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The Hook	By : pip Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2469 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, the Lord of the Rings or the characters from it. I make no money from this, fortunately.

Chapter List
- 1-The Hook
- 1
Author's Note:

I do not own Tolkien's world, Middle Earth, the Lord of the Rings or the characters from it. I make no money from this, fortunately.

Ok, here we go! Someone on the forum foolishly mentioned a torture contest. Here is my contribution.

For those of you who are familiar with my Sauron/Maglor stories, you know the drill. For those of you who aren't, please take note of the warnings.

Warnings:

This fic has the following warnings:

Abuse, Anal, Angst, BDSM, B-Mod, Bond, ChallengeFic, COMPLETE, Contro, CR, D/s, Exhib, Fet, Fingering, Humil, MC, M/M, M/s, MiCD, Other, Tort, Violence.

In addition (if I have done my job right), this is dark, disturbing, depressing, potentially traumatising, bad for your mental health and is more than likely not fit for human consumption in any capacity. I can only apologise for my muse. There are heavy psychological themes at play in this.

Read at your own risk.

The Hook

Sometime during Maglor's captivity...

“Wake up, mûl nín,” said Sauron, already buried deep inside his slave, his movements ceasing for this, watching with interest as the elf opened his eyes, though he would not see anything. Not now or for some time to come. Sauron had blinded him with magic while he slept, and his eyes, which had been a deep blue, were now covered with a film of opaque white. Sauron tilted his head, trying to decide if it was a good look on him or not.

“Herdir,” said Maglor, his body trembling already in Sauron's embrace. He awoke Maglor like this invariably, so as to remind him from the first moment of awareness whom he belonged to. He'd made it a little project over the last few centuries, anticipating the elf's reaction when he finally allowed him to awaken empty. He suspected Maglor would be unable to function at all until he had sought out his Master and been thoroughly used and filled. It would be very gratifying indeed.

For now, though, Maglor blinked several times, and his new eyes made him look like a dead thing, less expressive. But he was very much alive. His body fluttered, delicious and hot around Sauron in panic. His hands reached out, fingers scrabbling at his master's shoulders.

“Please, Hîr nín,” he begged immediately, clearly frightened. “Don't! Not the dark!” His fear was quite sensible. Sauron had told him how the orcs were made, after all. Beginning with the dark.

Sauron laughed in delighted malice, unable to help moving inside his slave again, the spasms of fear his body gave were too pleasurable to resist. He moaned deliberately, then stopped once more. “Not the dark,” he said eventually. “For now, I assure you there is light enough in here.” Maglor relaxed very slightly. His fingers stilled on Sauron's shoulders.

“I stole from you in your sleep, mûl nín,” he whispered, as if it were a confidence between them, lowering his head, licking over Maglor's ear, nibbling at the tip of it. Maglor shuddered with sudden need, and his cock hardened almost instantly between them. “I took your sight.”

Maglor made a sound of such dismay Sauron considered the act to have been worth it for that reaction alone. “Tell me,” he said, demanding a confession. By now Maglor was well used to providing him with them. Those eyes closed, and he shivered.

“I will miss your face,” he said in real regret, his hands reaching further up, fingers on Sauron's cheekbones, on his jaw, his lips. Sauron bit the tips of his fingers playfully, letting the wolf growl, long and low. Maglor froze in terror, then relaxed again marginally. “I will miss seeing your victory over me.”

Sauron laughed, feeling actual pleasure at Maglor's words, but they did not make him relent. “Of course you will.”

After that, Maglor became as helpless as a tamed pet. Sauron led him everywhere naked on a golden leash, with infinite patience, alerting him to steps and obstacles. Sometimes not. Sometimes, it was more pleasant to catch him when he stumbled and listen to the helpless words of gratitude that yearned to be curses he didn't dare to speak.

Maglor responded more readily to touch. Every sensation was heightened for him, and Sauron took great delight in exploring pleasure and pain with him all over again, until he moaned at the touch of fire-reddened steel, and cried out at the gentle caress of his Master's hand. Sauron tortured his plaything with new zest, staying with him while he recovered from each session, taking confession, ever demanding. Maglor's loneliness was absolute, and his collusion in his own torture was inevitable.

His hearing became keener, and Sauron purposefully violated him in front of great audiences of silently watching orcs, knowing that he was aware of them, but that he did not dare to protest, for to speak of it would be to admit it was real.

Maglor, the songbird, who sang in his golden cage all day and all night, for hours, without knowing any more if his Master heard him or not. His music was even more beautiful, poignant and melancholy. Sauron set him to playing the harp, watched his nimble fingers caress the strings as if jealous of them. He played by touch rather than sight. Sauron even grew used to Maglor's sightless eyes eventually.

But of all the changes, one in particular stood out. Maglor always obeyed him, but his need for direction was new, and he waited for Sauron to tell him when and where to move, even in the smallest of ways, so that to Sauron sometimes it was similar to having a live mannequin. He enjoyed that most of all.

Of course over time Maglor became more sure-footed and he stumbled less. It took many months of being totally blind for him to learn the layout of the parts of the Barad-dûr Sauron allowed Maglor to inhabit. But learn it he did. Indeed, as the years passed he seemed to develop a kind of extrasensory awareness that Sauron found fascinating.

It was impossible sometimes now to tell that he was blind at all, except for the strange blank whiteness of his eyes, of course. In the dark of night, when Sauron was preternaturally silent, looming over the elf like a shadow without touching, still Maglor would become aware of his presence, even his proximity. It made his mind turn over the potential ways he could test this new ability.

At last, one day he took Maglor to a large empty hall, naked. Led him by his hand to the centre of it, and gave him a sword.

He was prepared for the elf to attack him, lashing out with desperation at the chance that had been given to him, even now, even so hopelessly enslaved as he was. Sauron did not expect anything less. Anyone else would have been ended there and then. Sauron merely danced back from the flashing blade with amused glee before seizing Maglor's wrist and twisting it so the blade of the weapon was against the elf's own throat, Sauron's larger form pressed against him from behind.

“Do you wish for mercy, mûl nín?” he asked then, teasing, deliberately cruel. Perhaps the elf could remember such a thing, even after all they had done.

“Please, Hîr nín,” Maglor said, sounding defeated. But as ever it wasn't enough. Sauron wanted more. Maglor pressed forward, against the blade, longing, his entire body stretching out in Sauron's embrace like a desperate wish. “Take it. End this. Grant me that.”

Death was not an escape for him any more, nor even yet an ending. It was a desire that related only to Sauron, and the dark lord knew it very well. He'd seen it in him, that yearning. Death at his hands. Now he would use it. “I will make you a promise, Makalaurë,” he said softly. “If you survive my orcs I will kill you at last.” He paused, allowing the idea to sink in. “Do you accept the challenge?” Maglor closed his sightless eyes, and Sauron became seductive, weaving his words over the elf like a spell, but there was no magic here, only countless centuries of desperate submission. It was almost too easy.

“So slowly will I do it, mûl nín. Imagine it. Little by little. Piece by piece, even,” he taunted. “I'll linger over you like a connoisseur. Make it last. Taste every moment of it with you. We will do it together. Would you like that? I will keep you aware and able to speak to me. You will describe what it is like as the life of the Eldar fades from your slowly cooling blood; the pain, the agony and the surrender the last of your confessions to me.”

“Herdir...” Maglor sounded as if he listened to the fantasies of a lover. If Sauron were to touch him now, he would be aroused. His body trembled with the force of his desire. Sauron did not allow him time to enjoy it, or to think.

“Fight, then, mûl bain nín,” Sauron instructed, pleased at the confirmation of Maglor's lust. “They are upon you!”

Sauron backed away as the first of the orcs advanced at his command. He watched from a distance, seated on a raised platform, ready to be entertained. The orc got close enough, and Maglor sensed it, lunging out with the sword in a graceful motion. He yanked the weapon back quickly, almost spinning to deal with the next one while Sauron clapped in delight. Maglor's red hair whipped about him like flame, and he was a dangerous opponent, even blinded as he was, even out of practice, as he was.

The bodies were dragged away, and Maglor turned towards the noise as if looking at it. But these were not his attackers, and so he became still, listening, alert. How beautiful he was! But this was about more than watching the elf fight, or even dance. After Maglor had despatched another two of the orcs, Sauron motioned with a finger, leaning forward to watch carefully what happened next.

Maglor couldn't see, only sense. And what he couldn't know was that his next victim was a bound and gagged human prisoner. The sword struck deep, lodging against the man's ribs, and then Maglor understood this new game at last. He fell with the dead man, to his knees, a wail of piteous remorse coming from him as the warm blood spilled over the sword and onto his right hand.

“Defend!” Sauron ordered, his voice harsh, not allowing time for grief or regret, and Maglor pulled the sword back as he stood up, one foot on the corpse to free it. It made a scraping noise against the bones, and then Maglor was crouching low, sweeping the sword out in a wide arc, making the orc that was poised to attack jump back slightly to avoid being sliced in two.

Maglor was a sight to behold now. He killed the orcs with cries of outraged anguish, his face wet with tears, clearly afraid that each one would prove to be another innocent. Still he showed the same deadly efficiency, knowing he could not hold back. Sauron wondered how long his pride would hold out, was surprised the elf had any pride at all left. How long before he truly invited death? Because if he really did wish it, then all he need do is stop fighting. Sauron raised his hand again for another human sacrifice.

Pushed forward, the gagged victim took several steps before finding his balance, hands bound behind him, and then lurched back away from Maglor's sword, so that the fatal swipe only managed to slice across his midsection rather than kill immediately. A shower of crimson blood splashed across Maglor's pale skin, and his victim fell to the floor, pain filled noises coming from behind the gag as parts of him spilled out onto the ground. Maglor shrieked in horror, but stood over the twitching body, driving the sword deep into the man's heart, ending his torture instantly. How poignant to see the elf grant mercy that would never be shown to him! Sauron smiled genuinely at that.

“To your left!” Sauron instructed, taken aback by the entire performance. In response, Maglor swung the sword to his right, rising quickly, beheading his next attacker from the shoulder to the ear, and proving Sauron to be a liar in the process. And yet, he still didn't see though the biggest lie of all.

“Stop, please!” Maglor begged, almost howling with hurt at what he had done already. The innocent lives he had taken. “Don't make me do this, Herdir, please! Stop!”

Sauron laughed, beyond amused, and lifted his hand for another.

Again. Only this time the human fell to his knees, having seen the fate of the other two. Maglor, sensing that, hesitated. But he couldn't see, and Sauron watched his face, the expression on it, as he realised he couldn't take the chance. Maglor stabbed downwards, impaling the man on a diagonal, and now Maglor screamed. He screamed for so long that Sauron wondered his lungs could contain so much air. But he also stopped, kneeling to accept his death at the hands of the lesser orcs.

One of them walked up to him, raised its weapon. Maglor trembled and sobbed, hands still on the hilt of his sword, knelt in front of his latest victim where the sword pierced him. “Hold!” commanded Sauron, an instant before the killing blow could fall, then he got up and walked back into the arena. When he reached Maglor, he grasped the elf's wrist.

“Drop it,” he advised, and Maglor let the hilt of the sword go. It stayed in its place, held steady by the man it impaled as blood dripped down from behind the gag. Sauron found his gaze caught by that for a second. Was the thing still alive? It gurgled. Apparently so. Sauron watched for a moment, then turned his devastating attention back to the elf who knelt at his feet. He pulled Maglor up, raised the wrist he held to his lips and kissed the inside of it.

“Murder on your mind, blood on your hands, and endless guilt in your heart,” Sauron noted, musing. “Oh, it suits you, mûl nín. It always did.”

Maglor said nothing now, crying silently, but leaned against him as if exhausted and seeking refuge. Sauron drew in a deep breath. This place smelled of blood and steel. And the filth of the orcs. Gathering Maglor into his arms like an ailing child or a maiden, Sauron took him away to the luxury of his bed.

When they arrived Sauron took his time cleansing the elf so he was gleaming, though Maglor continued to stare sightlessly at his hands with incomprehension as if the blood was still on them. Sauron led Maglor to the bed of furs he favoured, and then prepared his slave with oil, fingers deep inside him, stroking at him intimately and slowly. So rarely did Sauron do this that the elf became uncertain and afraid. Breathless as Sauron touched him, his body taut as if in expectation of some unspeakable act of violence or brutality. It wasn't a groundless fear at all. But Sauron was gentle, even when he had Maglor's leg over his shoulder, sliding deep inside him. The elf began making sounds of muted pleasure he could not control.

With a smile, Sauron adjusted his grip to free one of his hands and waved it, so that the torchlight dimmed drastically. When they were in near darkness, Sauron spent long minutes fucking his slave, feeling his body become open and inviting, as if asking for more, and more. How many years? Was it decades since he had taken Maglor's sight away? Perhaps it was. Sauron waved his hand again, this time over Maglor's face, and pressed inside him again, until Maglor had taken every single inch of him. The elf shivered and moaned with discomfort, his hands coming up to hold Sauron's biceps in an unspoken plea.

“Open your eyes,” Sauron commanded, and Maglor obeyed. The deep blue seemed shocking after so long, almost violet. The heavily dilated pupils contracted quickly in response to the faint light. Maglor blinked, and the first thing he saw was Sauron looking down at him.

“Do you see my victory over you now?” Sauron asked, in a cruel echo of Maglor's confessed regret.

“I see it before all else,” Maglor said, in complete defeat, thoroughly mastered, his voice small and sad, even as his body burned with desire. His submission made Sauron want him more than ever.

“Very good.” Sauron thought for a moment, looking down at him. “You will never be free. One day even you may die, and at that time, in Mandos' Halls, your fëa will be eternally bound to mine in terrible conspiracy at your ruin.”

“I know.” Though the words were spoken dully, the expression in the elf's eyes was heartbreaking. If Sauron had possessed the quality of mercy, he'd have been promising him everything in this moment, even his freedom.

“It is what you want,” Sauron persisted, and again Maglor obliged him. Again with that look in his eyes. He seemed so forlorn. Was it sorrow? Or was it quiet despair?

“Yes, Hîr nín.” Maglor cried then, wretchedly, and there was no comfort for him. There was no mercy in Sauron's heart. Sauron watched, and smiled.

“Makalaurë,” he said tenderly, wanting to draw more from him. “Do you grieve for yourself, or for them?”

“For Arda. For us all,” Maglor replied, hopeless. The look he had then was one of deep abiding terror. Sauron was quite taken at that: Maglor's faith in his eventual victory. It eased all of his frustration to see it. In fact, it was so wonderful he leaned down to whisper.

“Beautiful.” Though he hadn't moved during this little conversation between them, the elf's body tightened in arousal at hearing the word. Sauron groaned in appreciation, and gave the elf a few leisurely thrusts before stopping once more, content to rest within him.

“Aulendil,” Maglor whimpered, turning his head this way and that, his hardness between them again. So easy to excite. The elf's body was so well trained. When Maglor used his name, it was a plea for release. Sauron shook his head and voiced only a word of refusal and restraint, enjoying it to watch as the elf tried to regain control. He moved again, once, just to prolong the experience.

At last, when they were both still, and Maglor was looking up at him again, he said: “I have missed the deep blue of your eyes.” It was true. Even Sauron had forgotten how expressive of hurt Maglor's eyes could be. He looked forward to watching his responses when they discussed the sword fighting in the arena.

“Tell me,” he ordered, seeing something new in those eyes now. Some additional melancholy.

“I wish...” Maglor said softly, then swallowed. “I do not want to see. I regret that you have put this distance between us.”

Sauron smirked. “There is no distance between us,” he replied, giving the elf a crude, suggestive snap of his hips that made Maglor cry out. He knew what Maglor referred to though, and it pleased him. That strange dependence was over. At last, now, the elf cried, tears on his cheeks that were not brought out by the teasing.

“Tell me. Again,” Sauron demanded, wanting to hear everything right to the last. Maglor's sobs were little inhales of breath. Quite enchanting.

“I love,” he admitted, his eyes shining as he looked up. Expressive again, but this time of something more than pain and defeat. “And I cannot help it.” Maglor shook his head, dismayed. “I cannot help that I love,” he cried, broken, as if he should be excluded from his own nature. His struggle made Sauron smile.

“Of course you do. It is what you were made for, after all,” he said, then as he looked down he felt something else. Perhaps it was the words he had spoken, the truth he had given, yet the world and everything in it suddenly narrowed to the space between the two of them. If there was no other forever, this would still be, and it made him feel such euphoria that for an instant the elf was completely irresistible.

“Makalaurë!” Sauron groaned, slipping his arms under the elf to gather him close as he began to take him again, this time considerately, slowly, sliding back and forth inside the sensual and tender press of his body, so perfect around him. So exquisite. His slave. His elf, that loved and didn't understand why or how. Didn't understand anything despite his great age. Would never stop regardless of the cruelties inflicted upon him. The thought of what awaited him over the ages made Sauron burn with lust.

Sauron was aware that Maglor's arms and legs flailed helplessly, and he cried out in surprise and shock at feeling his Master's passion, so rarely felt, hardly ever bestowed. It didn't matter. He couldn't stop this, couldn't escape, couldn't help giving Sauron exactly what he wanted.

When he found his release some time later, he still clutched Maglor close to him, greedy and possessive, head on his shoulder while the elf repeated his distressed refrain of 'I love' over and over as if it were an apology, gentle hands in Sauron's long black hair, caressing. Without thinking too much, Sauron reached down between them, found Maglor hard and desperate. He stroked the elf and gave him a whispered word of permission without demanding anything else of him at all.

Maglor drew in a sudden breath as he came, the last of the tension in him draining away as his warm body became soft and pliant. Sauron gave a pleased sigh of appreciation. They would rest here now. Just for now. Together. There would be time for more games later. An eternity in fact.

Maglor. There were so many hooks in his psyche and his soul he was very much like a stringed puppet. Sauron knew them all, having placed them himself one by one, so carefully. Maglor was tangled beyond redemption, yet he hoped for it even so. He was a spectacular contradiction, and Sauron was forever captivated by it. Pull this one, see him fight, this one for surrender. He was utterly broken, but he was whole and unmarred. He was beautifully made but he was subverted. Just as Melkor had made the orcs, so too had Sauron made Maglor. The orcs were crude, brutal things, and they had their place. Maglor was strikingly refined, and he was ruined for all time. But he had his place too. With Sauron.

It was a hook that Sauron was only truly aware of at moments like these, and it was in him just as deeply, had him completely addicted and at times almost consumed. But, in the end, it was something that only goaded him to further cruelties. Maglor was the perfectly crafted plaything. He was a triumph. He was Sauron's pleasure, made flesh.

finis

Author's Note: Still here? Well done! If so, please leave a review. I will reply on the forum. If you didn't read the warnings and now want to shout at me, go ahead. My Sauron muse will have a good laugh at you. He may even respond here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/55964-pippychicks-lotr-fiction-review-responses/

Translations:

mûl (bain) nín – my (beautiful) slave

Hîr nín – my Lord

Herdir – Master
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The Hook