped, I have come to believe Thranduil would have reveled, pushed. That knowledge has kept me at arms' length from the King, politely declining all requests for private meals or walks.

My distraction almost costs me dearly. I scramble to avoid the warrior's swing; the blade tip misses my chest by inches. Foolishness to shift my concentration away from the task at hand. Foolishness to even consider for a moment the King's unspoken offers. And yet, what a fool am I.

Thranduil's cruelty, which I can sense just below his placid, blank surface, fills me with dread. I know he would cause me pain such as I have never experienced with my beloved Master, and it would thrill his old, frozen heart. Neither would his be the only heart in thrall, and that is the worst of it. Because in the darkest recesses of my being, I can feel the craving. The beast is bound but not dead, and my control comes at a price. So easy would it be to give in and loosen that control.

I evade yet another attack, sweep my leg out, and soon his best warrior lies on the ground with my blade at his throat. Glorfindel the Mighty triumphs again.

Match point.

*****

The King dismisses all the Elves who had assembled to watch the spar, and suddenly I am alone with Thranduil. I watch him step down from his throne, his soft-soled boots landing without a sound on the long grass. I know he is aware of my gaze, just as I was his, but I have sense enough to be somewhat less obvious than he was.

Thranduil is a glorious Elf; I will not lie. His hair is as long as mine, if not longer, but where mine shines gold in the light, his is almost like the rich caramel the cooks in Imladris create during the holidays. Thranduil is as tall as I am, long-limbed, broad in chest, and there was never any mistaking the Elvenking as anything but a warrior-turned-King.

I feel the blush creep across my face as my mind envisions what Thranduil would look like without the greens and browns encasing his body. Before I can lock the door on any such thoughts, the image of Thranduil, nude and hard, shimmering and flushed, bombards my senses, and I almost gasp and pull away when he touches my shoulder.

"My Lord Glorfindel," he says to me, his voice low as it caresses something deep in my belly. "I must travel to Dale in three days' time, and I request that you accompany me."

Alone with the King on an open road. That is a dangerous proposition, and one I decline. "Forgive me, King Thranduil," I say as I bow to him, clutching my dirty tunic to my slick chest. "While I am honored by the invitation, I wish to decline. There are still matters I must discuss with your Advisors before returning to my home." There, that should end such hopes that I would blindly accompany him.

A slow, calculated smile spreads across his beautiful face, and that deep place inside me where the beast is chained whispers of sins yet to be committed. "You have bested my most accomplished warrior, Glorfindel. It is only fitting you join me; you are a guest in my realm, the greatest warrior in Arda, and I *insist*." He places emphasis on that last word, reminding me that he is King, his rule is supreme, and while in his realm, I am at his disposal.

I meet his eyes, gauge if he will relent if I continue to protest, but there is a dark flame burning behind those crystal-like green eyes. No, I have no choice, and so I acquiesce. "Very well, my Lord," I say, bowing once more. "Thank you for such an honor."

"I am also adamant that you join me tonight in my private dining room so that we may discuss our travel plans," he purrs as the hand that has been resting on my shoulder inches closer to my neck, brushes my hair back from my damp skin. He cannot miss the fierce beating of my heart, the pink hue to my flesh, and when his finger touches the small scar left from a terrifying moment from my past with Erestor, I feel almost faint.

His eyes capture mine, he leans closer to me, and that hand runs along the length of the scar Erestor's grip had left, stopping only when it cradles the back of my head. Thranduil's lips hover over mine, his breath laced with wine and something just as spicy, something I am sure is solely his flavor. The beast thrashes in its bonds, knowing painful salvation is just a breath away, but I slam down the wall and step out of Thranduil's carefully woven spell.

"My Lord, I do not think it is wise for us to spend time alone. You seem to have designs on me, but I am not free to indulge in such trysts." I hold up my right hand, the gold band glittering orange in the low afternoon light. "I belong to Erestor, and I do not wish to taint our bond."

"Elven bonds are not exclusive," Thranduil muses as he smiles at me. The wheels are turning in his mind, and I know that this is not the last time he will attempt to seduce me. "I still desire your company tonight so that we may discuss the trip into Dale."

I nod. Thranduil will not advance on me any further tonight, of that I am assured, but I do fear the lonely road to Dale. I resist the urge to reach out with my mind and beg my mate to soothe my frayed spirit as I turn toward the King's halls, the magical gate looming like a yawning mouth, ready to swallow my body and soul whole.

*****

My heart hammers in my chest as I am led to the suite that houses Thranduil's private dining room. It seems the King could live in seclusion indefinitely if he chose; his suite includes a private kitchen, dining room, bathing chamber, and bedchamber. The knowledge that Thranduil could lock the door and prevent my escape is not lost to me as I enter the brightly lit antechamber, but to decline would have beyond reproach.

"Walk through that archway," the page instructs. "He waits for you in the dining room."

"Why do you not see me in?" I ask, not use to being ordered rather than shown to a monarch.

The page shakes his head and smiles mysteriously. "Only those invited may leave this main room. Do not fret, my King lies in the room beyond," and he is gone.

There is a sense of foreboding that courses through my veins as I force my feet to move. Lift, step, lift, step, lift, step. He is in the room, sitting elegantly on a long bench. He wears only a silken robe that parts just above his navel, exposing creamy flesh for a short moment before the soft suede waist of his breeches begins. In the candlelight, the caramel colored hair is the shade of a ripe apricot, which pools on the marble bench he is seated on. He reclines lazily on one elbow with a knee drawn up, and I marvel at his ability to set a scene so perfectly.

"Join me," he commands, a smile tugging at his lips. I can see the hunger in his eyes. A raw, feral need, and it is directed at me as I cross the room and seat myself on the opposite bench. "Are you ready to eat?" he prompts as he shifts position as fluidly as a housecat.

I wet my lips absently and nod. "Aye, I am famished after the spar this afternoon." Glancing around the room, my eyes flitting from one marble sculpture to the next, and I wonder aloud. "Are we to dine on the floor or from our laps?"

"Oh, no," Thranduil says in that tone that I have come to recognize. It has a lilting, singsong quality that tells me I am about to be presented with something he has been eager to show me.

And I am likely to not appreciate the revelation.

From a door behind me, which I assume leads to the kitchen I was told about, come several Elves. The flush must have been instant and bright, for Thranduil's rich laughter rings in the room almost as soon as I avert my eyes.

Each Elf, all male, all virile, is nude. Not just nude, but aroused! Their organs are dark with denied passions, their bodies slick from throat to feet with oils, and their nipples adorned with dangling gemstones. Between two of these Elves is a large tray, filled with roasted meats and freshly prepared vegetables, cheeses and bread. I briefly wonder if they are to stand in the empty space between our benches, holding the tray while we eat, but Thranduil has more to show me.

Another Elf, one just as proud in his lustful state, kneels in the space. He spreads his legs as he leans forward onto his hands, his back becoming perfectly flat. I shake my head, already knowing what is to happen. The two Elves carefully place the tray onto the kneeling Elf's back, displaying a long learned and practiced skill. Wine is poured into fine goblets before they are presented to us. Thranduil's eyes do not leave my shocked face as he takes the glass, paying no mind to the Elf who had given him the drink. I accept my own glass with a finely trembling hand and watch with further astonishment as the three remaining Elves climb atop pedestals in various niches, posing themselves in various lewd, but artistic, ways. It is then that I realize the other 'marble statues' I had noticed were other Elves, all poised in similarly obscene poses, but all just as still, lifeless, and erect.

"By the Valar," I gasp, taking in my surroundings fully. There is another archway to my left, and what I see there sends a lightning shock of need to my groin.

It is a playroom. I would know what any room containing such supplies would be for, and it is further confirmation of Thranduil's sadistic tendencies. The playroom Erestor has in our room is small, yes, but there is a warmth about the room, a personal touch that renders any who enter it at ease with the Councilor and his whips. What I can see from my bench is not warm, is not personal, but a cold dungeon with frightening monuments to pleasure and pain. There is an iron mask that hangs by a chain in the ceiling, and it dangles about the height of the average Elf. I cannot dismiss that this is a restraint, something cold and stifling, something that blinds you to your Master's plans for your body. I can also see an upright metal casket, something I had only seen when visiting the realms of Men, but there is a slit where the head would be. The light flickers in that shadowed room and I see, through that slit, eyes of vibrant blue.

Someone is entombed in that metal monstrosity, and I quailed at how long they must have been left there.

"Do you like my toys, my Lord?" Thranduil asks in a silken voice. "Do you like my sculptures? My table?"

He is baiting me, but I cannot withhold my revulsion at the scene he has so wonderfully prepared -- at the scene that has made me grow so hard that I am in an exquisite dance of pleasure and pain as I shift on my bench. "How long has that Elf been in such a device?" I demand, returning my glassy gaze to Thranduil.

"He is well, Glorfindel, thank you for asking," Thranduil dismisses. "Tell me, what do you feel when I show you these things?"

"How can you conduct yourself in such an open manner, Thranduil?" I avoid his question, just as he avoided mine.

Thranduil sips his wine and picks at the food on the tray. "This is what I am, my sheltered friend. My people knew this before I seated myself on my father's vacant throne. There is nothing here to be ashamed of. Each Elf is here by their own desire, their own need for submission, and I welcome them. I have taught them what I expect, and they perform without fail. Well," he says with a grin, "there is the occasional slip, and then they are punished."

I blurt out the first thought that comes to my mind. "You copulate with all of these Elves?"

He laughs at me. "Copulate? Come now, Glorfindel." He leans on the table made of flesh and shining silver, his eyes flashing with a feverish intensity. "You want to know if I chain them to the wall and plunge myself into their tight depths just as your Master does with you. The answer is no, I do not."

I am confused and embarrassed, but I have so many questions! "Then what is their purpose? Why do you have them if not to take pleasure in their bodies?"

He leans back again and pops a grape into his mouth. "You are quite narrow-minded if you only believe that Erestor masters you because you permit him the use of your passage. I do not take my slaves. This," he prods the Elf-table's bobbing sex with his toe, but does no more, "is my table, Glorfindel. You do not copulate with your chair; I do not copulate with my table."

"Yet you torment it!"

"I can cause so much pain, so much pleasure, without taking their bodies as a lover would. Each of them has a purpose, and using them as a receptacle for my seed is not one of them." His eyes never leave mine as he sips his wine.

My flesh feels clammy and I know I must be a sight: golden hair wild, eyes wide and vacant, my lips parted and damp. "What purpose do you have in mind for me, King Thranduil?" I dare to ask on an exhalation.

An expression I have only ever seen on the face of a wild beast as it creeps upon its prey crosses Thranduil's face. A smile of teeth and narrowed eyes. It is the only answer he offers me before the expression is wiped from his face and all I see are the fine, proud features of the Elvenking of Mirkwood.

"We will set out for Dale at dawn in two days," he begins, cutting a hunk of meat from the carcass on the Elf-table. I try to pay attention, but my mind, my eyes, continue to wander back to those Elves on pedestals, encased in iron, and I wonder what trap the cunning King has laid for me.

And do I really want to avoid it?

*****

The next two days pass slowly. I keep away from the King and bury myself in preparing for the trip, making certain the task I was sent to Mirkwood to accomplish is done. I find it infuriating that, now that I have agreed to accompany Thranduil, his Advisors agree to all terms Elrond and Erestor wanted in the new alliance document. The only times I am in Thranduil's presence are when he is surrounded by no less than a dozen other *clothed* Elves, and even then I cannot meet his steady gaze.

Thranduil can see that beast inside me, can see it and wants it.

Dawn on the day of our journey is chill, and I can smell the change in the season coming. I will have to return to my valley shortly after returning from Dale if I am to avoid the first snow of winter. My mind returns to the fair valley and I cannot stop my thoughts from turning to Erestor.

My dark Master. He is my spouse, my equal outside that playroom, but the times in our playroom are the times I feel at the most peace. Under his whip, pierced with his shaft, those are moments I feel I know my purpose in this new life.

Purpose.

That is what I want to know. What purpose does Thranduil have for me? I have so many purposes in my life with Erestor -- warrior, Seneschal, lover, slave -- would Thranduil's purpose for me be far simpler? Just slave? I briefly wonder if I could be one of those fair Elves, hard and slick, but never taken, only teased, tormented. There is a deep satisfaction in being cleaved by Erestor's sex after a session, a fulfillment I would miss. Perhaps Thranduil would merely make me his slave-lover, bound to his bed and tortured until I screamed for release.

We travel in silence out of necessity, not wanting to risk attracting the giant spiders or any roving bands of Orcs. I can feel his stares, glances he does not try to hide. I am unable to resist glancing at him, though, and he winks at me each time. He is determined to have me; there is a certainty in that notion that makes me both aroused and apprehensive.

As night falls, we leave the boundaries of Mirkwood, and we are now free of the spiders. Neither he nor I mention finding an inn in one of the small settlements along the road to Dale; we are both warriors and used to hard earth, thin pallets, and a low fire. We tie down the horses near fresh grass, and while Thranduil goes about setting up the camp, I locate fresh water for the horses and us. Still silence, stolen glances, and a growing knowledge that something looms on the dark horizon.

"It is a small tragedy," Thranduil says as he unpacks our nightly ration, "that we could not have brought one of my submissives. I believe I have grown soft in the wake of becoming a King and a Master; I miss the attentions of the slaves and after such a ride as we had this day, the release of such play would be most welcome."

I sip the cool, crisp water, wetting my parched throat as I gaze down at Thranduil's crouched form. "We could not have brought any equipment with us even if we had brought one of your submissives. Such an extravagance would have slowed us too much, not to mention, would have been very indiscreet."

That smirk, one I have come to loath, crosses his face as he stands, his meal forgotten on the ground. "I do not need such equipment, Glorfindel. Once I have them trained, all I truly need is a strong voice and a pair of firm hands. I see my words intrigue you," he advances on me, seeing something in my eyes that I do not want to admit to myself. My eyes land on his lips, and I know he speaks, but I cannot *hear* him. All I hear is the rapid thundering of my heart, drowning out Thranduil's description of his methods, of his training technique. I match him step for step, though, until I feel my back pressed against the wide, rough trunk of one of the sheltering trees.

I press my hands to his chest, to keep him from touching me, but the attempt is poor at best. I do not want him to stay away from me; I do not want to shun his touch. He must sense this lapse in my resolve, and he pounces on his kill. Thranduil grabs my wrists in his large hands and pins them high above my head, forcing me onto tiptoe. I cry out in shock, but my riding breeches are already full of my ripe sex. I whimper as he presses his own length to mine, and I am his. He knows it, I know it, and it is a matter of accepting the simple truth of the situation.

Thranduil's smug face is only a fraction of an inch from mine, his lips hovering as he savors his victory. Then those lips are on mine, his tongue thrust into my mouth, and as my eyes close, I am lost. My thighs part as I return the kiss, the moan in my throat caught and swallowed by Thranduil's expertise. He kisses me until my head swims with lust, until my body is humming with my need, and I am prepared to beg him to take me, to have me, to make me into his slave.

He steps back, releasing my wrists, and his hands fly to his tunic. I blink as I pant, and I come back to myself. No, I will *not* do this, dammit! I am wedded. I have a Master. Thranduil tries to press close to me again, but this time my hand is firm on his bare chest. "No, Thranduil," I say hoarsely.

Thranduil's eyes clear and a calm falls over his person. "I am a patient Elf, Glorfindel," he murmurs as he reties his tunic.

"Your patience will have to be infinite with me, my Lord. I am Erestor's spouse, his submissive, and I will not permit another to touch me without him present."

"I understand," he says softly, returning to his meal. "Sit, eat; we have an early start in the morning and you will need your rest."

I sigh. "In a moment, my Lord, there is something I must do."

I know that as I seek seclusion, Thranduil believes I have gone to touch myself, to relieve myself of my lusts. No, Erestor has taught me never to do such a thing unless he has granted permission. When I left his side three weeks ago, he instructed me to allow my need to build, and I have done as he ordered.

But the temptation is strong as I seat myself near the horses, their quiet breathing soothing my arousal. I look inside myself, seek the cool presence of my dark god.

I cast my spirit to the winds, and if Thranduil were present, he would know what I was doing by the change in my eyes. In the milky moonlight, I know my eyes shimmer like silver metal, pupil and iris lost to the pewter shine.

I find him in our rooms, sprawled across the bed, nude and needy. He does not permit himself release either, and a smile touches my lips as I call to him.

/Erestor, please come; I need you./

His eyes, mithril as he looks to the window, shine with knowledge.

/I promise./

The warmth of his being floods me, calms the flutter in my heart, and reassures me that no boundaries have been crossed. A kiss is a kiss, and I had stopped the King. His soul whispers words of love to me, and I sever the connection. There is always a loneliness left behind when we part spirits, and it is with a heaviness I return to the camp and to the Elf whose temptations became harder and harder to deny.

*****

We arrive at the magical gates near dusk, tired and dusty from the return from Dale. It has been more than six days since I had spoken with my spouse, and I silently pray he has arrived in the intervening time we have been away. The journey had been successful, and we were able to acquire Thranduil a new shipment of fine wines and dried seafood. The King had not attempted to seduce me again, purchasing separate rooms for us at the inn we stayed at while in the city. As we walk through the winding halls, we are stopped by a sharp voice.

"Glorfindel."

I turn, relief flooding me. Erestor stands behind us, his hair unbound, a black waterfall that surrounds skin as pale as Ithil. His eyes, black as the finest onyx, are as impassive as they ever were. He is stunning, a contrast of light and dark in one being, and I want to worship him right then. My love knows me too well. Erestor holds out his hand, inviting me to a rare display of public affection. I know this is only to prove whom I belong to, but I need that claim. Taking Erestor's hand, he draws me close, embracing me while kissing my lips tenderly.

"I have missed you, berethen," he whispers against my ear. "I burn for you. Do you burn for me?" (my spouse)

I am breathless as I reply. "Aye, I always burn for you."

His smile is genuine, nothing hidden from me. "Good." He steps to the side so that he can see Thranduil's fully. "I was given to understand that my spouse's duties here were now complete, and I have come to accompany him on the trip back to Imladris."

Thranduil knows this game, a game of two Masters civilly fighting over one submissive. "It is a shame tonight will be Lord Glorfindel's final night in my realm. I have most enjoyed his company, and he will be sorely missed." His calm exterior does not crumble under Erestor's intense gaze, and I feel superfluous. "Would you mind joining me in my private dining room for dinner, then? One last meal together before you take your warrior from my halls?"

Erestor turns to me, an eyebrow raised in question. I nod imperceptibly, and there is a faint smile on his lips. He returns his serene face to the Elvenking and bows his head respectfully. "We would be honored to join you, my Lord." Thranduil flashes a wide grin as he turns down a corridor, leaving us in his wake. Yes, something is definitely looming in the near future, and my clever mate has a notion of what it is.

*****

We arrive just before the appointed time, dressed in our best clothing. I do not understand why Erestor insisted we dress well, donning even our cloaks, but I do not question him. Sometimes I believe that annoys him, that even outside our playroom, our bedroom, I blindly do as he commands. I wish I could explain to him why that is, why it is so easy for me to nod and simply do as he asks, but I cannot. It is a faceless, voiceless thing inside me that desires only to please him.

I am a step behind him as we enter the antechamber, but I am astonished even more so than I was the initial time I was in this room. Beside the door is a tall, slim Elf, his stormy grey eyes unfocused, but nude and erect. My gaze darts to Erestor who does not seem to give the naked Elf a second glance. In fact, Erestor seems unphased by anything he is presented with.

"Up!" he commands, still not looking at the Elf. The Elf's left arm comes up, and I see his right arm is already occupied. Erestor unclasps his cloak and lays it across the Elf's outstretched arm, just as Thranduil's rests on the right, and gives me an expectant glance. I follow suit, confused but trusting.

We walk from the Elf, past other Elves who serve as end tables, art, and other various pieces of furniture. "Why do you degrade them so, Erestor?" I question. I want to understand, and he is my Master, my teacher, and it is from him I seek such understanding.

"Glorfindel, why do you permit me to sit on your back while you are nude, glistening and hard, and read a novel?" he asks in a tone that tells me I already know the answer to my own question.

I think for only a moment before I respond. "Because I delight in pleasing you. I find it a thrill to be used by you, to have a purpose, and to be commanded by you."

"It is no different for them. In this world of Thranduil's, of mine," he amends softly, "slaves such as they live for such moments of use, for one sharp command. It is as sensual as the flogger for them, and I will not deny them such pleasures."

Tonight the dining room is more formal. There is an actual table and chairs, the various niches where slaves had posed lewdly are empty, and I wonder if Thranduil had set the scene the previous week solely for my benefit. The amusement I see shining in his green eyes tells me that, aye, he had presented dinner on the back of his slave to shock me.

He succeeded.

Thranduil stands from his seat, dressed in much the same manner he was when we first shared a meal: open robe, tight leggings, bared flesh.

"My Lord Erestor, Lord Glorfindel, I am pleased you could join me," Thranduil says with a flourish. "The meal is ready if you are."

"My Lord Elrond sends you a gift of this season's best wine. He says that it is a poor substitute for Glorfindel, but that he hopes you find joy in it nonetheless," Erestor offers, holding out a dark bottle of pungent red wine. My love has told me of his intent this evening, and I must admit to a sense of excitement at the deviousness within Erestor.

"It is a lovely gift, but he is quite right. It is a poor substitute for Glorfindel, but it will be enjoyed nonetheless. Sit, please," the Elvenking says as he takes his own seat, setting the wine beside his own goblet. He inclines his head toward one of his Elves who then opens the bottle expertly, pouring the ruby liquid into the crystal goblet in front of his King. The naked slave turns to offer us each a glass, but Erestor holds up his hand and stops the Elf from filling our cups.

"I must decline. The wine was meant for your Master, not us. We will gladly accept water."

We begin the first course of cold meats and sweet fruit, and Thranduil drinks the heady wine, consuming little food. A single glass of this particular wine is usually enough to make me dizzy with the alcohol, but as a third glass is poured for him, Thranduil shows no sign of drunkenness. He can hold his own when it comes to drinking, but I doubt he is prepared for what is to come.

He continues to speak with Erestor about politics, about the recent official collaring of Haldir and Celeborn in the wood, and I marvel at the coolness of Erestor's demeanor.

"Celeborn tells me that the night of the collaring you aided him in his playroom," Thranduil says, his speech slurring a bit. "Haldir was introduced to a new game, was he not?"

Erestor's back stiffens, and I realize that Thranduil has just divulged something I was not meant to know. As if I would care; he and I are long past that. "Celeborn requested my assistance, and I honored him."

Thranduil blinks several times, but his train of thought is obviously muddled. Erestor squeezes my thigh, a signal that the game has just escalated. I rise from my chair; his eyes are on me as I stalk around the table and stop when I am behind the King. I move his hair from his neck, bend and press my lips to the fluttering beat under the scented flesh, and my eyes never leave the dark, lustful gaze of my spouse.

"My Lord Thranduil," I breathe against his ear. I drag my tongue from the lobe of his ear to the delicate point, his shiver obvious to everyone gathered. "You look drained. You were right that the journey must have been more than you expected, and you have grown soft. Permit my mate to send your slaves from these rooms so that I may... put you to bed," I say into the shell of his ear, my hand caressing the silken skin exposed at his waist.

The Elvenking's head lolls back onto my shoulder, his eyes unfocused and he mumbles to me. "Aye... very... sleepy. Erestor, send them... away..."

Erestor is up in a flash, commanding the attendants and furniture to vacate the King's rooms for the night. He disappears for a few moments, and then I hear the latch slide home before his pale darkness reappears. Thranduil's eyes have closed in the unnatural sleep we have induced, and I find myself grinning evilly.

Time to play.

*****

The King is too refined and in control to show anger. I am not even sure that he feels any, despite his situation. From my position kneeling beside Erestor's chair, I can see clearly the moment that Thranduil shakes off the last effects of the sleeping draught laced in the wine. We have removed his robe and bound his wrists above his head to the metal bar that seems to be requisite in these rooms.

He assesses his position quickly, and his eyes come to rest on Erestor's satisfied smirk. "It would appear," he begins calmly, "that you have me at a disadvantage."

Erestor stands and glances down at me. I nod quickly and scurry to remove the chair from the playroom. As a result, I miss whatever Thranduil says next. I only hear Erestor's amused chuckle echoing through the room as I return.

"No, no, nothing like that," he says to Thranduil while I return to my place by my Master's side. "We of all people should know and respect the importance of consent. And I think I shall have yours before the evening is over, Wood-King."

"It has been a very long time since I have had to give consent rather than expect it. How do you intend to get it from me now?"

"By offering you that which you desire. I am not blind to your intentions toward my mate. The thoughts roll out of your mind like early morning fog. What I do not know, however, is if you genuinely desire Glorfindel or simply the challenge of wringing submission from him. So I devised this particular situation. I will allow you this indulgence, but only on the condition that it be Glorfindel -- and not you -- who is Master."

Even though we had discussed this, to hear the challenge truly given sends a chill along my back. Many years have passed since I last accepted the role of Ingor, and still many more since Thranduil has borne the yoke of Tumbo. The strain of such a reversal may be more than the Elvenking is willing to endure simply for my company. Already I see the doubt and disbelief in his expression.

"You would expect your Tumbo to master *me*?" he asks incredulously.

Erestor looks at me, and I feel the approval in the gesture. I hold my back straighter, struggling to keep my face neutral and not allow the swelling of pride to show. He turns back to Thranduil. "Only with your consent, to be sure. And, naturally, with my assistance."

Thranduil, hanging from the bar and half-nude, turns his gaze to me, seems to contemplate which is more important, his pride or the opportunity to have me. I have spent many hours in this position, knees resting on a cold, unforgiving floor, and Erestor continues to amaze me with how long he can remain unmoving as he stands, impassive in his cold expectation. There are only two answers he will accept, and something in his demeanor tells me he already knows which answer Thranduil will give.

Those chilly green eyes blink once, and I see a change come over the Elvenking's entire being. He relaxes in the restraints, shifting his weight and lifts his gaze to Erestor. "Very well. You have my consent."

"Very good choice," Erestor purrs triumphantly. He approaches Thranduil and runs two of his fingers along the well-formed muscles of the Wood-Elf's torso. "I do not believe my rules within a playroom are all that different than yours, Thranduil," he begins. "We will do nothing you do not consent to, and if there is an act that you do not wish to endure, say 'kelu' and all play will stop."

It is a speech I remember, a speech I have given myself once, but the words alone speed my blood. My groin aches with my need, but that will not yet be alleviated. Erestor sheds his tunic and undershirt, signaling that I should do the same, as well as to stand. Though Thranduil's eyes should have remained on Erestor, his eyes shifted to me, follow my movements as I kick off my boots, toss my shirt to the ground, and stand beside Erestor in only my leggings.

"You can stop this now, Thranduil," Erestor continues, drawing the King's gaze back to him. "But rest assured, this is the *only* way I will permit you to be with my submissive." A chill runs down my spine at the possessive quality my Master's voice has taken. There is also a great sense of relief now that Erestor is here, in charge, protecting me from myself more than from Thranduil.

"I understand," Thranduil grinds out. "It has been a many years since my training as Tumbo, and it is but a distant memory."

The smile that spreads over Erestor's face is predatory. "It is time then, I believe, for you to be reacquainted with the position of bottom. You have little respect for those who devote themselves to you; you take their presence for granted, and I think this will place things in perspective for you." I watch him inch close to Thranduil's impassive face; they are a study in contrasts, light and dark, but both so very cold. "He is not weak, Thranduil, regardless of what you think due to the encounter against that tree. Glorfindel is a powerful submissive, and his only flaw -- if it can be so called -- is that his boundaries are sometimes overshadowed by his eagerness to serve." Erestor seems ready to continue his observations of my questionable flaws when he reconsiders, realizes what he has said and how he has just revealed too much of whatever has gone on between he and I. "Let us begin," he says instead.

I watch Erestor walk to the wall of flogging and paddling devices and look over large Thranduil's collection. While my Master makes his selection, I approach Thranduil and meet his eyes. "Was your only desire to see me broken upon your cross?" I ask him as I stroke a hand down his smooth chest and circle his navel.

"No. If my only purpose, Glorfindel, had been to take a whip to your flesh, I would not be hanging here." Thranduil's eyes hold a knowledge, a depth that threatens to draw me in. My curiosity, though, has been piqued, and I gaze at him with interest. "There is a duality I see within you, Balrog-slayer," he says softly, his voice all power and liquid seduction. "It fascinates me, and I wish to explore it."

"And see it you shall," Erestor croons behind Thranduil, a paddle in his hand. "I do apologize, Wood-King, but your breeches must come off, and this hair needs to be bound." Erestor busies himself with Thranduil's mass of caramel colored hair, and I bow to my own task.

I drop to my knees in front of Thranduil, and I can feel his eyes on me. I untie the lacings to his leggings slowly; the bulge contained within the fabric is a temptation I cannot resist. I peel back the material as if it were the skin to an orange, revealing the thick length of him. I study his organ. It is wide at its base, a prominent vein running from the root to the bottom of the wide, flared head. The foreskin is damp, the tip peeking out from darker flesh, daring me to reach out with my tongue and taste the gathering moisture. As I slide his leggings from his body, I do just that.

His sac is heavy as I fondle it lightly with my fingers, weigh it, stroke it. He hisses when I suck the mushroom-like head into my mouth and squeeze his pouch firmly. My eyes are closed, his scent bombards me, but in my mind's eye, it is Erestor whom I am performing this for. It is something he has never seen me do; my Master has never shared me with another, and his lustful gaze is like a fire to my soul. My eyes slip open and I see that I am right; he stands just behind Thranduil, mesmerized as I take more of Thranduil into my mouth.

But it is enough. I withdraw, take his breeches to the corner, and then drop them. Erestor has already taken up his position, paddle drawn back, his eyes dark and fathomless as he strikes the Elvenking for the first time.

"I remember the first time I was in such a position," I tell him, picking up a silver circle from a tabletop. I turn the object over in my hands, an object I am painfully familiar with. I cross the space between us, the steady crack of wood on flesh marking each of my steps. Thranduil's eyes are dark as oak leaves, his skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat, but he has not made a single sound. "I was tied to our bedposts, if you can believe that, and he struck my backside with a hairbrush." I chuckle, "At the time, it might as well have been a broomstick -- all I knew was how humiliating it was, how painful." I lift my eyes from the silver circlet. "How much I loved what he was doing."

I open the circle of metal while I stroke Thranduil's hot shaft and smile into the face of the Elf who had tormented me with my own body for almost a month. "I ask you this: even though you have not been Tumbo for many, many years, do you still love the sting of the paddle?" and I clasp the ring around the base of his sex, trapping his passion until I am ready for him to find release.

His eyes have now become slightly glazed and I can see he is resisting The Pull. The Pull was something Erestor said many of those who submit resist at first, but that I dove into. The steady rhythm of the paddle, the slow, hot build of pain is what ushers one into that space within ourselves that finds the pleasure in the pain, and what every Tumbo should aspire to find. Thranduil fights.

"I asked you a question," I snap, twisting one of his nipples sharply. The role of Ingor is not something I have taken frequently, but when I choose to do so, I have no shame in my dominance.

He groans as I release his nipple and that sharp green gaze focuses on my face. "Aye," he reluctantly admits, those eyes closing when Erestor speeds up his strikes, the crack of the wood sharper, harder.

"My Master's arm is strong; he has an endurance any warrior would envy." From another table I take two small clamps. Erestor no longer uses clamps on my chest, but the piercings he chose permit the attachment of weights, something he employs in our sessions often. Thranduil's nipples are unadorned, pale pink against the pale peach of his skin, and I bend my mouth to the left bud.

The King moans deeply, begins to thrust backward to meet the paddle, and I lave at his nipple, nip at it, suckle and pull on the tender flesh. When it is red, sensitive to even the slightest breath, I pinch the flesh, hold it out, and attach the first clamp. Slowly, carefully, I tighten it, and I watch his face very closely. It is only when there is the slight widening of his eyes that I stop -- I know it is perfect, on the threshold between pleasure and unbearable agony.

The other nipple receives the same treatment, and then I add to the sweet torment of his chest. Small, teardrop weights. His pants, his thrusting, cause the weights to dangle, shift, and pull on him. I glance down to his engorged sex and see the head smeared with copious amounts of sticky, clear fluid. I cannot help myself; I swipe the head with my thumb and lap at it, drawing another helpless moan from his full lips. The light sheen of sweat has developed into small rivulets, and Erestor continues to paddle. My shaft has swollen with need as I imagine the hot pain of Thranduil's backside, splotches of pink, areas of blood-red, small patches where his skin has begun to bruise. Erestor is adept at leaving his mark, and I am certain Thranduil will have difficulty sitting in the morn.

Erestor says nothing; this is not his game, not his scene, it is mine. I bend and add another ring to the King's person; the smaller silver circle rests above the fullness of his sac, and I add a heavy weigh to it. Thranduil cries out for the first time since we began, and the sound shoots straight to my groin.

I am intrigued by this Elf, and I cannot explain why. Thranduil has slipped into that space, finally, and moves with the strikes, welcomes the paddling. "I envy you," I tell him as I absently tug on the clamp pinching his right nipple. "You have gone to that place within yourself where you can find all the pleasure in the pain my Master causes you. I can find it, too, quite easily." I lean in and lick from the base of his neck to his ear, rolling the taste of his skin and his sweat on my tongue. "What I envy is that, should he continue beating that wondrous backside of yours, and it ceases to be pleasurable, you will be pulled from that world in your mind and you will utter that one word."

My voice drops as I continue my narrative, alternatively pulling at his nipples or lightly swatting his over-engorged sex. "I will never be able to do such a thing, Thranduil. I would allow Erestor to beat me to death, I think, without ever stopping him. It is why Erestor must always be in control; he is so aware of my body and my unspoken limits that I no longer need to enter a playroom and worry if I will walk out. I envy all submissives who are able to stop their Masters," I whisper in his ear, pressing my body into his.

Why am I admitting things I had never even mentioned to Erestor to this bound King who had sought to master me? I do not know. What I do know is that I am attracted to him, that something in me calls to him. I shove the thought from my mind and look over Thranduil's shoulder at Erestor. The paddling has stopped and I see Erestor's eyes, wide and dark as midnight in his pale face, and they shimmer. They shimmer with tears! I reach around, hardening my eyes, and cup one of Thranduil's cheeks, the heat of his flesh warming my chilled hand. A sudden intake of breath from the King as I squeeze and close my eyes, and then I pinch that searing muscle; I am reward with a sharp, high yelp. When I open my eyes, Erestor's tears have disappeared, the paddle is set aside, and there is something new in his hand.

The pop of a cork snaps Thranduil's head up, and he looks at me fretfully. He is afraid, and it occurs to me only now that he may not have been on the receiving end of any relationship.

Ever.

I do not say he can stop the scene; I do not show any pity or concern in my eyes. To do so would undermine my control, Erestor's mastery, and so I wait to see if he will call an end to the game. Erestor hands me the bottle and I can see a significant amount has already been drained from the phial. I kneel on the cold stone floor and coat my fingers, part Thranduil's trembling thighs and gingerly touch that puckered entrance.

He stiffens, he stops breathing, and I *push*. I breach him, and the room resounds with his broken sob. I hesitate only a fraction of a moment, and then I sink my entire finger into his tight passage.

"Do not do this," he says, his voice laden with his fear. He has not spoken the word, has not adhered to our set rules, and so I do not stop. I withdraw my finger, add more oil, and return with two. It is harder to thrust into him; he is terribly tight. "Glorfindel," he manages before he hides his face in his arm.

The paddling was not humiliating. The clamps, rings, and weights were nothing for him to fear. But he fears *this*. He fears loss of all control. If he would simply relax instead of fighting my fingers, he would find such pleasures he has only imagined. "Thranduil," I murmur into his thigh. "This is nothing to be afraid of. Close your eyes. When I thrust into you, let out a breath, and when I pull out, inhale. I will go slow, and neither Erestor nor I will harm you."

I glance up into his face, damp with sweat and probably tears, flushed, and he nods once. We begin again.

It is easier this time. His muscles soften, and I bury my two fingers deep into him. I keep them there, and I offer him advice. "Squeeze my fingers, Thranduil," I order.

"What?" he asks in a daze.

"The muscles, squeeze them. Yes, like that. Keep doing that." He does, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing. Soon, that tight, constricting muscle weakens, and then he stops. "Can you not squeeze anymore?" I ask him.

"No."

"This will be much more enjoyable now," I assure him. My fingers move effortlessly inside him, and there are no more sobs of pain or requests to stop. After a few more moments, he presses back to meet my pumping fingers, and then he groans with pleasure and his shaft pulses next to my cheek.

I leave his body, wiping my hand on my leggings, and stand up. Erestor conforms his body to Thranduil's, his lips close to the King's ear. "He learned that trick from me, Wood-King. You liked feeling his fingers inside you, did you not?"

I watch the exchange with bright eyes, my fingers idly running over the ridge of my erection beneath my leggings. Darkness and sunlight, that is what they remind me of. Misty oak leaves and bottomless caverns gaze at me, set my blood rushing through my veins. I have never been so desired, and never have I so desired.

"Aye," Thranduil pants, resting his head on Erestor's shoulder.

Erestor's hand wraps around the King's waist, pulls him even closer. "He wants you, Thranduil," he explains, and Thranduil stiffens. I know what is happening, I know how Thranduil wants to clench his passage, prevent the phallus from spreading him, but I have made certain he cannot. "This is as close to Glorfindel's size I could find among your various toys. There," Erestor says with a satisfied grin; the phallus is seated as far as Erestor can push it. "I know he desires you to fill him, for him to impale you. I can read it in his eyes."

Thranduil swallows hard and moans, thrusting his hips forward in the vain attempt to alleviate his arousal. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

"Does it not anger you?" Thranduil dares to ask.

I can see Erestor's arm moving, Thranduil's eyes fluttering, and the King's sex bobs and leaks freely. "No," my lover replies. "He is mine, Thranduil. He entrusts his soul to me, and that is something no one can seduce or steal. He can desire you all he wishes, and you may do the same. But desire and love are very different, and he loves me." That arm pumps a little faster; Thranduil's eyes finally close as he whimpers with his need.

/Kiss him./

The words reverberate in my mind, a cool caress to my heated thoughts. Erestor's eyes are unreadable. A kiss. A kiss is something so personal, so... intimate. More intimate than swallowing Thranduil's length, more intimate than having my fingers inside his body.

/Now, Glorfindel./

It is a direct command. I embrace Thranduil, his fluids smearing between our bodies. I wind my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and bring our lips together. He gives me entrance, and I seek his tongue. It is a languid kiss, deep and full of exploration. Every sweep of his tongue over my palate, across my teeth, sends another jolt of lusty need to my shaft.

"He is a perfect Tumbo, Thranduil." Erestor voice carries easily over the rush of my heartbeat. "He will bend to the cane, flow with the whip, can withstand knives and penetration I do not believe you could conceive of. He is sweet. His cries are a balm to my spirit. His tears are like diamonds, his blood rubies. But what captured my heart, sealed my doom, so to speak, were his eyes, Wood-King. Sapphires. Deep wells that expose his very soul."

The kiss becomes more than a gentle meeting of lips and tongue. I nip at his lower lip, suck at the bruise, and then shove my tongue back into his mouth. He rocks faster in my arms as Erestor increases the speed and power of his thrusts with the phallus, and I devour each moan and mewl the King makes. I cannot get enough; he is spicy and intoxicating to my senses, and I do not relent.

"He is sweetness personified, Thranduil." The voice is now rough with Erestor's growing passion as he watches us. "He is submission made into flesh. A great warrior, a legend and a hero, but he is also a slave. *My* slave."

With those last two word all but spat out in a possessive verbal slap, I part with Thranduil's lips. I gaze at Erestor's conflicted eyes. "I want you," I tell my spouse. "I need you." He needs me, too. He needs to reassure himself that I am forever his.

Erestor fumbles behind Thranduil, who lets out a keening cry, and then he hands me the leather straps. I know the phallus is now deeply buried inside Thranduil, deeper than Erestor was thrusting it. I tie the leather straps securely, then I am in Erestor's arms. He backs me up to the low table in front of Thranduil, one I believe he has used for this same purpose. My leggings are quickly shed, as are Erestor's. With Thranduil's eyes intent on us, I fall to my knees and take my lover's length into my mouth, my throat.

His hard flesh jerks between my lips; he is close. Very close. "You will not have his body, Wood-King," Erestor pants, casting a caustic glare over his shoulder. "Not tonight." He pulls himself from my lips and stands in front of Thranduil. "It is Glorfindel who does not wish you to suffer. I offer this small concession." I watch Erestor deftly release the circlet around the base of Thranduil's shaft, and then he removes the one that had his sac captured. "Is your dominant hand your right or your left?" he asks.

"Left."

The left hand is freed from the cuffs. "Touch yourself. Imagine it is his mouth, his body, his hand, but that is all I will offer you," he warns Thranduil before returning to me.

Erestor takes his time positioning my body, pressing my chest to the smooth wood of the table, binding my hands behind my back, turning my head so my ear rests on the wooden surface. I am able to see Thranduil's stretched body, his hand hanging limply at his side as his eyes trail over my nude, bent form. The head of my erection barely touches the edge of the table, and I know it is easily accessible to my Master. The long, slim fingers delve into me with slick oil, spreading it deep and preparing my body to receive his shaft. I have been posed perfectly -- Thranduil can see my face, my long back, the round curve of my buttocks, and is able to watch Erestor guide his arousal into me.

I cannot stop the low, long moan that escapes my lips as he finishes entering me. That first stroke, when he becomes one with me, is my favorite. My body slowly spreads, loosens, accepts him -- when his thighs and belly cup my backside, I must exert all my control not to spend myself instantly. Erestor knows how much I savor this moment, and when I am punished, he does not permit me the enjoyment. This is not such a time.

"I like to stay right here sometimes," Erestor says. "Do you ever do that with those few you permit to your bed, King Thranduil? Simply sheath yourself inside them and not move? I find it very comfortable. The heat, the tightness, all being offered up to me freely and willingly -- it is all very sensual, do you agree? Or is it possible that you have only considered your meleth-en-lû as simply another piece of furniture?" His tone is casual, not confrontational, but it is clear even to me that his questions are not meant to be answered. I can only imagine Thranduil's thoughts as he is presented with the choice between being offended and ending the scene or enduring the lecture and being rewarded with release. (lover of the hour)

My breathing is already ragged, hitching, before Erestor finally begins to move. He uses long strokes, withdrawing until I could feel the fat head of his shaft pulling against my ring of muscle, and then he thrusts forward. I force my eyes to focus, to look at Thranduil, and I hear myself whimper as I see that limp hand move up, wrap around the dark pillar, and then pump. He matched Erestor's movements, his speed, and I know he is imaging my tightness... just as I am imagining his thickness. I feel only a momentary pang of guilt at the fantasy, but I ignore it and submerge myself in the illusion instead.

It is Thranduil's hand on my hip, his other hand tangled in my hair, his spear that pierces me, rocks my body. My length throbs, my excitement pooling in a shimmering, clear bead that falls in a sticky drop. I pull against my bonds, almost desperate to touch myself. Thranduil's hips thrust forward into his hand, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the little pear-shaped weights attached to his nipples swinging violently as his body shakes with his rising need.

Erestor's voice again breaks the silence. "For one used to having his way, Wood-King, you are doing a remarkable job of delaying yourself in lieu of permission."

I am close, so very close, and as the head of Erestor's sex rubs that spot deep within me, I know I will not be able to hold on. The rushing in my ears drown out Erestor's words -- more words of humiliating praise, no doubt -- and lights dance in front of my vision, briefly obscuring my sight of Thranduil.

"Now."

Erestor's breathy command tells me I am able to let go, tells Thranduil he, too, can allow himself the joy of completion. Another rub over that magical spot inside my passage and my sac contracts, my seed falling in white ribbons to the floor. I gaze with sated eyes as Thranduil pumps once more before his hand is covered in viscous milky fluid. I lick my lips; I want to take that cream, to feel it slip down my throat. I am drawn from my musings by Erestor's hands clutching my hips, his nails bringing sharp pain as he spends himself inside my quivering channel. It is only a few heartbeats later that my hands are freed. I fall to my knees, my legs weak, and Erestor strokes my hair.

"Go to him," he tells me softly. I was blind if I did not think he would see into my mind in the satiated aftermath of my climax.

I pitch forward, my hands slapping on the stones, and I crawl to Thranduil. Erestor opens his mind to me and I can see myself, sweat glistening, seed dribbling from my exposed entrance, along my parted thighs, my hair wild. My exhausted sex twitches, but I smother the reawakening desire. Onto my knees, the King's wet hand near my lips, his softening organ still seeping his essence. I reverently take Thranduil's hand into mine, bring the seed-soaked digits to my lips, and suck.

Twinned gasps, the King's arousal sparking, Erestor's burning desire for me flaring. I clean his fingers, leaving only my saliva in my wake, and turn my attention to Thranduil's groin. I lap at the soft tip, suckle like a babe, and take all of him into the heat of my mouth. I can feel Erestor in my mind, his lust, his love, his... anger. I file this away, determined to relish the relaxed submission of my pursuer.

I am aware of Erestor releasing Thranduil's bonds and removing the large phallus. I complete my task quickly and scamper out of the way. The King's reaction now that the moment has passed is unpredictable, and he is more than a little intimidating, even to me. As it happens, he is relaxed and casual. Without a word, he strolls calmly into the other room and retrieves a new pair of leggings. Erestor and I dress as well, and Thranduil meets us at the door. He clasps Erestor by the forearm, and steals a kiss from me.

As I walk down the hall, one step behind my Master as I should be, I cannot help but glance over my shoulder. Thranduil still stands in the doorway, watching us leave. All at once and for no reason I can fathom, I am struck with the realization that this -- whatever it is -- is far from over.

The End