Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

A Dance for the Elven King	By : Gwyndolynelizabeth Category: +Third Age > Het - Male/Female Views: 8221 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings, nor any works written by Tolkien, nor the characters therein. I do this for personal enjoyment, and I am making no money from writing this little diddy.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
“Why’d you go and do a thing like that for?”
The dancer grinned sheepishly at her drummer, who did not find their situation laughable—they had, however, evaded most of the crowd and were able to slip away unknown. “Not gettin’ paid will be the least of our worries if they catch us and throw us in the dungeons that elf king’s so well known for. Damn girl…” His voice grumbled on, but the dancer turned away. “You can’t go around makin’ displays like you did with kings an’ such! They don’t like bein’ touched by gypsy whores.”
“I am not a ‘gypsy whore.’” The dancer shot the drummer a venomous stare.
“Forgive me, lady, but you ain’t no high bred courtesan, neither! They the only ones can be goin’ around grindin’ on king’s laps! What you did might get us chopped!”
“I didn’t see anything but pleasure on that king’s face.” The fiddler interjected.
“ He enjoyed every second of my dancing.” The dancer asserted, stamping her foot in anger. The drummer was quiet, and he shook his head to himself.
“Forgive me,” He sighed, and after a tense moment, finished: “I was bein’ harsh.”
The fiddler was looking over everyone’s heads and saw that the king’s throne, off in the distance, was empty. “I feel,” He began with care, “that if you, my dear, were to seek the king out, you’d find out quickly just how much he liked your dance.” and then gestured toward the empty throne yonder.
The dancer looked where he pointed and a flurry of excitement struck her when she saw that the king had removed himself. “I wonder what he’s doing…” She giggled, dancing in place out of eagerness. She searched around the bonfire for him, but could not find him. “Should I really go and look for him?” She thought she heard the drummer scoff, and he stormed away as though he was angry. The fiddler shrugged away the other man’s abruptness.
“I’m quite sure we’ll get paid just fine,” He chuckled. “And not have to visit the dungeons. Yes, go and look for him!”
The dancer smiled wide and hurriedly ran her fingers through her hair, unwinding the delicate plate so that her dark hair was like a lion’s mane, and, before anything more could be said, plunged into the crowds of revelers.
Some of the elves she passed recognized her face, and gave her acknowledgement, but she was so intent on searching for the king that she could only offer them quick smiles in passing. She strained on her tip toes to make herself as tall as she could, and cursed her small stature when she couldn’t see over anyone’s shoulders; she saw no one familiar, but she longed to see the elven king’s face—the fluttering in her belly was nearly overwhelming, and her heart beat hastened with each passing moment. The night air was warm, made warmer by countless bonfires raging in the moonlight, and fragrant with pipe smoke, ash, and incense. The dancer paused to catch her breath and still her beating heart.
Then, she noticed an area where there were not so many people—a path, its mouth marked with an arch made of the living boughs of two hawthorn trees growing side by side. They were crowned with white flowers that shone in the night, and called to her attention in the first place. Curious, she decided to follow her gut and approached the tree, plucking a white flower from one tree as came to the trees, but before she could enter the path, two guards stepped forth from the darkness, stone faced, commanding her in elvish, though she could not understand their tongue. Immediately, she feared she had been caught and that her dance had offended the king, and that she would be thrown into the depths of his dungeons forever. She realized this was not merely a wandering branch of the forest road. Their spears were in hand, and one reached out to take the dancer’s wrist, but withdrew suddenly when a deep, silky voice said from a short distance away:
“Enough. Let her pass.”
The dancer’s heart jumped to her throat—somehow, she knew that voice.
The guards retreated, allowing the woman to pass, and concealed themselves behind the hawthorn trees, half hidden by shadow. The dancer peered ahead of her in the darkness, but did not see anyone forthwith. After half a moment, she saw a tall, imposing figure not far ahead, draped in silken brocade which was silver in the moonlight, and cascaded over his shoulder like a stream of moon beams. Then she saw his face, and knew it was the king. He was beautiful, but his eyes seemed to shine in the darkness, and pried into her soul.
“What is your name?” The king asked, remaining where he stood, watching every breath she took.
“Eithne.” The dancer replied quickly. She wondered if he noticed her fingers playing nervously with the robe over her shoulders.
“Pretty name.” The elven king said coolly, the depth of his voice alluring. “You may come closer, if you wish.” He chuckled.
Eithne smiled, her nerves welling into an erratic, pounding heartbeat as she glanced around, over her shoulder, then to the king. Was anyone watching? In her nervousness, she searched for her companions, but they were nowhere to be seen. “You have nothing to fear.” The king’s voice slid through her veins, but when Eithne’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was gone.
“What is your name?” She asked, her voice louder, harsher than she meant it to be. It sounded out of place in her head, with the seductive clarity of the sound of the king’s voice still resounding there.
“Springtime.” He replied, though she still could not see him. “That which grows green in this wood grows by my command, and I am lord over every tree, flower, and stone beneath these boughs.”
“Is that what I call you? Springtime?” Eithne giggled, and she thought she heard a low chuckle from somewhere over her shoulder.
“Thranduil is my name...” His voice spoke and she could hear his smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver, and the king was standing at arm’s length from her, the yearning conceit behind his starlit gaze washing over her as though it were a wave of fire. With a bewitching beckon, Thranduil moved past and Eithne felt his warm fingers pull at her own; she followed, smiling to herself until her cheeks were hot. She looked once more over her shoulder to note if anyone could see her, but the throng of folk was roaring strong with only the beginning of a long, exciting Midsummer’s merriment. The two soldiers had disappeared, as if into the very wood of their hawthorn trees.
***
Moonlight filtered through green leaves overhead, spackling the dewy grass with silvery bliss; in glistening fragments of gentle ghost light moonbeams flickered and danced over the Elven king’s countenance, and trickled over the tumbling brocade of his exquisite finery. The path Eithne followed him along veered into the forest, and there it dwindled and became hidden by fallen leaves and the overgrown roots of mighty trees.
Eithne prided herself in her ability to enchant, but his stare was unearthly—the slightest glance sent chills through her bones and boiled her blood.
She had heard tales of elves, though she had never spoken with one of their folk, nor been in their presence; yet she followed the Elven king eagerly, her heart pounding like a skin drum in anticipation of what was to come. He walked separate from her and she saw each draught his piercing gaze drank of flashes of skin that flickered into view from beneath the heavy folds of her cloak. In past experiences, she would have wooed her lover’s attentions with witty conversation, a façade and feigned smiles; now, she was silent, and coyly avoided as many of the king’s glances as she could keep herself from catching.
Playing coy was difficult when all she wanted was to soak in every look, to wrap herself in the scorching burn of his hunger for her and feel his power shudder and pulsate around her and within her. He led her on, weaving through weeping birches and sprawling, ancient oaks.
Finally, he took her hand. His was so large it completely enveloped hers, and made her feel fragile. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but it was pleasant, and she welcomed the flurry in her belly when he drew her to his side and his large hand traveled from her fingers to the curve of her waist. Where his palm settled, his thumb made small, even patterns against the fabric of her cloak, and without a word he told her exactly what was on his mind.
His fingers began a dance along the curve of her spine, hardly touching her at all, but her skin crawled with maddening desire. It was the archaic beauty inherent to his blood which had first enchanted the human woman’s daring, but it was how his eyes cut her to the very depths of her soul that stirred her essence and made her feel as though she were something other than who she was.
Eithne stopped walking. The elven king turned to face her in question, but before he could fill her veins with the vibrations of his lush, resonant voice, she reached her hands up to his face and boldly pulled him into her.
***
The woman’s arms snaked around his neck, fingers winding beneath his tunic and through his hair; the boldness of her gesture flamed embers into a fire. Rather than stoop to fall into her kiss, Thranduil lifted her into his arms and pressed her back against a mossy tree. He captured her searching lips and her breath came heavy as she wound her fingers into his hair, fingertips caressing his skin with hungry pleading as she held him captive with the sweetness of her kiss—like honey.
The way she felt against him was intoxicating, and Thranduil was reminded of how long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s breasts heave beneath him, or felt soft, gentle fingers lick fire into his blood and beg him for the stars. He pulled away from her kiss just enough that he could look into her eyes. They were warm, and beckoning with heavy lashes and glistening abandon, but he saw that there was innocence there which was not yet aged and faded like the eyes of one who has lived through unconquerable hardship.
“So young…” He murmured. He saw her skin crawl with desire at the touch of his fingers as she kissed them and they fell from her rosy mouth to heaving breastbone; through the opening of her cloak which parted as his hand came to rest, he saw the sun kissed color of her skin on display beneath gauzy chemise cloth. She smiled, and teased his mouth with the whisper of contact.
“For an elf, yes,” Eithne’s voice was hardly more than a sigh, and heavy with the rich, rolling accent of her kin. “but, I am not an elf. I am Edain; I am old enough.” And he felt her tighten the embrace of her thighs around his hips; Her hands pulled at the cloth of his robes as though she could not hold him close enough and her passion devoured him once more in a fervent kiss. She shuddered when he brushed his palm over her breast, and the blushing, rosy flesh of her nipple rose to welcome his affection. Thranduil put her youthfulness out of his mind, for she expressed her experience clearly, drawing out every desire he had within him. She set him aflame and kept the fire searing hot.
***
The king’s arms were strong as he held her against the tree, and with her legs wrapped around his hips and the pressure of his body against her keeping her suspended, his hands were able to roam—and roam they did. In one swift motion, he unhooked her cloak and she shrugged it away from her shoulders; the thrill of his gaze drinking in the sight of her body naked beneath the flimsy cloth of her dress made Eithne blush, but she loved that feeling of rushing, swarming heat building within her. When he looked at her, she could see how ancient he was, for every thought in his mind displayed clearly within the depths of his sapphire eyes, every touch of his fingers cultivated and skillful, carefully maintained over thousands of years.
While his mouth devoured hers and sent waves of eager anticipation through her nerves and muscles, his hands caressed her thighs and stole their way to her waist, massaging her flesh with such pleasurable knowledge of where, exactly, to touch her that Eithne was beginning to feel like she wouldn’t be able to contain herself any longer. The arousal he stirred in the deepest depths of her being was seething and delicious.
He didn’t object when Eithne pushed away the drape of luxurious fabric drawn over one of his shoulders—in fact, he held her with only one arm and let the other slink out of the tumbling brocade. Eithne felt herself grinning as she ran her hands over his shoulders, relishing not only the feel of the silky fabric of his tunic, but also the way his muscles moved under her palms as his hands roamed over her backside, fingers clutching the generous flesh there until she squirmed and he smiled against her mouth. The collar of his tunic fell open, and Eithne enjoyed the way his neck met his collarbone, how elegant the lines were—she let her kisses stray from his lips, along the line of his jaw, and over his neck.
He sighed, and his hands squeezed her bottom even firmer, massaging the little red marks she knew he’d be leaving. Eithne licked his neck, leaving kisses along his pulsing jugular, and when she grazed her teeth ever so gently over his collarbone, the elven king shuddered and she drank in the feeling of his body twitching beneath her.
“Is it good that I kiss you here?” She asked coyly; once more she drew his sensitive flesh between her lips, applying the slightest bit of pressure with her teeth, and the king’s response was a low, rumbling moan, the sound of which rippled through Eithne’s core and fueled her longing.
“Yes…” Thranduil finally answered, capturing her lips with his when she looked up to smile at him. There were smudges of bright red paint where the coloring on her lips wore into his skin, and his appetizing bottom lip was stained so that it looked flushed.
His eyes flashed with lightning beneath the hood of his lashes and the corner of his lip curled into a grin. She hadn’t realized how he readjusted her weight in his hands, and in one movement he lifted her higher, wrapping her thighs around his waist. The rough bark of the mossy oak clawed into Eithne’s back, but it made her skin feel alive. He watched her expression carefully when her weight rested against his growing arousal. She couldn’t contain an eager smile when the slightest gyration of her hips made him throb.
She held his face in her hands as he reached up to kiss her, and wove her fingers into his silvery hair when his mouth forsook hers and traveled over the curve of her chin and the sweep of her neck when she leaned her head against the tree. His mouth worked lower, leaving traces in the blush on her bosom. Her nipples were erect with excitement, but he ignored the desperate insistence of her back arching against the tree, begging him for attention.
Teeth grazed her awaiting skin and Eithne quivered; her breasts were eager for the touch of his lips, but he deliberately hesitated. “Tell me…” His voice was low, hardly more than a growl.
“What do you wish to hear?” Eithne cinched his waist with her thighs. She knew what he wanted to hear, but the idea of someone so regal and beautiful succumbing to primal instinct and forsaking fine words for a carnal expression of lust titillated her. She felt him searching for the hem of her dress. He chuckled at her reply, and she gasped when he surprised her with a tender bite to the thin skin of one breast, his hot breath only hindered by the fabric of the now unwelcome cloth still sheathing her eager body.
“I can make you weep with pleasure--” He answered, and she felt his fingers upon the bare skin of her trembling thigh. They danced over every curve, coming to rest where her thigh opened to reveal her aching womanhood. She wanted him to touch her there, but he came expertly close and denied her of satisfaction.   “—and more than weep. I can drive sanity from your mind, and satisfy every thirst…” She could feel the titillating pressure of his erection rubbing against the heat of her center. He laughed to himself when she pleaded to feel more. “Tell me that is your wish.” Though he whispered, the intensity behind his command was exhilarating.
     She felt his heavy breath match her own as he held her against the oak tree. His searching fingers pried their way beneath her dress. His mouth lingered along the curve of her breast, but he teased her skin, never actually touching his lips to her, no matter how she ground her pelvis against his abdomen in pleading. She moved against him; watching her own body writhe was tantalizing, but even more maddening was the pleasure this king took in seeing her writhe.
“Tell me what you want…” He warned, and she sucked in her breath when one of his long fingers found its way to the junction of her thighs and brushed against the most eager part of the arousal that was quickly becoming overwhelmed with an acute, crushing need.
Eithne couldn’t find words as he traced slow circles over the convulsing bundle of nerves between her legs. He watched her face knowingly, his eyes smiling at the trembling whimper that escaped her lips. “More…” was all she managed to speak.
She raised her hand to her breast to relieve aching tension but he sucked her nipple into his mouth quickly, and the friction of his tongue probing against the little tip sent a quake throughout Eithne’s body that shuddered down her spine and pulsed through her tightly gripping thighs as waves of convulsions. She felt his muscles tighten in response under his clothes and she wanted to rip them from his body.
Thranduil lowered her effortlessly, and she could feel the full magnitude of his erection pressing into her wanting core—a slow, steady prodding of his confined lust against Eithne’s wetness replaced the rhythm of his finger. Then, maintaining perfect time, he leaned into the crook of her neck, and her hair stood on end when he sighed against her skin and every last nerve ending awoke. She thought his breath shook with the ferocity of his need, but desperation did not betray him as he raked his fingernails over the heaving swells of each of her breasts and clearly delighted in the spasm she could not curb. Laughing at her own reaction, Eithne met Thranduil’s lips again and he asked between pauses for breath: “Do you want me to fuck you, Eithne?”
There it was, the fall of his gentile façade, shining grace sullied by the carnal severity behind his question.   All Eithne could manage was a whimper and an eager nod…his grinning response was devilish.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A Dance for the Elven King