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Prince in Training	By : Pippychick_TAFKAB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 24084 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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Chapter List
- 27
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Chapter Twenty-eight
He was mildly surprised to find Erestor waiting for him when he returned to his own rooms later that day, looking at him with a strange, speculative air. “I cannot be away from Imladris forever,” he said when Legolas invited him in and served him wine. “Regrettably so, perhaps. And yet, when I am sure Thranduil is in capable hands, there will be no more need for me here. I think that time is nearly on us.” He sipped the wine as Legolas blinked with astonishment.
“If I do not return to the archives, who is to prevent others from abusing my scrolls and books? Reading with dirty fingers, or even eating among the stacks…” Erestor shuddered. “Or that filthy istar smoking as he reads. Smoking! As if there were no chance of fire, and as if ash did not damage the manuscripts!” He gathered himself with an effort. “But I forget myself. I have a last lesson for you to master, my young prince. You are a quick study; this should take little time. To show you, at least. The learning might take rather longer.”
Legolas drew himself upright, made proud by the Noldo’s casual assessment of his capability. “What lesson is this?”
“The last of Thranduil’s toys that will challenge you.” Erestor sighed. “You will not like this one, but you will find that sometimes it is needed.” He held out his arm and shook it, and something slithered out of his sleeve, coiling onto the floor. For a moment Legolas thought it was a black snake, but then the handle thudded down and he realized he beheld a whip of braided leather, a single long thong attached to a wooden handle.
“This can inflict great pain and damage. It can cut skin and muscle down to bone. Wielded without skill, it is a disastrous thing.” Erestor picked it up. “Wielded with skill, it can be used with incredible precision. I could snap a gnat from your eyelid without harming you, if you remained still. I could curl it around your arm leaving the faintest kiss of a mark, or cut you inches deep. You will have to practice for a long while to gain the ability to use it so skilfully, but the ability to inflict moderate pain is simple to master.”
He flicked his wrist and the thong shot out with a soft pop, tapping against Legolas’s chest so lightly he barely felt it. “It is a matter of how much force you use, where you stand, and how you move your arm. The tail of the whip cracks. This is because the swing accelerates it to incredible speeds. Thus it gains its power. Your father will require such punishment, from time to time, when he is in torment of mind and cannot reach submission otherwise.”
Legolas swallowed hard. “Show me how to wield it, Herdir.” Erestor looked at him.
“For a novice, you will need adequate space before you attempt this. Let us go to the dungeon room.” Erestor concealed the whip again within his sleeve, and they walked down together. Erestor did not speak, and Legolas remembered what had happened before, when he had begun his lessons on restraints. He stopped short, and laid his hand on Erestor’s arm.
“I will need to know how it feels, won’t I?” he asked, dismayed at the thought, although he was sure that Erestor would not hurt him. At least, not accidentally. Erestor nodded slowly.
“Yes. I am afraid so. Your father knows I intend this. He awaits us there.”
Legolas drew in a nervous breath, and Erestor studied him.
“Will you falter now, or will you learn this last lesson, Thranduilion?” His gaze was impassive, giving nothing away.
“I will learn it, Herdir,” he said softly. “I trust you.”
Erestor smiled genuinely, and kissed him, so sweetly, just as he had at the beginning when Legolas had needed such coaxing. Yet it worked on him still, calming and making him eager to please, so that soon they resumed walking.
“Between us, we will work on you first,” Erestor told him. “You will not go into this cold, Legolas. Do not fear. You will want the lash of the whip by the time it is given it to you.”
Erestor’s warm palm rested on the small of his back, not as a controlling gesture, but for reassurance. They would take good care of him, he knew. “Yes, Master,” he said obediently. And then they were there.
Thranduil stood waiting, upright and intimidating in his formal silver robes, his eyes cool.
Legolas felt himself beginning to respond automatically to Thranduil’s kingly bearing, and was aware for the first time of just how much he changed when he felt submissive. His head tilted down, subservient, and his shoulders moved forward. Though he did not cringe, his entire body effaced itself, hands opening, breath coming shallowly in his lungs. Something tense and upright evaporated from his mind, leaving him loose and trembling-- freed in some inexplicable way from responsibility, given over and eager to be mastered.
He moved forward and knelt gracefully at his ada’s feet, putting his forehead upon the toe of Thranduil’s soft boot.
“Look at him, Thranduil,” Erestor murmured. “Truly you are his master. You need not even speak to have him submit fully.” Was that a note of envy in the Noldo’s voice? Legolas could not be sure.
He remained kneeling for several moments, until hands under his arms urged him up and away. Erestor. Legolas leaned back willingly, though he did not take his eyes from his father. The thought of what was to happen to him made him tremble, but Erestor managed to soothe him somehow, via the warmth of his touch and softly spoken words of reassurance in his ear.
When Erestor wished him to turn around, he did so, still leaning, his arms around Erestor’s neck. “Do not worry, pen neth,” Erestor said to him, his voice a mere murmur. “I know the feelings you are experiencing. I have helped others just like you through them.”
It was an odd thing to say, and Legolas looked into Erestor’s eyes. What others? But then the answer didn’t matter, after all. Whoever they were, they were not here. Legolas did not fear pain, yet he did not embrace the thought of it either. What would it do to him? He knew he was capable of utter submission without it.
“Don’t lose me,” he said, and he felt more secure when he saw that Erestor knew exactly what he meant by the odd request. He didn’t want to fall so far that he couldn’t come back.
“I would never harm you, Legolas,” he said. “Your father would not allow me to leave this realm alive if I did.”
Legolas wondered what might be encompassed by Erestor’s definition of ‘harm,’ but he was committed to this course, for his father’s sake.
“We will take things slowly, ernil ned avad. Do not fear the whip. He will not use it until you are ready.” Erestor’s hands slid slowly over him, warm and comforting. “Relax now.” He savoured Legolas’s mouth in a slow kiss, and Thranduil moved up to embrace him from behind, a warm and comforting presence.
Legolas allowed himself to relax and enjoy what was happening, reassured by his ada’s approval. Erestor’s touch was more than pleasant, the slow motion of his tongue sending tingling pleasure zinging through his nerves. He could not quantify what made the Noldo’s kiss so tantalising, so he abandoned the attempt and simply let himself enjoy what was happening to him, surrendering.
Erestor hummed satisfaction, hands growing more possessive, moving down to explore his arse and venture between his thighs. Thranduil’s hands stayed chaste, but moved gently against his belly, a touch that both soothed and enflamed.
Legolas gave a low moan, his fingers fluttering against Erestor, uncertain where they should go. Erestor laughed softly. “I could restrain you and free you of the need to respond,” he whispered against Legolas’s lips. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, Master,” Legolas said, and Erestor gave a sharp nod.
“Thranduil,” he said, as a command, and his father took hold of his arms, imprisoning his wrists behind his back. Erestor smiled.
“Now I may do whatever I wish, Legolas. Ernil ned avad, or not.” As he spoke, he undid the buttons on Legolas’s tunic one by one, and then pulled the material to either side, sliding hot palms down from Legolas’s shoulders to his chest, mapping out the planes and shapes of his upper body as if he were a sculptor. Legolas could only breathe while his father held him fast, and watch as Erestor touched him.
Now Erestor was rubbing the back of one hand over Legolas’s navel. The way his father held his arms up between his shoulder blades was almost painful, and it kept him on the tips of his toes even though his legs felt weak. He was aware of his breathing as Erestor played with the ties of his leggings, and he leaned back, pleading in whispers, only for his father to begin kissing his ear, his neck, the parts of his shoulder that his lips could reach.
“Perhaps,” Erestor said slowly, “when you have submitted to what I wish, I will reward you with my touch.” So saying, he trailed his fingers back up, and Legolas moaned in disappointment, feeling his abdominal muscles quiver at the gentle touch of those fingers.
“What do you wish, Master?” Legolas asked, used to the game by now, though that did not mean he was acting. All of his will and his mind was longing to hear what Erestor wished of him. It mattered as much as his own satisfaction, and Legolas shook his head a little, beginning to feel the first hazy feelings of deep submission.
“I wish to know what you would like to do to your ada,” Erestor murmured, his hands sliding sensually over Legolas’s chest, making his skin tingle.
Through the haze of submission in his mind, Legolas perceived many half-formed fantasies. His father in various humiliating poses, his body marked by Legolas’ own hand. The depravity of those imaginings shocked him, and he drew in a deep breath, his face flushing hot.
“I would know what makes you look like that,” Erestor commanded. “Tell me what makes your heart beat so fast beneath my hand.”
Aware of his father holding him captive, Legolas gulped, but he could not refuse Erestor’s order. Images flickered through his mind. Himself on the throne while Thranduil was chained at his feet on his hands and knees like a dog. Or his father in the manacles attached to the wall in here, delirious with pain and pleasure, awaiting Legolas’s attention and mercy. The next one was what he had to tell, and Legolas licked over his lips slowly.
“I imagine my father wearing the leash. I hold it in my hand. He is on his hands and knees on the bed in front of me, holding himself still while I fuck him. I cover his mouth with my free hand to keep him quiet as I watch myself moving in and out of his body.” Legolas paused, feeling Thranduil’s hands tighten around his wrists. Legolas closed his eyes as Erestor nodded at him, encouraging him to continue, his eyes dark and emotionless. Expectant.
“I am wearing the crown,” Legolas breathed, then gasped, suddenly afraid of himself. “I tell him many terrible things!”
(NC-17 artwork for this chapter is here: http://i15.photobucket.com/albums/a375/pippychick/AO3/Aprinceintrainingcolor.jpg - by the wonderful ElvesInMyHeart)
“What things?” Erestor asked, his voice snaking into Legolas’s private world, into the very fantasy. Legolas said them out loud to Erestor, even as he said them to his father in the dream.
“You are no longer the King here. You are nothing but my servant; a warm willing body to sate my lust with. I could keep you chained up in that secret place awaiting my pleasure. I might say you were missing, just like Naneth, and have myself coronated when you did not reappear. It would be so tragic! And none would ever know what became of you, the arrogant King of Eryn Galen. They would throw flowers at my feet for eternity while you suffer alone and in secret, longing for the clemency of my touch.”
“Legolas…”
“Beg for it, ada,” Legolas said, still lost in the daydream. “Beg for me to use you, and perhaps I will be lenient and keep up the charade that you still control this realm.”
Erestor’s palm lifted Legolas’s chin and his eyes opened. He shivered, feeling ashamed of his words as he perceived his ada staring in disbelief at him, his ice-blue eyes stormy. The crown sat firmly on his father’s head, so much a part of him at this moment he could not imagine it set aside. His heart sank; he had spoiled all their plans now in his greed. Surely Thranduil would never dare submit to him again, not after hearing him say such things!
“Do you truly desire the rule of this realm, my young prince?” Erestor’s voice was grave, his eyes steady, compelling a truthful answer.
Legolas licked his lips, shaking his head. “No, Herdir!” He cast an imploring look behind him at his father, begging him to understand. “I crave its king – I wish to command him, to make him entirely my own. He can never be wholly mine as long as he wears the crown.” He lowered his eyes in shame when Thranduil’s stern expression did not relent.
“I have overstepped myself,” he whispered, horrified with his daring. “Forgive me. Punish me, aran nín, but forgive my transgression!”
When Legolas dared to look up again, he was surprised to see Erestor smiling past him at Thranduil, amused. “Do not worry so for your father,” Erestor said without looking at him. “He saw this in you from the beginning, I think.”
Legolas realised that Thranduil’s hold on his hands was loose and stepped forward to be free, only for that grip to tighten painfully as he was pulled back to his place. Then he felt his father’s familiar hardness pressed against him, and he understood. Understood what Erestor meant as he remembered that long ago conversation when his father had served him wine and talked frankly to him.
“Ohh…” Legolas said, but he was of no mind to be the dominant partner at this moment, and he smiled himself as he continued, understanding the game they all played. “Yes, you must punish me, ada, for having designs on your crown.”
“Legolas, you should have only one ambition,” Thranduil whispered darkly, and it made a thrill travel down Legolas’s spine to hear it. “To please…”
“I live to please you, aran nín.” Legolas whispered, tilting his head to bare his neck for his father to bite, if he wished.
“It will please him to punish you,” Erestor whispered, stepping up to hold Legolas as Thranduil accepted the invitation, sinking his teeth at Legolas’s throat. “Imagine yourself writhing at his feet, marked by his hand, entirely in his power. The weal of the whip on your flesh, drawn at his desiring…” he pulled his nails along Legolas’s ribs, making him shudder by reflex. “You know you deserve it, don’t you? Daring to aspire to his crown? Planning to hide him away and make him your slave while you rule? I see the guilt in your eyes,” he said, lifting Legolas’s chin and refusing to let him glance aside.
Thranduil bit harder and Legolas whimpered, his skin prickling with arousal. “Perhaps we will fuck you after we beat you,” Erestor speculated. “He will take you from behind to fuck the insolence out of you, and I will fill your pretty mouth to keep your treacherous tongue silent as you submit to your rightful king.” He took a double fistful of Legolas’s hair, drawing it painfully tight.
“Please,” Legolas moaned. His cock jerked, swelling at the thought of both of them having him together. He could feel a trickle of blood leaking from beneath his father’s lips to cool on his throat. Every nerve in his skin trembled, painfully alight with wanting.
“You have never felt what you are about to feel. The submission you have given until now is only its pale shadow,” Erestor told him; his eyes gleamed, and Legolas shivered with fear and desire at once.
At last his father moved his lips, pulling back slightly to whisper in Legolas’s ear. “What is the penalty for treason, ion nín?” he asked. Legolas knew the answer. As Prince he knew their constitution well, it was engraved on his soul, though such a punishment had never been given as far as he knew. His heart cracked slightly.
“Please do not banish me, Ada!” he pleaded. To never be welcome in his home. To never be amongst the trees of Eryn Galen. To never again have the sight of his beautiful father and lover. Though he knew it was not a serious threat, the idea of it was hurtful enough. “I will take any other punishment you set for me, Aran nín,” he said. “But not that. Please do not send me away from the shelter of your regard.”
“Oh, Legolas,” said Thranduil, one hand petting his hair. “I would as soon send you alone to war.” Now there were two hands in his hair, braiding it quickly into a long thick plait. “But your fantasy, even as such, demands payment.” He sighed. “There are grounds for leniency, being as you are the crown Prince. Will you take this punishment as my due for your wicked thoughts?”
“Yes!” Legolas breathed, his eyes on Erestor.
“Order has to be maintained,” Erestor told him. “You accept this?”
“Yes, Master.” Legolas swallowed, and thought he might understand the necessity for it more than Erestor. Even the thought was enough, but to have said it out loud. It was forbidden. He bowed his head. “I accept whatever punishment my King deems necessary. I beg for him to carry it out, to expunge my crime in the eyes of this witness.”
“I decree the whip for him, Erestor.” Thranduil’s voice was quiet but stern. “It will teach him his place at my feet.”
Erestor inclined his head in respect to the king of the Greenwood and went to fetch the whip, bringing back the long leather that had been braided and dyed black, then affixed to a slim wooden handle contoured to fit well inside a palm. Legolas had seen it already, but now it seemed more real. Thranduil shook it out and Legolas shivered, hearing the slither of its coils and the hiss of its length against the floor. They let him look at it, watching him as if testing his resolve. Legolas swallowed hard and firmed his jaw; he resolved he would not plead for mercy.
He was Thranduilion.
Thranduil spread the whip out over his hands. “Look at it,” he ordered, and Legolas gulped, dropping his eyes to do so. He seemed to notice more about it now that his father had instructed him, the way the braiding looked, the darkness of the leather.
“Touch it,” his father said, and Legolas rested his fingertips on it, feeling the texture of it, and he trembled when he imagined that he was to be struck by this thing.
“Kiss the leather,” Thranduil instructed. Legolas licked his lips and lowered them, smelling the clean scent of it as he pressed his lips there.
“Who do you submit to?”
“You, ada,” he replied, nervous, unable to help shivering in his father’s arms. Thranduil nuzzled at his neck, kissing the bite he had made so that Legolas sighed in pleasure despite his fear.
“That is all you need think about, Legolas. That you are mine.” Legolas nodded tightly, but he could feel the spell his father was weaving around him. It was working, and he leaned forward, helpless to stop it.
“Who do you trust most in the wide world?” Thranduil asked, his voice so deep and quiet Legolas felt he might fall into the sound of it.
“You, ada,” he whispered, reaching up to wind his arms around his father’s neck. And that is when he felt and heard the clip of the leash as it was attached to his collar.
“That is right,” Thranduil murmured. “Whatever you feel, I want you to remember that it is my will, and that I love you, Legolas, ion nín, melethron nín. Will you do that? Will you bear this punishment for me?”
It was such a small thing, and the way his father put it to him made Legolas almost want it. “Yes, ada, I will.”
Thranduil led Legolas forth to a tall rack they had bypassed previously during Legolas’s training. It had four cuffs, two at ankle height and two well above the head, placed so as to stretch the occupant, exposing the full length of inner thigh, ribs, and arms.
“Stand with your belly to the rack, meleth,” Thranduil whispered.
Legolas obeyed, and extended his wrists without being asked. Thranduil manacled him with care-- quite tightly. “So you cannot injure yourself by moving your limbs within the cuffs,” Erestor explained, very close behind. “That is an important consideration. As is ensuring that circulation is not cut off for too long.”
Thranduil finished, and began to caress Legolas, stroking his palms everywhere on him as if measuring the texture of his skin.
Tenderly, he moved the long braid he had made of Legolas’s hair so that it was draped over one shoulder to the front of him.
“Tell me you are ready, ion nín,” Thranduil said, and Legolas leaned his head back.
“I am ready, ada, aran-nín. Punish me.” He said the words, but in his heart he was still afraid. There was a calmness in his mind that his submission to his father granted him, but Legolas did not know if it would stay or be swept away by what they were about to do.
“I will give you five lashes, Legolas,” Thranduil said quietly. “You need not count them. Though you cannot see, it will be by my hand, meleth. Erestor will not wield the whip to you, do you understand?”
Something inside Legolas relaxed, and he was glad to be chained because his legs felt like jelly. “Yes, Ada,” he breathed.
“I will warn you with a word when it is to begin. Do not allow any other sound to frighten you.”
With that said, his father moved away, and Legolas could no longer see him, nor feel the comfort of his scent or body heat. Instead all he had to stare at was the grain of the wood in front of his eyes. Legolas closed them, listening for the word his ada had promised.
There was murmuring between his father and Erestor that he could not make out, but he remembered his father’s instruction, and did not allow it to unsettle him. Several sharp cracks sounded out from the whip, and though he tried to hold onto what Thranduil had said, he flinched involuntarily.
Then at last came the awaited words. “Legolas,” his father said loudly. “It will be now.” Then a few seconds later, Legolas felt the kiss of the leather against the skin of his back. Though he had tensed himself, it hadn’t been enough, and he took a sudden breath into his lungs that he couldn’t seem to let go of. He pressed the whole length of his body against the wood, his palms flat against it.
And then the pain hit.
“Legolas?” His father’s voice. Legolas opened his mouth to answer, still holding onto that first shocked breath. He honestly thought he would speak, but the sound that left his lips sounded like the yelp of an injured animal at first.
Then, after the pain, his back felt blessedly cold. It cooled the fiery sting left by the whip, and Legolas was glad of it, even though he knew it was his own blood.
“Ada…!” he managed at last, and there was silence for a moment.
“Another, Legolas,” Thranduil said, and Legolas tried to prepare for it, knowing it was impossible. When it fell, it followed the same diagonal across his back, so close to the first that his pained yelp was almost a scream. His fingers scrabbled at the wood in a vain instinctive attempt to escape, and one of his fingernails dug into the soft wood, becoming torn.
He kept drawing breath, and letting it out in a pained whimper, his body writhing as the skin of his back seemed to be on fire, so sharp and hot, mixed in with the cooling of blood and the blunted deeper pain of a bruise. His eyes were wide but he could see nothing, hear nothing except the pounding of his heart - so fast!
“Legolas!” His father again, and Legolas had the uneasy impression that Thranduil had been calling his name for some time.
“I can’t!” he cried out, summoning all the will he possessed to give some kind of answer. Immediately it seemed, his father was stood directly behind him, one warm hand on his shoulder. Legolas shuddered.
“No more, ada, please!”
“Three more,” Thranduil replied, his voice so calm and deep that it seeped into Legolas’s mind. His trembling subsided. “For your transgression.”
Legolas’s breath was still shaky but he nodded tightly, squeezing his eyes closed. Thranduil leaned in close to his ear, whispering. “For the transgression we will enact when we are alone once more, ion nín.”
As the pain muted a little, Legolas realised his father had whispered so that Erestor would not hear. This was theirs. A kind of calm descended, and the pain drifted further away as he imagined his fantasy made real.
“Yes, ada,” he said out loud, understanding that he was agreeing to take the rest. Again his father retreated.
At the third, he did scream until there was no breath left in his lungs. All the while he held onto the fantasy though, desperate. The fourth saw him lose his footing, his body weight hanging from his arms, pulling on his shoulders as he struggled and gibbered. The pause was even longer this time, but he was conscious, and he gave the expected reply eventually, tensing in expectation of the final stroke.
Almost as soon as it landed upon him, his father was there, encouraging him to lean forward as Erestor freed him from the manacles. In this bent forward position, his father half carried him to the furs on the floor, placing him down gently.
“Did I take it all?” Legolas demanded when he could speak, blinking over and over. The light seemed too bright all of a sudden, even though down here they relied on torches and lamps.
“Yes, ion nín,” said his father. “You were so brave.” His father’s hands touched his face in love and Legolas smiled, then drifted down into unconsciousness, away from the pain. This final test of Erestor’s devising, arranged to teach him one thing. Mercy.
He awoke only a few minutes later, nestled in his ada’s careful arms.
“Be still,” Thranduil crooned to him, just as he had when Legolas was a small elfling and had awakened in the night, frightened by nightmares.
They still lay among the furs, and Legolas’s back burned; he could smell a medicinal odor and understood his stripes had been treated with comfrey salve to stop the bleeding and prevent it from festering. He was glad it had happened while he was not aware.
Erestor came to his side and settled in, bearing a dish.
“I will tend to you,” Thranduil told him in haste when he made to sit up. Legolas subsided gratefully, and his father gave him a rare treat: shaved ice, brought down at the Valar only knew what expense from the mountains, now given to him to moisten his dry lips. Legolas had not even noticed how thirsty he was, and yet his throat felt strangely raw from screaming, so he was glad his father attended him this way.
Legolas let his ada tend him, almost purring despite the flares of pain any time he stirred. Erestor stayed close but let them interact without interfering, his eyes warm with approval whenever Legolas met them.
He could not have said when their touch turned from care-taking to sensual exploration, but slowly the caresses began to sing through him, and he felt himself breathing deeply, his lips parting with pleasure in response.
Careful hands arranged the bedding and positioned his body. He remembered Erestor’s promise that they would take him, and he quivered. The promise had been harsh, but now their touches were tender and loving, and he realized that contrast was part of the game. He had given enough pain for one day; he had pleased them.
By the time hands slid gently under his hips to lift him, he was moaning, and his cock had begun to swell with anticipation. He let them ease him up onto his knees. He did not feel steady enough to hold himself there, but their hands supported him when he wavered.
“Here is your place, my rebellious one,” Thranduil murmured. “On your knees before me.”
“Yes, my king,” Legolas whispered. There was no fight in him, only a beautiful, languorous sweetness: the anticipation of their bodies using his, taking and giving at the same time. He had no fear that he could not give whatever they might ask; that was his place and his purpose and all his joy.
When his father’s fingers entered him, slippery with oil, they were still slightly cold from handling the ice, and Legolas gasped loudly but did not move away. He only wished it would be done soon so he could feel the perfection of his father claiming him again. In these moments, he felt closest to how he’d felt that first time in the cave, when it was his king who had taken him as well as his father.
Perhaps Thranduil was of the same mind, for he finished quickly and eased inside Legolas with a satisfied sigh, then held himself there, unmoving, allowing Legolas to understand how he was possessed.
“Swear fealty, Legolas,” his father demanded, and Legolas drew in a deep breath. The words came to the front of his mind quickly, though he had not spoken them since he came of age, at the ceremony during which he accepted his rank as prince of the realm.
“I do truly and sincerely acknowledge that King Thranduil is the lawful and rightful ruler of this realm, Eryn Galen.”
Legolas was aware that Erestor was watching and listening with rapt attention, and understood that the last time he had heard this pledge spoken was when he, Erestor, had spoken it - to Oropher. His father’s hand touched his shoulder, and he continued.
“I profess my faithful allegiance to him, and swear to defend his person and crown against all attempts to depose or cause harm.” Legolas swallowed. “Including traitors and conspirators. I swear loyalty, devotion and service to him, in the sight of all here present. My King Thranduil.”
Thranduil drew back with a pleased sigh and gave his length to Legolas in a long, firm glide, his hands warm and gentle on Legolas’s hips. “I accept your oath, ion nín.” His voice fairly purred with his pleasure and satisfaction in Legolas’s sincerity.
Legolas moaned, letting his head fall forward, but Erestor was there, and his palm cupped softly under Legolas’s chin. “Now I will silence you,” he murmured. “That you will feel your submission to your king the more keenly in your helplessness.”
Legolas let his face be tipped upward, parting his lips with eagerness; his mouth watered and he felt a thrill of sweet arousal as Erestor advanced, steadying himself.
“He is perfect,” Erestor spoke softly, gazing across him to Thranduil, and sank inside, pushing his cock gently across Legolas’s tongue and helping him tilt his head so he could accept its length in his throat.
Legolas moaned, filled from both ends at once; completely taken and owned. His whole body felt light, the pain of his stripes barely a flicker in his consciousness. They took him with tenderness, thrusting in alternating rhythm, rocking him back and forth off one cock and onto the other. He knew he could take more-- almost he craved the brutal taking he had been promised, but when he tried to move faster they gentled him, crooning soothing words to him and caressing his flanks and his ribs.
He felt as if he were floating in bliss, breathless and shocky but loving it, exulting in it. He could accept anything they gave; he could take it all. He was wholly filled, and soon he would be given the gift of his king’s seed and of Erestor’s as well. He tightened his body, suckling harder, working more eagerly at both the cock inside his arse and the one between his lips, and was glad to hear soft sounds of pleasure from them both.
Something changed in the angle both of them were using, and at first Legolas did not understand, for he could not move and could not see what was happening around him. Only a second later he realise his father and Erestor had leaned forward to kiss each other, both of them without altering their rhythm.
Legolas could not moan, not when Erestor kept sliding down his throat. Instead he continued to concentrate on his breathing, and sucking, and curling his tongue, making sure Erestor felt his lips. But he wanted to moan. His father kept pressing against his prostate on the inward movement. It made him feel hot, overheated and imprisoned by the pleasure they gave him, and the pleasure they took.
It could not last. One of them would come soon, and Legolas continued to urge them on, wondering which of them it would be. So he completely missed his own rising pitch of pleasure until it was almost upon him, something below his stomach tightening in preparation. Legolas made a sudden frantic sound, his hands coming up to Erestor’s hips to let him know somehow.
“Ahh…” Erestor said, and his body moved back but he did not stop fucking Legolas’s mouth. “Let it come, ernil neth. There is no shame in finding pleasure in the possession of your Master and King.”
He knew… how did he know? They had not even touched him, and yet Legolas’s body was tightly coiled, and he could not stop it now even if he wanted to. His father slid deep inside him once more, and that was it for Legolas, feeling the tension snap out of him as his body jerked in their grip. Neither of them even slowed as the pulses of his climax danced through his nerves.
His mouth went slack, and Erestor even took advantage, sliding deep and then groaning in satisfaction, while at the same time his body squeezed Thranduil. Legolas’s seed fell onto the fur beneath him, and he wanted to fall onto the softness along with it, but his father and Erestor were not finished, and simply held him up between them.
Legolas gasped, hypersensitive in the wake of orgasm, the gentle strokes suddenly all he could bear. He squirmed between them, moaning piteously, but it only seemed to encourage their passion as they passed him back and forth between them like a plaything.
“Take it, ernil neth,” Erestor whispered, voice kind, belying the rocking of his hips as he thrust his cock deep. “These feelings, this moment. They are yours.”
Legolas calmed, but kept moaning; his cheeks were wet and he felt keenly his helplessness and dependence upon them both – but he also knew Erestor was right; this was his to savour and to experience as deeply as he could.
He shivered, something coming undone inside him; his whole body went lax and he let them have their way with him unresisting. If he could have spoken, he would have mewled and begged for more, craving the very overwhelm that now drove him beyond thought and into sensation so pure the very caress of air against his flesh became exquisite torment.
His father’s steady strokes fell against his prostate fell like hammer blows, and his weary body responded, spasming again, unable to give seed again so soon, yet trying in vain. Then he was wailing, his throat empty and raw, and Erestor’s orgasm pelted his face like hot rain, bittersweet on his lips, stinging in his eyes, cooling sticky on his lashes. And still his father took him, faster now, strokes turning fierce and hard as orgasm drew near.
Erestor’s fingers smoothed over his face, and he licked at them, mindless, suckling and moaning when they filled his mouth, resting sleek on his tongue. Thranduil’s hands turned fierce on his hips, dragging him back to meet the harsh thrusts. Legolas could not silence himself, sounds like a wounded animal coming from deep within him as Thranduil forgot himself and drew Legolas up on his lap, back-to-chest.
The wounds of the whip seared fire over Legolas, but he was so far gone he could not tell it from pleasure. He spasmed again with a shriek, and as darkness fell over his sight, the last thing he perceived was the wet warmth of Thranduil’s seed filling him as he knew himself owned, broken… and loved as much as he loved in return, falling senseless into arms that would hold him always safe from harm.
He recovered to find himself laid on his front again. Erestor was gently wiping at his face with a damp cloth. Their eyes caught and held.
Your father took great care with you,” he murmured when Thranduil rose to bring Legolas chilled water to drink. “What he did was done with love. Practice long with the whip before you lay it to his flesh, pen neth. Learn to take a gnat from a mount’s eyelash without making it flinch; such is his skill.”
“I will,” Legolas vowed, and heard the steel in his own voice. He raised himself up a little to drink at Thranduil’s insistence, feeling the cool water soothe his throat. When he was done, his father took the glass away.
“The two of you have taught me much,” Erestor smoothed a wisp of Legolas’s hair back as Thranduil settled back down beside him, trying hard not to jostle his painful back. “For now I think it best if we remain here and let you recover. The furs are soft and warm, and Galion knows where to find us if your father is needed.”
Legolas nodded and laid down his head, which felt heavy and thick, as though the space between his ears was stuffed with cotton wool. His father had put a sleeping draught in the water, perhaps. He sighed, feeling Thranduil’s warm hand settle on his waist, well away from the stripes of pain. He let his eyes close and felt Erestor nestle in nearby, both of them giving him space so they would not touch his wounded back. Erestor’s hand slipped over to rest atop Thranduil’s, and that was the last Legolas knew before weariness overtook him and he slept.

To be continued...

Authors' Note: Well, thank you for reading – we hope you enjoyed it! Why not leave a comment?

Artwork for this chapter is by the very talented ElvesInMyHeart who also writes lovely stories you should really check out.

And aside from everything else, Merry Christmas to all readers of this story! I wish you love and happiness, and a Happy New Year to come. :)
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Prince in Training