For savageseraph: Hospitality (Boromir/Aragorn/Eowyn/Eomer/Faramir; NC-17)
Title: Hospitality
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir, Boromir/Eowyn, Eowyn/Eomer, Eomer/Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Aragorn finds things much changed in friends and a city he once loved.
Warnings: Highlight to read: Darkfic, noncon, sexual slavery, drugging, incest.
Notes: An AU written for savageseraph for lotr_sesa. I hope I've managed to do her prompt justice! Much love and many thanks to empy for allowing me to bounce parts of this off her. Happy Holidays!
Hospitality
By Galadriel
Aragorn blinked against the sudden light, cringing backward against the straw as the brightness flooded his cell. Blinded by the torches in the guards' hands, he struggled weakly, the fight and strength long since drained from his body. He could not recall the last time they had brought him food with his allowance of water, but the days melded one into another in the dark and dank, and so there was little point in trying to keep count.
They dragged him bodily out of his prison, not bothering to so much as grunt at him, oblivious to his protests. He closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to Ilúvatar that his doom would be swift and painless. The cobblestones were cold under his bare feet, their chill swirling up underneath his tunic, the only stitch of clothing they'd left him after he was stripped and searched for weapons.
The men hoisted him up between them as they climbed a flight of stairs, and behind his eyelids, Aragorn was aware of a sudden shift of light. No longer guttering, sputtering torchlight, this felt like a familiar caress, warm and soft and all-encompassing. He opened his eyes, wary of some wizard's trick, and as he glimpsed the casing of a window, he was thrown to the floor.
"He's all yours, now." A kick to his ribs sent Aragorn sprawling, the thick, stiff leather of the guard's boot bruising tender flesh. "Make sure you do a good job. He's waiting."
Aragorn curled inward, anticipating another kick that did not come. As new people bustled about and a pair of softer, unfamiliar hands closed around his upper arms, he pressed his cheek to the sweet-smelling straw strewn about, and a moment later, passed into unconsciousness.
The sensation that Aragorn became aware of first was that of liquid warmth. It enfolded itself around him, sloughing away the persistent feel of grime and his own filth, seeping into his muscles, loosening him up until he was certain all that had come before was a dream. He sighed, shifting slightly, and was rewarded with a cool hand on his brow, a gentle rebuke as his cheeks were cradled, his head steadied. He felt warm fingers stroking down his sides, lifting his arms, rearranging his limbs, stroking his chest. It was soothing enough that Aragorn did not even protest when those same fingers nudged apart his legs, lifting his member, caressing around and beneath, whispering touches that allowed that same liquid warmth to slip and flow around him. He opened his eyes, and found himself looking up into the smiling face of an older man. "Hush," the man murmured, "you're safe with us for the moment. Relax and let us do our work."
Aragorn tried to lift his head out of the man's hands and was rewarded with a brief glimpse of his surroundings. He was in a large wooden tub, attended by a knot of servants: chiefly the man at his head and a woman kneeling near the edge, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her arms shoved deep in the fragrant water, dragging what felt like a cloth across Aragorn's thighs. A young man hovered behind the woman, a cup on a platter held chest-high, and suddenly Aragorn was painfully aware of the thickness of his tongue against his teeth and the way his throat squeezed tight against all speech. He met the young man's gaze, and the boy fidgeted, taking a half step forward, then hesitating until the other man beckoned him closer.
"Come now. Our guest is awake, and I'm sure he would be grateful for a sup." He reached out, plucking the cup from the tray, and gently propped Aragorn up. The cup was cold against Aragorn's lips, and the liquid soothing as it slid down his throat. He sighed, licking his lips once he'd drained the last drop, and let himself slip backward into the man's embrace. He felt malleable, as if all his troubles had melted like snow in the sun, trickling away into nothing. He let himself drift, and before he knew it, he was senseless once again.
He stretched as he woke, his first pleasant sleep in what seemed like forever, settled comfortably on a padded bench. His nose itched ever so slightly, and he raised his hand to scratch it only to be pulled up short. He blinked, looking down at his wrists, manacled one to the other in heavy iron, run through with thick chain, locked to a ring bolted to the floor. Shifting, he carefully swung himself around to sit upright, and made a softly surprised noise as he realized his ankles, while not chained to the floor, were clapped in the same strong iron. Even more alarming was the fact that he was still completely nude, and as he settled more firmly on the bench, he swallowed at the sudden feeling of stretch and fullness, as if he was caught in the act of coupling with Halbarad. Aragorn looked down, flushing as he caught sight of an intricate web of leather winding around his prick, teasing it into hardness when he did not wish it so.
He groaned in frustration; he had expected sudden death to follow when he was pulled from his cell, but this seemed a particular type of perverse torture. He yanked at his chains, but only succeeded in making them clatter.
"Ah, awake, are you?" The older man was back, coming around a small privacy screen to peer at Aragorn. Behind the screen, Aragorn could discern moving shapes, and he was sure he heard a smack of flesh followed by a low moan. The man glanced backward at the sound, smiled faintly and rubbed his hands together. He looked Aragorn up and down, his gaze lingering at Aragorn's groin, his expression one of approval. "Excellent." As he reached into his tunic, fishing out a key strung on a long piece of leather, Aragorn found his voice.
His tongue still felt thick, as if his reactions had slowed to those better suited to toddlers or the aged. "What..." he swallowed, "...what manner of torture is this?"
The man smiled at Aragorn as he knelt to unlock the chains from the ring in the floor. He fussed in silence for a long moment, manhandling Aragorn's legs until he was able to link the ankle manacles to the chain that was still firmly affixed to Aragorn's wrists. Once the task was done, he slapped Aragorn's flank almost as if he was outfitting a horse. "You'll find out soon enough." He stood, smoothing Aragorn's hair back from his face, lifting Aragorn's chin with his fingers, and hooking one under a collar Aragorn was just becoming aware of. The man's finger rubbed against his throat, checking the give between collar and neck, and judging it acceptable, slipped out once again. "Since this is your first time, here are a few pieces of advice: do exactly as you are told, and it will be far easier than if you do not. There are far worse indignities waiting for those that do not bow to the King and Queen's whims. Do not speak unless spoken to, and even then, not until you are given permission. For now, we'll make that easier for you to do, but later on, when you're not gagged, you will need to know how to keep your tongue--"
"Gagged?" Aragorn's eyes widened.
The man carried on as if Aragorn had not spoken. "--Doing exactly as you're told has its benefits. Doing better, however, has its privileges. Look to the King's brother for an example worth its weight in gold." While he talked, he produced a small buckled circle of leather, slipping the clasp free and stretching it into a long length. There was a small protrusion in the middle, shaped like the first few inches of a prick. Aragorn swallowed, not sure if he should be thankful for or fearful of this newest contraption.
Holding the strip of leather in one hand, the man grasped Aragorn's jaw with the other and squeezed with a strength that belied his years. Aragorn's mouth opened, and before he could utter even a token protest, the small prick was past his lips, the leather strip winding around his head, and buckled in the back. He let out a frustrated groan, but the sound was muffled and his tongue slid and curled around the prick in a most alarming way.
"If it is difficult to stand, bite down." The man patted Aragorn's cheek, then tugged on his chains, forcing him up. Aragorn's limbs moved slowly, and he lurched forward, led around the screen and into the tender care of two new guards like a treasured dog.
On some level, Aragorn was relieved to be gagged, for there was no other way he would have successfully stifled his protests as he was presented to the King and Queen. Gondor's King, it seemed, a man he had considered a friend until they had fallen out so badly and he had woken up in the bowels of the White City. The Steward's Son now sat in the place reserved for Isildur's heirs, and at his left sat a woman in white, her hair the colour of spun gold, the coat of arms carved into her chair announcing her as one of the Rohirrim. In the Steward's seat sat a man that for all the world could be the new Queen's twin, and at his feet sat someone Aragorn had not seen in more years than he cared to remember. His heart squeezed in his chest at the sight of the boy, now a man, that Boromir had spoken of so fondly so often as he and Aragorn had quested together.
Faramir was attired similarly to Aragorn, in that he was not attired at all. He too was chained, yet his chains seemed to be of a delicate silver filigree meant more to enhance his appearance than prevent his escape. He was not gagged, but a collar encircled his neck, and as Aragorn swept his eyes down the length of him, he was surprised to see Faramir sported a piercing through one nipple. Aragorn looked away quickly as his gaze was drawn to Faramir's groin, but not so quickly that he did not spy the same intricate criss-cross of leather and a glittering jewel resting against his cockhead. Aragorn swallowed heavily, only to be reminded of the gag as his tonguetip brushed against it.
He felt his blood rushing in his ears, and for one long moment whiteness encroached on the edges of his vision, making him sure he would pass out once again.
Boromir leaned forward from the throne, a smirk on his lips and something dangerous in his eyes. He chuckled to himself, and like proper courtiers, his companions joined in. "Well, my friend," he purred, "you seem less than yourself. Perhaps our hospitality has not agreed with you?" Something in his voice seemed to curdle, and Aragorn could not stifle a shiver. "We'll set you to rights soon enough." He licked his lips, a flicker of tongue as much a threat as it was a promise.
Steadying himself, Aragorn looked up at his friend, finding him much changed. No longer the city's most favourite son, but now its master, Boromir was newly-garbed in white robes shot through with silver thread, the tree picked out across his chest and heavily beaded in shining crystal. The effect of so much white was dazzling, and did nothing but accentuate the flinty, pitiless expression on his face. It was as if all care had been drained from Boromir, all those honourable qualities that stemmed from a place of deep love now empty of everything but the desire to control.
Aragorn swallowed thickly around his gag, alarmed for a moment as his eyesight swam and his body lurched to the side. There was no doubt about it. He had undoubtedly been doused with some opiate that was now responsible for his heavy limbs and slow reactions. His head was filled with wool, making thoughts slow to the consistency of molasses. He should be assessing his surroundings, reaching for the nearest knife or blunt object, but instead it was all he could do to keep his feet, as docile as a cow chewing cud.
Boromir grinned. "I see the grooms have taken good care with you." He swept his eyes down Aragorn's body, and a guard stepped forward, guiding Aragorn in a circle so all angles were on display before forcing him to his knees. "I trust your time alone has properly prepared you to return to polite company." He flashed a smile at his wife, taking her hand and kissing it, his lips brushing across the line of a delicate filigree circle mounted with a small red gem; the artistry of it was clear, yet the band too wide for a lady's finger, suggesting some inherited, borrowed item. She gifted her husband with a smile in turn, but her eyes were on Aragorn, appraising him cooly as if she was considering and weighing his mettle.
A soft jingling drew Aragorn's attention to the Steward's seat. Faramir had shifted, his chains swaying with his movement, and now he was settling between the legs of the Queen's relation, parting them gently, reaching for the man's lacings. He made short work of them, hesitating only to glance upward for permission, and when he was gifted with a nod, he bowed his head over the man's groin. Aragorn caught a flash of sleek flesh as Faramir's head began to bob, and then the man was carding his fingers through Faramir's hair, pulling him forward, raising his hips to thrust further into Faramir's mouth. Something glittered in Faramir's hair, and Aragorn was surprised to see the Queen's band twinned on this man's finger, the red stone exchanged for green. The man groaned, curling his hand into a fist, gripping and pulling until Faramir whimpered around his cock, redoubling his efforts, making the man shudder and moan.
Aragorn wasn't the only one entranced by this spectacle. As he glanced back at Boromir, he saw the woman beside him draw his hand to her lap, brushing aside layer upon layer of cloth until she could guide his fingers between her legs. She arched against the throne as Boromir's hand disappeared beneath her raiments, her eyes half closing but her attention still on Faramir.
Boromir continued to pleasure the Queen even as he turned his attention back to Aragorn. A slow, menacing smile spread across his face, and he nodded at his brother. "You would do well to take your cues from him," he murmured. "He refused the gifts I offered him just as you did, and now... Now he has learned better than to refuse me anything." He made a pleased noise as the Queen shuddered, gripped hold of his wrist and rode his hand. Not more than a moment later she gasped, cried out sharply and sank back in her chair. Boromir withdrew his fingers, licking each clean even as he murmured her name. Éowyn, Aragorn heard Boromir call her, and suddenly her identity and that of her brother clicked into place. It seemed Boromir had taken his father seriously and made the political choice. No doubt Rohan was now under Gondor's sway, one of an increasing number of lands bending to the rule of the White City.
Aragorn's shoulders slumped; it was as if a weight, heavy and bruising, pressed down across his head and back. He bowed forward, seeking the cool reassurance of the stone beneath him, heedless of the laughter that floated above his head. He crouched there, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, his head to clear.
Suddenly, Éomer cried out, and the court tittered around him; he guessed without looking that Faramir had successfully completed his task and wondered what that could mean for him. Would they loose equally perverse tortures on him now, or continue to toy with Faramir?
A scraping screeching noise came as half-answer as something heavy was deposited on the floor beside him. He raised his head wearily, glimpsing a metal and wood frame a split-second before a guard yanked him off his knees, manhandling him until he was bent forward and chained firmly to the frame. A padded arch supported his midsection, another close by on which to rest his head. His wrists were manacled to either side of the frame, enough give so that he would not be overstretched, but not so much that he could do anything but lie prone. Each leg was lifted to rest on a small arch, and the irons enclosing his ankles were clipped into place, spreading his legs wide. The contraption had him kneeling above the floor, firmly chained and completely accessible. He moaned around the gag, perfectly aware that the shine of steel and gloss of oiled wood betrayed how beloved this contrivance was.
A gentle hand slid across the small of his back, fingertips stroking back and forth. He felt a brush of lips above his waist, and then that same hand slipped upward into his hair, gripping fast and yanking his head backward in a blinding flash of pain. "I have been waiting for this moment since Moria," Boromir purred into his ear, "and I mean to enjoy every second of it." His teeth sank into Aragorn's shoulder, drawing a muffled cry from his throat. Aragorn felt blunted fingers toying with the plug that kept him stretched, and for one brief moment he experienced a wash of relief as it was withdrawn, only to be pressed forward again.
Aragorn whimpered, and for the first time he pressed his teeth against the prick in his mouth, hoping for some distraction as Boromir fucked him relentlessly with the plug. His cock throbbed, caught in its leather web, neither able to seek blessed release or soften. He struggled, but both iron and frame held him fast.
Eventually, Boromir tired of biting and fucking, and the plug slid free. He moved back from Aragorn, stroking his flank, and smiled up at his small audience. Aragorn blinked the sweat out of his eyes, surprised to see Éowyn straddling Éomer's lap, rising and falling as he gripped his sister's waist. Faramir sat idle at Éomer's feet, stroking his prick without the slightest inclination he wished to free it. "Do you see how we take what we want?" Boromir's fingers traced the shell of Aragorn's ear before his nails bit into the lobe. "The Council was wrong. Victory comes through strength, not weakness." He traced the inside of Aragorn's thighs, striking them lightly over and over until they began to sting. "I am so looking forward to breaking you."
He settled between Aragorn's thighs, and only the rustle of clothing warned him before Boromir thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt. Aragorn's body balked at the invasion; he cried out against the gag as he tightened around Boromir, whimpered as the man bent over his back, gaining enough leverage to begin fucking him roughly, each thrust jostling Aragorn forward, making the frame shudder. He bit down on the gag harder, the taste bitter against his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glint of gold before Boromir's hand came down to cup his cheek, and fancied he could feel the invisible scrollwork picked out across the band scalding his skin.
Oh, Eru, Aragorn prayed as Boromir pressed deeper, rolling his hips, if only I had left him to the orcs at Amon Hen.
END
(December 2010)
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir, Boromir/Eowyn, Eowyn/Eomer, Eomer/Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Aragorn finds things much changed in friends and a city he once loved.
Warnings: Highlight to read: Darkfic, noncon, sexual slavery, drugging, incest.
Notes: An AU written for savageseraph for lotr_sesa. I hope I've managed to do her prompt justice! Much love and many thanks to empy for allowing me to bounce parts of this off her. Happy Holidays!
Hospitality
By Galadriel
Aragorn blinked against the sudden light, cringing backward against the straw as the brightness flooded his cell. Blinded by the torches in the guards' hands, he struggled weakly, the fight and strength long since drained from his body. He could not recall the last time they had brought him food with his allowance of water, but the days melded one into another in the dark and dank, and so there was little point in trying to keep count.
They dragged him bodily out of his prison, not bothering to so much as grunt at him, oblivious to his protests. He closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to Ilúvatar that his doom would be swift and painless. The cobblestones were cold under his bare feet, their chill swirling up underneath his tunic, the only stitch of clothing they'd left him after he was stripped and searched for weapons.
The men hoisted him up between them as they climbed a flight of stairs, and behind his eyelids, Aragorn was aware of a sudden shift of light. No longer guttering, sputtering torchlight, this felt like a familiar caress, warm and soft and all-encompassing. He opened his eyes, wary of some wizard's trick, and as he glimpsed the casing of a window, he was thrown to the floor.
"He's all yours, now." A kick to his ribs sent Aragorn sprawling, the thick, stiff leather of the guard's boot bruising tender flesh. "Make sure you do a good job. He's waiting."
Aragorn curled inward, anticipating another kick that did not come. As new people bustled about and a pair of softer, unfamiliar hands closed around his upper arms, he pressed his cheek to the sweet-smelling straw strewn about, and a moment later, passed into unconsciousness.
The sensation that Aragorn became aware of first was that of liquid warmth. It enfolded itself around him, sloughing away the persistent feel of grime and his own filth, seeping into his muscles, loosening him up until he was certain all that had come before was a dream. He sighed, shifting slightly, and was rewarded with a cool hand on his brow, a gentle rebuke as his cheeks were cradled, his head steadied. He felt warm fingers stroking down his sides, lifting his arms, rearranging his limbs, stroking his chest. It was soothing enough that Aragorn did not even protest when those same fingers nudged apart his legs, lifting his member, caressing around and beneath, whispering touches that allowed that same liquid warmth to slip and flow around him. He opened his eyes, and found himself looking up into the smiling face of an older man. "Hush," the man murmured, "you're safe with us for the moment. Relax and let us do our work."
Aragorn tried to lift his head out of the man's hands and was rewarded with a brief glimpse of his surroundings. He was in a large wooden tub, attended by a knot of servants: chiefly the man at his head and a woman kneeling near the edge, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her arms shoved deep in the fragrant water, dragging what felt like a cloth across Aragorn's thighs. A young man hovered behind the woman, a cup on a platter held chest-high, and suddenly Aragorn was painfully aware of the thickness of his tongue against his teeth and the way his throat squeezed tight against all speech. He met the young man's gaze, and the boy fidgeted, taking a half step forward, then hesitating until the other man beckoned him closer.
"Come now. Our guest is awake, and I'm sure he would be grateful for a sup." He reached out, plucking the cup from the tray, and gently propped Aragorn up. The cup was cold against Aragorn's lips, and the liquid soothing as it slid down his throat. He sighed, licking his lips once he'd drained the last drop, and let himself slip backward into the man's embrace. He felt malleable, as if all his troubles had melted like snow in the sun, trickling away into nothing. He let himself drift, and before he knew it, he was senseless once again.
He stretched as he woke, his first pleasant sleep in what seemed like forever, settled comfortably on a padded bench. His nose itched ever so slightly, and he raised his hand to scratch it only to be pulled up short. He blinked, looking down at his wrists, manacled one to the other in heavy iron, run through with thick chain, locked to a ring bolted to the floor. Shifting, he carefully swung himself around to sit upright, and made a softly surprised noise as he realized his ankles, while not chained to the floor, were clapped in the same strong iron. Even more alarming was the fact that he was still completely nude, and as he settled more firmly on the bench, he swallowed at the sudden feeling of stretch and fullness, as if he was caught in the act of coupling with Halbarad. Aragorn looked down, flushing as he caught sight of an intricate web of leather winding around his prick, teasing it into hardness when he did not wish it so.
He groaned in frustration; he had expected sudden death to follow when he was pulled from his cell, but this seemed a particular type of perverse torture. He yanked at his chains, but only succeeded in making them clatter.
"Ah, awake, are you?" The older man was back, coming around a small privacy screen to peer at Aragorn. Behind the screen, Aragorn could discern moving shapes, and he was sure he heard a smack of flesh followed by a low moan. The man glanced backward at the sound, smiled faintly and rubbed his hands together. He looked Aragorn up and down, his gaze lingering at Aragorn's groin, his expression one of approval. "Excellent." As he reached into his tunic, fishing out a key strung on a long piece of leather, Aragorn found his voice.
His tongue still felt thick, as if his reactions had slowed to those better suited to toddlers or the aged. "What..." he swallowed, "...what manner of torture is this?"
The man smiled at Aragorn as he knelt to unlock the chains from the ring in the floor. He fussed in silence for a long moment, manhandling Aragorn's legs until he was able to link the ankle manacles to the chain that was still firmly affixed to Aragorn's wrists. Once the task was done, he slapped Aragorn's flank almost as if he was outfitting a horse. "You'll find out soon enough." He stood, smoothing Aragorn's hair back from his face, lifting Aragorn's chin with his fingers, and hooking one under a collar Aragorn was just becoming aware of. The man's finger rubbed against his throat, checking the give between collar and neck, and judging it acceptable, slipped out once again. "Since this is your first time, here are a few pieces of advice: do exactly as you are told, and it will be far easier than if you do not. There are far worse indignities waiting for those that do not bow to the King and Queen's whims. Do not speak unless spoken to, and even then, not until you are given permission. For now, we'll make that easier for you to do, but later on, when you're not gagged, you will need to know how to keep your tongue--"
"Gagged?" Aragorn's eyes widened.
The man carried on as if Aragorn had not spoken. "--Doing exactly as you're told has its benefits. Doing better, however, has its privileges. Look to the King's brother for an example worth its weight in gold." While he talked, he produced a small buckled circle of leather, slipping the clasp free and stretching it into a long length. There was a small protrusion in the middle, shaped like the first few inches of a prick. Aragorn swallowed, not sure if he should be thankful for or fearful of this newest contraption.
Holding the strip of leather in one hand, the man grasped Aragorn's jaw with the other and squeezed with a strength that belied his years. Aragorn's mouth opened, and before he could utter even a token protest, the small prick was past his lips, the leather strip winding around his head, and buckled in the back. He let out a frustrated groan, but the sound was muffled and his tongue slid and curled around the prick in a most alarming way.
"If it is difficult to stand, bite down." The man patted Aragorn's cheek, then tugged on his chains, forcing him up. Aragorn's limbs moved slowly, and he lurched forward, led around the screen and into the tender care of two new guards like a treasured dog.
On some level, Aragorn was relieved to be gagged, for there was no other way he would have successfully stifled his protests as he was presented to the King and Queen. Gondor's King, it seemed, a man he had considered a friend until they had fallen out so badly and he had woken up in the bowels of the White City. The Steward's Son now sat in the place reserved for Isildur's heirs, and at his left sat a woman in white, her hair the colour of spun gold, the coat of arms carved into her chair announcing her as one of the Rohirrim. In the Steward's seat sat a man that for all the world could be the new Queen's twin, and at his feet sat someone Aragorn had not seen in more years than he cared to remember. His heart squeezed in his chest at the sight of the boy, now a man, that Boromir had spoken of so fondly so often as he and Aragorn had quested together.
Faramir was attired similarly to Aragorn, in that he was not attired at all. He too was chained, yet his chains seemed to be of a delicate silver filigree meant more to enhance his appearance than prevent his escape. He was not gagged, but a collar encircled his neck, and as Aragorn swept his eyes down the length of him, he was surprised to see Faramir sported a piercing through one nipple. Aragorn looked away quickly as his gaze was drawn to Faramir's groin, but not so quickly that he did not spy the same intricate criss-cross of leather and a glittering jewel resting against his cockhead. Aragorn swallowed heavily, only to be reminded of the gag as his tonguetip brushed against it.
He felt his blood rushing in his ears, and for one long moment whiteness encroached on the edges of his vision, making him sure he would pass out once again.
Boromir leaned forward from the throne, a smirk on his lips and something dangerous in his eyes. He chuckled to himself, and like proper courtiers, his companions joined in. "Well, my friend," he purred, "you seem less than yourself. Perhaps our hospitality has not agreed with you?" Something in his voice seemed to curdle, and Aragorn could not stifle a shiver. "We'll set you to rights soon enough." He licked his lips, a flicker of tongue as much a threat as it was a promise.
Steadying himself, Aragorn looked up at his friend, finding him much changed. No longer the city's most favourite son, but now its master, Boromir was newly-garbed in white robes shot through with silver thread, the tree picked out across his chest and heavily beaded in shining crystal. The effect of so much white was dazzling, and did nothing but accentuate the flinty, pitiless expression on his face. It was as if all care had been drained from Boromir, all those honourable qualities that stemmed from a place of deep love now empty of everything but the desire to control.
Aragorn swallowed thickly around his gag, alarmed for a moment as his eyesight swam and his body lurched to the side. There was no doubt about it. He had undoubtedly been doused with some opiate that was now responsible for his heavy limbs and slow reactions. His head was filled with wool, making thoughts slow to the consistency of molasses. He should be assessing his surroundings, reaching for the nearest knife or blunt object, but instead it was all he could do to keep his feet, as docile as a cow chewing cud.
Boromir grinned. "I see the grooms have taken good care with you." He swept his eyes down Aragorn's body, and a guard stepped forward, guiding Aragorn in a circle so all angles were on display before forcing him to his knees. "I trust your time alone has properly prepared you to return to polite company." He flashed a smile at his wife, taking her hand and kissing it, his lips brushing across the line of a delicate filigree circle mounted with a small red gem; the artistry of it was clear, yet the band too wide for a lady's finger, suggesting some inherited, borrowed item. She gifted her husband with a smile in turn, but her eyes were on Aragorn, appraising him cooly as if she was considering and weighing his mettle.
A soft jingling drew Aragorn's attention to the Steward's seat. Faramir had shifted, his chains swaying with his movement, and now he was settling between the legs of the Queen's relation, parting them gently, reaching for the man's lacings. He made short work of them, hesitating only to glance upward for permission, and when he was gifted with a nod, he bowed his head over the man's groin. Aragorn caught a flash of sleek flesh as Faramir's head began to bob, and then the man was carding his fingers through Faramir's hair, pulling him forward, raising his hips to thrust further into Faramir's mouth. Something glittered in Faramir's hair, and Aragorn was surprised to see the Queen's band twinned on this man's finger, the red stone exchanged for green. The man groaned, curling his hand into a fist, gripping and pulling until Faramir whimpered around his cock, redoubling his efforts, making the man shudder and moan.
Aragorn wasn't the only one entranced by this spectacle. As he glanced back at Boromir, he saw the woman beside him draw his hand to her lap, brushing aside layer upon layer of cloth until she could guide his fingers between her legs. She arched against the throne as Boromir's hand disappeared beneath her raiments, her eyes half closing but her attention still on Faramir.
Boromir continued to pleasure the Queen even as he turned his attention back to Aragorn. A slow, menacing smile spread across his face, and he nodded at his brother. "You would do well to take your cues from him," he murmured. "He refused the gifts I offered him just as you did, and now... Now he has learned better than to refuse me anything." He made a pleased noise as the Queen shuddered, gripped hold of his wrist and rode his hand. Not more than a moment later she gasped, cried out sharply and sank back in her chair. Boromir withdrew his fingers, licking each clean even as he murmured her name. Éowyn, Aragorn heard Boromir call her, and suddenly her identity and that of her brother clicked into place. It seemed Boromir had taken his father seriously and made the political choice. No doubt Rohan was now under Gondor's sway, one of an increasing number of lands bending to the rule of the White City.
Aragorn's shoulders slumped; it was as if a weight, heavy and bruising, pressed down across his head and back. He bowed forward, seeking the cool reassurance of the stone beneath him, heedless of the laughter that floated above his head. He crouched there, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, his head to clear.
Suddenly, Éomer cried out, and the court tittered around him; he guessed without looking that Faramir had successfully completed his task and wondered what that could mean for him. Would they loose equally perverse tortures on him now, or continue to toy with Faramir?
A scraping screeching noise came as half-answer as something heavy was deposited on the floor beside him. He raised his head wearily, glimpsing a metal and wood frame a split-second before a guard yanked him off his knees, manhandling him until he was bent forward and chained firmly to the frame. A padded arch supported his midsection, another close by on which to rest his head. His wrists were manacled to either side of the frame, enough give so that he would not be overstretched, but not so much that he could do anything but lie prone. Each leg was lifted to rest on a small arch, and the irons enclosing his ankles were clipped into place, spreading his legs wide. The contraption had him kneeling above the floor, firmly chained and completely accessible. He moaned around the gag, perfectly aware that the shine of steel and gloss of oiled wood betrayed how beloved this contrivance was.
A gentle hand slid across the small of his back, fingertips stroking back and forth. He felt a brush of lips above his waist, and then that same hand slipped upward into his hair, gripping fast and yanking his head backward in a blinding flash of pain. "I have been waiting for this moment since Moria," Boromir purred into his ear, "and I mean to enjoy every second of it." His teeth sank into Aragorn's shoulder, drawing a muffled cry from his throat. Aragorn felt blunted fingers toying with the plug that kept him stretched, and for one brief moment he experienced a wash of relief as it was withdrawn, only to be pressed forward again.
Aragorn whimpered, and for the first time he pressed his teeth against the prick in his mouth, hoping for some distraction as Boromir fucked him relentlessly with the plug. His cock throbbed, caught in its leather web, neither able to seek blessed release or soften. He struggled, but both iron and frame held him fast.
Eventually, Boromir tired of biting and fucking, and the plug slid free. He moved back from Aragorn, stroking his flank, and smiled up at his small audience. Aragorn blinked the sweat out of his eyes, surprised to see Éowyn straddling Éomer's lap, rising and falling as he gripped his sister's waist. Faramir sat idle at Éomer's feet, stroking his prick without the slightest inclination he wished to free it. "Do you see how we take what we want?" Boromir's fingers traced the shell of Aragorn's ear before his nails bit into the lobe. "The Council was wrong. Victory comes through strength, not weakness." He traced the inside of Aragorn's thighs, striking them lightly over and over until they began to sting. "I am so looking forward to breaking you."
He settled between Aragorn's thighs, and only the rustle of clothing warned him before Boromir thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt. Aragorn's body balked at the invasion; he cried out against the gag as he tightened around Boromir, whimpered as the man bent over his back, gaining enough leverage to begin fucking him roughly, each thrust jostling Aragorn forward, making the frame shudder. He bit down on the gag harder, the taste bitter against his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glint of gold before Boromir's hand came down to cup his cheek, and fancied he could feel the invisible scrollwork picked out across the band scalding his skin.
Oh, Eru, Aragorn prayed as Boromir pressed deeper, rolling his hips, if only I had left him to the orcs at Amon Hen.
END
(December 2010)