Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

A Dance for the Elven King	By : Gwyndolynelizabeth Category: +Third Age > Het - Male/Female Views: 8218 -:- 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
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“Yes?” He took pride and pleasure in her frenzied state, but Eithne didn’t mind. She was too caught up in watching his elegant fingers, like spiders, quickly and deftly working the buttons on the front of his tunic—already his skin was sweltering, the line of his breastbone lustrous with sweat, cutting through muscles tense with the need for release. “As you wish.”
Eithne brushed her palms over his chest, delighting in the feel of his gleaming skin beneath her touch, and pushed the tunic away from his shoulders. It tumbled to the ground, revealing the king’s sculpted form in all of his nearly-naked glory—only a pair of breeches confined his straining manhood. Eithne wondered if she had the same hunger in her eyes as she drank in the sight of his strong arms and broad shoulders, the even rise and fall of his chest as his breath grew heavy.
Finally, Eithne felt the laces on his breeches give way with a quick tug from his agile fingers. The warm, pulsing heat of his member nestled between the folds of her womanhood as his hips created a motion which teased her with the promise of sweet penetration. “Ah…” Thranduil sighed, and, this time, Eithne was sure she heard his breath shudder with delight. “If you get any wetter, you shall begin to drip.”
“I saw your thoughts when you first laid eyes on me…” Eithne breathed, taking his succulent lip between her teeth, smiling into his kiss when he responded to the nibbling with a fervid tug on her tangled mane of hair.
“Oh, did you?” The king’s hands readjusted beneath her, but Eithne was too consumed by searing lips scorching her neck, and the exquisite cadency created by the head of his cock massaging the length of her slit. “What did you see?” His need was thinly veiled, and completely inebriating.
Ah! Eithne fought the urge to cry out when he threatened to fill her, but pulled away suddenly. “I saw your splendor and nobility forsaken.” She whispered against his mouth, wrapped her arms around his neck, and drew herself tighter against him, clawing her nails into his back as though she could tear into his granite flesh with her tiny fingers.
“Is this what you saw?” Thranduil’s voice seeped into her veins and quickened their pumping rhythm. Eithne felt him slowly fill her, inch by inch, and the shivering, momentary release which came from her walls accommodating his throbbing member was sweet enough to steal the breath from her lungs.
The king smirked; rivulets of silver clung to his brow. When he pulled out of her gripping insides, she felt like he was fishing pleasure from within her depths, as though her pleasure was something physical which could be conquered.
She could feel him twitch and pulse within her, mastering eagerness with frustrating diligence, creating a starving need within her aching center for another skillful thrust—and she did need more. She needed the full length and girth of his cock to plunder her core and drive her into oblivion. Eithne shuddered, groaning against Thranduil’s chest, tasting the salt of his sweat while her arms twined around his neck and fingers knotted through his silken hair. His smirk wakened; the stars in his eyes burned like pinpoints of fire.
Tender, commanding, he wrapped her tangled mess of hair around his fist and tugged her head back against the tree; his wine flavored tongue coaxed forth a gasping whimper, while his cock drew forth something else entirely. Eithne felt her own wetness forced out of her, trickling down his length as he invaded her fully once more; his arm wrapped around, behind her, drawing him closer to her, arching her spine, thrusting her heaving breasts against his sweat.
It was delicious—he tasted liked incense smelled. His breath sharpened when her tongue traced hungry patterns over the line of his jaw to the tender flesh just behind his earlobe.
Every move Thranduil made, Eithne felt—every shudder, every nuance in rhythm patterns, or whether he bent at the middle to suck on exposed, electric skin, or leaned back and tilted his thrusts upward. Then she would see her breasts undulating, drenched in sweat so that her chemise clung to them. She would see him pumping her full of his longing, tempting droplets of scorching wetness to splatter against his abdomen. He stretched her walls to their capacity; he forced her aching passage to mold around every vein along the length of his cock as it delved deeper with each exquisite plunge in and out of her body.
Thranduil groaned, bending around her small shape to bury his face in her neck. His nose tickling her fiery skin made her smile. “Do you like this?” He growled. His pumping slowed. He took her face in his wide, warm hands and his lips rested against her brow. She felt him searching for something inside of her, making shallow, prodding thrusts, almost teasing her to frenzy.
When he found what he was looking for, Eithne felt like she would shatter in his arms.
The mastery he had over his movements was unlike anything Eithne had ever known from any other man, for they had all been human. Another skillful brush against the buried apex of her arousal with the head of his cock made the woman cry out, though he quickly silenced her with a kiss.
“I shall take that as a yes…” He chuckled, and she tried to laugh, but was too starved for pleasure to do anything besides use her own weight as leverage to take him deep, deep inside of her again—make him twitch, make him moan. And he did. When she had taken him as deep as she could bear; she could feel the extent of her own wetness as she used the walls of her passage like a fist to milk him. He chuckled, foreboding, a rumbling timbre from deep in his breast. But she felt his thighs tremble beneath her.
“And I take it you like that,” Eithne bit her lip. Furor pulsed through his jugular as he focused to contain himself. She could feel each pump of blood siphoning through the veins of his engorged cock, caressing every nerve along her depth. “Yes?” She cooed, “Does my milking please you, lord?” He could hardly nod. “Do you feel how wet you have made me?” She licked a bead of sweat from his neck, taking in more salt and incense, the sound of their bodies moving together fueling the fire of a swiftly impending climax.
Thranduil drew her nipple into his mouth, but Eithne’s resulting whimper elicited a jolting cry from the king. He withdrew from within her entirely, squeezing his throbbing member with white knuckles. She had almost driven him over the edge. Eithne smiled inwardly.
The woman pulled herself up so that she could suck on his bottom lip. The length of his resting appendage pulsed between her folds. “My desire aches for you,” she purred.
Thranduil trailed kisses once more over her neck, but continued lower, until he was on his knees before her. Her heart fluttered to see him kneel, and she could run her fingers through his hair and over the tips of his pointed ears while he parted the lips of her womanhood with his fingers. Then he dipped inside of her, and his thumb began a tantalizing, erratic pattern over her sweet spot which made her fold over him in spasms of pleasure. One free hand spread her legs farther, clenching the back of her thigh to keep her pressed against him, tightly, while his fingers danced inside of her, taking the time to know every inch of her womanhood.
Usually, men wanted their own pleasure satisfied first, and it was rare that Eithne had ever encountered someone willing to forgo their satisfaction to include hers, at all—besides the few who jammed fingers inside of her and tried hard to be good at something they had clearly never asked a lover’s opinion of; they would pummel her, mistaking cries of discomfort for those of pleasure.
This elf was in no hurry; Eithne could—easily—lose herself in his touch. He worked her until she thought she would.
Before Eithne reached the release her body craved, dripping over his curling fingers, Thranduil removed them. She moaned in protest. He pulled her hips down with one smooth movement, leaning back, lowering her on top of his lap with the force of one hand, and holding himself upright with the other. Sinew strained and muscles pulsed across the plane of his sculpted chest, snaking over strong shoulders and down the length of his long arm, engorged and flushed in the moonlight. They tensed and a bead of sweat coursed through their sinewy valleys when Eithne guided him inside of her.
Thranduil growled; the sensual moan parting his lips was music to her ears. “You are so exquisitely wet…” His hands pulled her impossibly close; his cock could go no deeper, but Eithne felt every thrust upward as he encouraged her to savor how he absolutely filled her to the very brim of what her body could bear.
Thranduil nibbled on the supple flesh of her glistening breast, leaving a red mark, and Eithne gasped, instinct making her swat the back of his head. He laughed, and apologized, kissing the little whelp of raised skin. “Forgive me, you threaten to drive me to madness;” She felt him throb and her skin crawled with anticipation.
“Madness?” Eithne taunted, grinning. “You must be enjoying yourself…”
“Oh, yes…” Thranduil lifted her hips slowly, watching himself withdraw half way, then plunging deep inside of her once more, making her fight to not cry out. She loved the concentration on his face as he slowed his breathing and his hooded, sapphire eyes darkened with hunger for power, a salacious grin curling the corner of his mouth. But Eithne lowered herself onto him completely and kept him buried deep inside of her as she worked her hips in circles and clenched his body with generous thighs. Every gasp, every rumbling moan deep in his throat vibrated through her veins.
Then he stopped her, and drew her to him. “Get on your knees, and turn around.”He whispered with a kiss. Eithne eagerly obliged, turning her willing backside toward the king. She felt him run both of his warm hands over the concave and convex lines of her contour, wanton anticipation gripping through his calloused fingers, the pulsing shaft of his arousal nestled between her sopping folds as he enveloped her, laying kisses along the delicate curve of neck into shoulder. Then in one hand he gathered her wild, black locks, and gave a gentle tug, commanding her to look back at him.
He grinned, and the head of his cock ran along her dripping arousal, the length of his throbbing shaft trailed in her wetness; the king’s hooded gaze was intent on her generous backside, drinking in the sight of himself sliding languidly between her luscious buttocks, each cheek firmly gripped by either of his clutching hands, and his smirk widened when she moaned in pleading for him to invade her once more Eithne met his burning gaze and felt him enter her. The velvety flesh of his manhood teased the woman’s sensitive clit and her knees buckled when she felt his spidery fingers dance deep within her, but he forced her to remain upright by the grip on her unruly mane.
When Eithne whimpered her encouragement for the work of his expert fingers, reaching out to the buzzing nothingness around her, Thranduil drew her against him, releasing her hair so that he could fondle her heaving breasts with the hand that was not already inside of her. “Yes…” Eithne hissed and arched her backside against his delving fingers—his chest rose and fell against her spine, with even, maintained breath; delicious sweat trickled from his brow down the line of his neck, onto her waiting tongue.
Thranduil’s alabaster skin crawled, and he sighed in an exhale to steady his lust when Eithne’s tongue licked the sweat from his jugular, and she drew the lobe of his pointed ear once more between her lips and daring teeth. His two fingers quickened their rhythm inside of her; from behind, he rested his palm against her ample rear, and inserted a third, long, searching digit —he kissed her shoulder when she groaned, his available hand falling from her breasts to the erect bundle of nerves between her spread legs, which strained for affection, glistening against the neglectful night air.
Drops of her own wetness sloshed against the forward caressing hook of each of his three fingers, which alternated their individual patterns to drive her mad from purposeful inconsistency. Pressing her back into his powerful body, her head nestled into the crook of his neck as he maintained a careful focus on his work, Eithne watched the perverse thoughts in his mind flash over the elegant curl of his smile; the full length of his fingers beckoned a vulgar amount of liquid from a hidden part of her womanhood other men had failed, in the past, to stimulate.
Eithne reached over her shoulder, clutching handfuls of Thranduil’s silvery hair as she grasped onto him in a desperate attempt to steady her shuddering body, bearing her hips down onto his probing fingers as those buried inside of her laid practiced attention on the swelling core of her lust, and those which titillated the head of her womanhood slid over the quivering flesh now with an exquisitely mastered pulse. Each pass of his driving fingertips over the taught, straining flesh of her clit sent waves of pleasure in shattering spasms throughout Eithne’s rigid frame, and as her thighs began to convulse around the king’s wrist and her breath became shallow and gasping, he drew forth the first warning of release from her gushing center.
“You’re going to spill yourself over my fingers,” Thranduil whispered in Eithne’s ear as she bucked her hips against his touch and liquid trickled down her shaking legs. She could hear herself dripping onto the leaves and grass.
Her juices sloshed out of her as she pushed another searing wave of pleasure into the king’s palm. “I fear I’ve already spilled all over.” Eithne whimpered against his salty neck.
“A little, yes,” Thranduil cooed, “but there is far more waiting to come out.”
Eithne could already feel another wave of an impending climax building in her womb. “Make it come out,” she pled, grinding against his hands.
Thranduil smirked, “As you wish.”
He showed no mercy, his fingers relentless against her sweet spot, encouraging fiery warmth to ignite in her abdomen and send her lurching to the brink of self-restraint. The king’s sapphire eyes simmered with perfect understanding of what she needed to fall. He withdrew his fingers, only to replace them with the thick shaft of his rock hard cock. Eithne forgot how to breathe as he filled her completely, but slowly, and as his rhythm on her clit became more focused, and the walls of her aching passage succumbed to the convulsing spasms of a powerful orgasm which sent her small body writhing uncontrollably against Thranduil’s tense muscles, her arousal spraying from between her legs, sputtering out around his cock as it plunged even deeper inside of her—his arms enveloped her to keep her upright, but they also held her captive while she screamed her release out to the silence of the Greenwood.
Eithne had never felt such ecstasy—her whole body was on fire, twitching, convulsive in the elf’s firm embrace as her orgasm reached its climax. She could not think. Every nerve ending along the silky flesh of her inner thighs was alive, and sparks of electricity seared each uncountable vein that siphoned blood into the swollen, dripping folds of her sex, carrying a surge of burning passion to the tips of her fingers and toes. She melted against the king’s chest, laughing to herself, feeling the blood rush back into her cheeks. Eithne sighed, though her breath was shaky, and laid a kiss upon Thranduil’s skin.
She could tell he relished in what he’d done to her. His hands roamed over her hips and thighs, and he moved with her as she rode out the last waves of climax, breathing with her, but holding himself deep inside of her. He waited until she’d stopped twitching and then slowly pulled away, guiding her carefully onto all fours. Eithne looked over her shoulder at the king, to see his lips taught with concentration, his eyes searing hers when he looked at her and smiled, and his hands wrapped around her little waist. Every sinew beneath his milky skin was tight with a growing strain he could easily hide from his expression, but which slowly devoured him—his glorious body was opalescent in the flickering moonlight, covered in a sheen of sweat which only made him appear more statuesque, more ethereal, more apart from Eithne. “Let me see your eyes,” he commanded tenderly, and Eithne tore her hungry stare away from his body to grant his request.
He began to move within her, slowly withdrawing—his eyes flashed when she winced. Before he’d completely left her gripping warmth, he waited. She was locked around the head of his manhood, tender, tingling from over stimulation, and he read the anticipation on her face clearly. Thranduil reached out and wrapped her black hair around his hand. Then, in one mighty thrust, he plunged into her depths once more—Eithne’s cry was silenced when he tugged her head back, pulling on her hair like reins. Again, he withdrew almost completely, waited for a breath or two, and speared her tight passage. She thought she heard him mutter something in frustration, and when she looked back at him, he was focused intently on the sight of his own cock filling her, but growled, smirking. Beads of perspiration glinted along his chest.
“You want to finish your work, don’t you?” Eithne teased, and contracted her walls to grip his manhood. The king laughed to himself in response, squeezing the base of his cock with white knuckles. She arched her back; his broad palm clenched her rear with a biting slap. “Do so, my lord,” she simpered, “for when you reach your end I feel I shall reach another…” and even as she spoke, her form trembled in excitement.
Thranduil leaned forward, pulling Eithne’s head back, her face toward his as he whispered: “Dance for me once more, tomorrow night—then it shall be the height of the solstice, the height of revelry in the Greenwood, the height of fertile passion…say you will dance for me once more.” He began a steady, pumping rhythm with his engorged manhood, thrusting in and out of her tender slit, begging for her to agree. When she nodded, he smiled wide and bit the corner of his succulent lip.
***
The woman’s tawny flesh was soft—the contour of her narrow waist plunged inward along the dramatic arch of her spine, which, in turn, thrust the shaking cheeks of an ample backside into the air in a shameless display of just how mouthwatering flesh could be, jiggling around the pulsing rod that was Thranduil’s edging member. Her shoulders shimmered with sweat in the dim light, her wide, gentle eyes looking back at him with unadulterated longing as each of his searching thrusts cast the breath from her lungs. And oh, the sounds…
Her cries were weak and airy, starved for the completion of another climax; Thranduil could feel her now evident sweet spot swollen against the head of his cock, already beginning to expel its milky ambrosia. The fluid glistened down her parted thighs, splattering onto his belly. When she met his fervor, the voluminous meat of her backside bounced onto his thrusts with tantalizing, juicy momentum.
“Come for me, my lord,” she said between breaths, “do to me as you will!”
Perhaps it was the magic of midsummer’s, or the way certain planets were aligned, but Thranduil’s need for the love of that particular woman, on that particular night, was insatiable, and he watched his prize squirm against him—flaunting her wiles with the subtle expertise of someone who knew, very well, what she was doing—and listened to her desperate gasps of pleasure, the sounds of another climax not far off. And not just a second orgasm for the woman in his hands, but the king himself—he could feel his seed stirring. The woman’s eyes pled for release once more, and she suffered a small whimper as her walls tightened around his shaft and the liquid he’d coaxed forth surged around each of his throbbing veins.
***
The king caught Eithne quickly as the strength of her arms began to give, and with his body surrounding her, one strong arm supporting the both of them, he buried himself deep inside of her quivering womanhood. His breath was hot on her shoulder where he buried his face in the crook of her neck, and after one deep thrust, he spilled his seed. A deep, elated growl muffled against her flushed skin. His cock twitched in pent up release, throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat, while one hand kept Eithne pinned against him so he could pour himself into her chalice—his seed was hot, bubbling inside of her with each delicious contraction of his manhood, dripping down her thighs like her own release, and she marveled that the king could empty so much into her.
“I have never…” she stammered, giggling in disbelief.
The king kissed her shoulder, and she felt him smile against her skin. His body eased. “Never…?” he questioned.
“Made love to an elf…”
The chuckle deep in his breast was more of a rumble than anything, and he nestled his brow once more into her neck, inhaling like one does after taking a long draught of water. “And I thank you,” he said, and withdrew slowly from within her. She shuddered, looking back as the king watched his seed trickle out of her, lascivious with pride in his work. Then he met her gaze and pulled her toward him, turning her around so she straddled his lap when he sank onto the bed of moss and dried leaves beneath them.
His mouth no longer tasted of wine, but his lips still were sweet, his tongue gentle and warm when he drew her into a kiss; he smelled like the earth, like the perfume of flora rotting and bursting into flower all at once, like the scent of every lovely place Eithne had ever been. Traces of incense smoke clung to his hair, and he no longer felt like stone beneath her; he was open, sharing something real with her, yet completely inexplicable, in the silent language of his mouth dancing against hers.
“Remember your word,” he mused, and Eithne caught her breath while she was able, “dance again, tomorrow.” The gentle command behind his voice dissipated, “Will you?”
Eithne was unable to hide the bright red blush tingling over her cheeks and her eyes fell to the ground as she tried to fight down a beaming smile. In her profession, she knew to do as she was told, but never had a king stooped to ask rather than command.
“I will.”
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A Dance for the Elven King