Author’s Note: This is me trying out a bit of kink. Not much, mind— my sex is sadly vanilla, I’m afraid. So this is kinky for me. Dedicated to Khylaren, who has been a simply amazing friend to me. Her patience and kindness have made me expand my horizons and opinions in ways that confrontational methods have never been able to accomplish.
This story has deliberately been written ambiguously—“you” is male or female, as you wish. Lindir is an elven bard in Imladris (Rivendell) who is briefly mentioned in FotR.
"But, dearest, what is the purpose of this garment?" Lindir asked, holding the trousers up against himself. "Would you not be inclined to remove them from me at greatest speed?"
You agree, smiling.
Lindir smirked, his sky-blue eyes gleaming at you. "Why would we want to complicate the process, then?" he purred.
“Because I want to lick you through the leather, bard, that is why!” you reply.
Lindir looked intrigued at that, and without a word, shucked his trews and tunic before tugging the snug black leather up over his legs. "It will not close," he complained, trying to button the fly. "It is too small. And--" he did a peculiar little dance, trying to adjust the fit up the rear. "It is slicing me in two, back there." He stands, eying you with hands on his hips, as you appreciate the bounty of his charms overflowing the open fly of the trousers. "Are you sure you wish me to wear this torture device?"
Hands on hips, you give Lindir “the eye”. “You will if you know what’s good for you.”
A silvery brow lifts toward Lindir's hairline. "You have been discussing... things... with Erestor again, I see," he comments.
“He's given me one or two pointers, but only suggestions, love,” you reply. “Nothing that required a… hands-on demonstration.”
Lindir glances down at himself, where his soft member is gradually stirring. "Pity," he murmurs. "I would have liked to imagine you at the tender mercies of the counselor."
Interesting. "I didn't know you were into voyeurism, Lindir."
"I have often watched you with the others, lirimaer, though you did not realize it," he admits, letting his hair fall over his face to hide a little.
"What did you do while you watched?" you ask him, inspired by the faint blush on his cheeks, which deepens at your question.
"I think you know," he replies faintly, turning away to hide in earnest.
Your eyebrow rises in challenge. "Oh no, sweet Lindir. Tell me." You walk up behind him, sliding your arms around his waist and pressing against his back, feeling the taut leather against you and the firm muscles and silken skin under your questing hands. "Did you touch yourself, Lindir?" you ask him, lips caressing his back after you push aside his long sweep of silver hair. "Like this?" And you trail your hands lightly over his chest, rubbing your fingertips over and around his nipples until they tighten.
"Yes," he whispers.
"Like this?" you ask, and trail your hand lower to trace the muscles of his belly, dipping into his navel. He doesn't answer, so you raise one hand up to tweak a nipple, a little harder than necessary. He jumps a little in surprise, and you repeat the question.
"Yes," he answers hoarsely. You can feel the excitement thrumming within him, and continue to pinch and rub his nipple while the other hand runs down, leisurely trailing over him until you're combing lightly through the cloud of silver at his groin. His hips undulate just once before he stills himself.
"Did you touch yourself like this?" you ask, and slide your hand into his trousers, wrapping it around his hardening shaft, gripping it firmly. "Did you do this?"
Lindir shifts his hips again, wanting to press harder into your hand, but you release him. "Or did you do this?" You cup his testicles, warm and heavy, and roll them until a breathless moan, sweet and musical even in this situation, escapes him.
When he doesn't reply, you squeeze them a little harder, and he moans again before admitting, "Yes. That, too."
You drop your hand from his nipple to his shaft, fully hard and leaking those sweet droplets you love to lap up. Taking him in hand, you stroke him firmly, the other hand manipulating his balls. His head falls back in pleasure, hair a torrent of silver flowing over your face and shoulders.
"In watching us," you ask, delighting in the feel of the throbbing erection in your hand, "did you lose yourself?"
"Yes," he groaned, thrusting into the warmth of your palm, "yes."
"How much?" you inquired, lightening your grip on him. He growls a little in protest, bucking a little harder against you for the same friction as before.
"Did you forget yourself enough to touch yourself here?" And you release his balls to slip your hand down his backside, tracing the seam that fits so snugly between his cheeks, unerringly finding the spot beneath which his tight, delectable hole hides.
Lindir positively squirms against you, not seeming to know whether to press into your hand or rub himself against your finger. "Yes," he admits, his voice sounding broken. "There, too."
In a heartbeat, you 're gone, across the room. "Show me," you tell him. "Lay on the bed, and show me."
Gasping, Lindir turns and glares at you. "I would rather sheathe myself in you," he growls, and begins to approach, but you stop him with a cold look.
"And *I* would rather you show me," you tell him, your voice quiet but hard as steel.
Your gaze locks with his, and he seems to see something that satisfies him, because with a short nod, he pushes the trousers down and off. Laying on the bed, propped against a pile of pillows, he stares defiantly at you. "Where shall I begin?"
You smirk, moving to the end of the bed, the better to watch him. "At the beginning, of course," you reply.
He nods, and moves his hands to his nipples. Rubbing them, he pinches them lightly, and their pale pink colour deepens to rose with the pressure. Standing stiffly from his body, he flicks a fingernail over one, then gasps at the sensation.
The other hand, he trails over his body with obvious appreciation for the beauty of his form. To your surprise, he strokes leisurely over his hips and thighs, seeming to delight in the feel of his own skin. Then he wraps his long, pale hand around his shaft, and squeezes hard. A short, silvery stream falls from the tiny, sensitive slit in the end.
You're just about to lean forward and lap at it, unable to resist, when he gathers it on his fingertips and licks them clean. Lindir begins a slow, steady rubbing as he slips his two fingers into his mouth and sucks them, wetting them thoroughly. Then parting his long legs, he guides those fingers unerringly to the dark opening to his body. Rubbing gently around it, he squirms at the sensation, and you can see how his length gives a twitch of arousal.
"Ah," he breathes, and presses in. Head falling back in rapture, his hips undulate as he both thrusts into his hand and shifts to impale himself on his own fingers. "Ah," he repeats, opening his eyes and staring directly at you. "I need... some oil." His breath is coming quicker, and it's clear he's having trouble talking. He never pauses in his actions.
You fetch him the bottle, pouring it over his fingers and watching the pale golden liquid trickle inside where he is stretching himself open. "Better," he sighs, and works his fingers in deeper while his other hand, slickened, is now able to move more smoothly on his erection. You watch avidly as he fucks himself, stroking those long fingers deep, gripping his shaft tightly, the head swollen and gleaming in the candlelight. "Do you like what you see?" he asks, a teasing note to that magnificent voice.
"Add another finger," is all you say, and he obeys, sliding a third finger in beside the others with a rolling acceptance of his pelvis and a heartfelt groan of rapture.
You move to kneel between his legs, but do not touch him. "When you were watching me with Erestor," you ask, gaze never moving from the spectacle of his hands on and in his body, "was it only me you were thinking of?"
He thrusts up into his hand, hard, then down onto his fingers. "No," he gasps. "It was of Erestor I thought as well."
"What would you think of, with him?" you ask. Your voice is calm, betraying no excitement, even though you feel ready to come at a single touch. "Would you imagine your fingers were his?"
"No," he says, plunging his fingers deep, and you see the puckered outer ring of his little hole flutter. "I would pretend it was his shaft, plying me to the base."
You reach into a drawer beside the bed, withdrawing a sculpted shaft. Oiling it, you place the tip against his entrance, nudging his fingers aside. "How would he enter you, Lindir?" you ask. "Slowly, gently, or quick and rough?"
Lindir gasps and pushes down against it. "Quickly, roughly," he admits, allowing his legs to fall open even farther and raising his hips eagerly to meet the thrust of the phallus.
You plunge it into him, one swift stroke and claim him with it. "Erestor's shaft is thicker than this," you tell him. "It would stretch you more than this, until you thought you would choke on it."
"Yes," Lindir moans. "Choke me with it."
You withdraw it, and he groans in protest, his hand moving unevenly on his erection, pumping erratically. He is close to completion, and you want nothing more than to watch the fountain of his climax as he thinks of Erestor impaling him. Another drizzle of oil between those taut buttocks, and you send the phallus home again.
"Ai, yes!" he exclaims, bucking up to take it. His free hand comes to clasp behind his knee, drawing it up to his chest, opening him up for your invasion. The phallus sinks in another inch, and he mewls in ecstasy.
"More," he whispers. "More, Erestor, give me more."
His hand is flying as he strokes himself, the almost purple head appearing with each stroke. You push more, and he takes the last available bit. "That's all of it," you tell him.
"All of it," he repeats, tossing his head, tendrils of silver hair clinging to his sweat-damp face. "I have taken all of it."
"Now," you instruct, "ride yourself on it until you come." Lindir sobs in a breath and begins to move, obediently riding the phallus sunk to the base within him. It disappears within him, and you marvel at the eagerness with which he takes it. "You were made to be fucked," you tell him. "You need your ass filled, all the time."
"Yes," he sobs, and grinds down, encompassing the entirety of the phallus within his hungry passage.
You grasp the base of it and give it a subtle twist, pressing it toward his front. "Come," you command, and with a choked gasp, he does-- pelvis tilting, mouth open, head back as his spine arches, he bucks up into his hand, ramming himself down onto the phallus as a spray of semen erupts from him.
"Ai-- yes-- hard--" he wails, and you push it even harder within. He twitches, and yet another gush of seed flies from him. His hips pumping uncontrollably, legs trembling as he splays himself before you, taking all you give him and take from him, he lets out a long cry of utter delirium, his hole stretched impossibly wide around the thick phallus and twitching, clenching around it, squeezing it.
As he comes down from his orgasm, you begin to work the phallus within him once more, coaxing every bit of pleasure from his body. Gradually, you slip it out of him, until he returns to himself. You're about to remove it entirely, when his hand on yours stops you.
"No," he says faintly, "leave it.'
But you do not. Sliding it out-- ignoring his whimper of protest-- you replace it with your tongue, laving the well-used little hole tenderly. Lindir moans and uses both hands to pull his knees up, opening himself entirely for you.
"I am yours," he gasps, spreading himself wide for your attentions. "Yours, yours."
You curl your tongue and slip it within, fluttering it against him from the inside. Lindir writhes under you, legs beginning to stretch out tensely as his shaft lengthens and fills once more. "I-- again--" he manages to say, then concentrates on shifting himself so he is riding your tongue. He bounces gently, sliding himself around your tongue, taking it within him, reveling in the feel of its soft velvet texture within his hard-used entrance.
His hands pull his legs up harder, higher, until his knees are around his ears. "I cannot open myself enough for you," he gasps. "I would split myself open for you, if I could." You only place your hands on his buttocks and part them further, exposing him completely, sealing your mouth around his entrance and sucking whilst your tongue continued to fuck his ass.
"I can taste all the dark of you," you tell him, pulling back for a moment. His reaction is a groan which lengthens into a tortured moan. "The only thing to make this better," you say, "is if I were tasting Erestor within you right now."
"Perhaps... that can be... arranged," he gasps, and shifts so he works himself down around your tongue once you replace it within his passage, so greedy for your intrusion.
"How does it feel?" you ask him conversationally, as if inquiring about the weather. "Describe it."
"Your mouth, sucking on me-- and your tongue, stroking so deeply inside, but soft, like an itch being scratched, but better-- ai, so much better," he gasps, undulating onto your tongue. "And knowing I hold myself open for you, letting you take me this way... not touching my shaft, knowing I will come only from what you do to me, how you penetrate me-- ai, yes, like that! More, harder... push your tongue into me harder..." His narrative begins to swiftly degenerate.
"Tell me," you command. "Tell me what to do."
"Lick me," he says, “lick me all over, all inside... suck me, suck on me, suck hard! Hard, hard!" he exclaims, and as you suck hard on his opening as it grasps and twitches around your tongue, lapping at him from the inside, he writhes in abandon. With a short scream he comes again, his passage clenching around your tongue as he rides it frantically. His seed splatters the both of you, and his grip behind his knees as he thrusts his ass up at your mouth is bruising. Head thrown back, tendons on his neck standing out, he cries out again and again, spasming as gout after gout of seed comes from him.
It takes a long time for his body to stop twitching, and even minutes after, he is still shuddering a little. And you, of course, are still laving and lapping at his hole, just the tip inside him now, its pointed little tip flexing and teasing inside. Lindir whimpers, and pleads with you to stop.
You decide to take pity on him. "If I had known I'd get that reaction from you, I'd have done that sooner," you tell him. "As it is, I'll be sure to do that every day from now on."
His cornflower-blue eyes widen, though with dismay or delight, you cannot tell. You realize it's delight when he reaches for you, pulling you close. He is sweaty, and your skin sticks together, but you don't mind. "I thank the Valar for you," he breathes, holding you close. "Never have I experienced the like." He pulls back a little, to gaze into your eyes. "Every day?" he asks hopefully. "Do you promise?"
Then he passes out from sheer exhaustion.