MPREG for Lily
Okay, so, I don’t read MPREG. I have no idea what constitutes proper MPREG. I apologize to MPREG writers everywhere for my unintended gaffs in this genre. But Lily needs an MPREG examination, so she will get one.
Lily, prepare for an episode in which:
Aragorn Finds Nothing Wrong
“Aragorn, nothing is wrong with
me!”
Aragorn glowered. “We can’t know
that, unless you let me examine you.”
Looking younger than his years in
his flimsy gown, Frodo crossed his arms, a little higher than usual because of
the budding bulge in his belly. “You never believe me.” Frodo tipped his face
towards Aragorn, the candlelight falling across that magical blend of softness
and angles that resulted in (to Aragorn’s eyes) indescribable beauty. Aragorn
felt a familiar stirring, despite the fact that Frodo himself appeared to be
feeling rather clinical. The hobbit enumerated his various points emphatically.
“I am making excellent progress. My appetite is excellent. My energy is
excellent. Even my complexion is excellent. Aragorn, there is not a thing wrong
with me!”
In answer, Aragorn patted the bed
bedside him. “Up.”
Frodo glared at Aragorn. Then,
grumbling, he clambered onto the bed. His condition was not so advanced as to
make the maneuver impossible, but Aragorn felt he had better reduce the risk of
a possible fall by placing a protective hand on the hobbit’s pert bottom. He
had intended merely to give his reluctant patient a boost. But with the
material so thin, and with it molded so snugly to such a perfectly shaped
posterior, that Aragorn couldn’t resist giving the fleshy mound just a little grope
- all in perfect taste, of course.
Frodo jounced onto the bed, and
then gave his would-be examiner a wry look over his shoulder. He let himself collapse
onto his side, then propped his curly head with a hand, and leveled a look at Aragorn
across his hip. “Is it customary for a doctor to manhandle his patients so, as
if he was tossing a sack of grain onto a cart?”
“Oh, no.” Aragorn crawled onto the
bed. “If I were tossing a sack of grain onto a cart, it would have to be much
better wrapped.” Aragorn slid his hand from Frodo’s knee to his thigh, pushing
the skimpy cloth towards the hobbit’s hips. “This grain sack appears imperfectly
sealed, to me.”
“Hmm.” Frodo smiled. “Are you trying
to tell me that something is not perfect about me?”
Aragorn kissed his thigh. “Let us
see.”
With firm but gentle pressure,
Aragorn pushed Frodo against the pillows. Frodo smothered a giggle, and focused
on the ceiling.
“Hmm.” Aragorn nibbled up the inside
of Frodo’s thigh, whilst his hands continued to work the simple gown higher over
Frodo’s hips. “Breathing seems a bit elevated. Heart rate, too.”
Frodo licked his lips. “I’m sure
it’s all within normal levels.”
“Excellent levels, don’t you
mean?” Aragorn’s hands positioned the gown over Frodo’s belly above the bulge.
Aragorn kept his eyes shut, nibbling the soft skin of the inner thigh. A
pleasant heat warmed his left cheek, though he did not turn to address it yet.
He situated himself more comfortably upon the bed, and brought up his left hand
to nudge the other thigh. “Legs open, please,” he murmured.
He felt a distinct quiver, as Frodo
eased his legs apart. Aragorn caressed the inside of the left leg with his
palm, and continued nuzzling the right with his lips. As his lips approached
the juncture of hip and thigh, Frodo twitched. Aragorn mumbled against his
skin, “How long have you been experiencing these spasms?”
“Oh…” Twitch. “Not long.” More
frantic breaths. “A few months. Minutes, I mean.”
“Which is it?” Aragorn moved his
lips from the thigh over Frodo’s hip, avoiding the pillar of heat that radiated
against his skin. Eyes still closed, he let his lips wander over the smooth
skin that bulged over the hobbit’s belly. He planted a kiss. “Is it months?” Another
kiss. “Or minutes?”
“Er, minutes I think. Yes,
decidedly minutes.” The hobbit moved restlessly, bouncing evidence of his
interest in this examination repeatedly into Aragorn’s neck.
Aragorn smiled, but did not relent.
Continuing to kiss with his eyes closed, he swept his hands over Frodo’s belly.
He rested them there, palms flat and fingers splayed. “Breathe,” he said.
Frodo did the best he could, but
the breath was definitely sketchy, interrupted midway by a hitch, and cut short
by the need for more bouncing.
Aragorn’s fingers pressed gently
against the firm globe beneath the skin. “Again,” he whispered, his lips
touching the skin.
The second breath was a repeat of
the first, followed by what could only be called wiggling. Aragorn stroked the burgeoning
belly, glorying in the tangible evidence of his love.
“I see nothing extraordinary here,
save that you seem to have partaken of an excellent dinner.”
“Oh, yes. Quite excellent,” Frodo
babbled.
Aragorn’s right hand descended -
again bypassing the obstacle that Frodo was trying desperately to place in his
path. It brushed the tender sac, now pulled close to Frodo’s body, making him
flinch. Gently, slowly, Aragorn reached below.
Some days ago, a slit had begun to
form in the swollen bulb. Now Frodo shuddered when Aragorn touched it. So
sensitive. Aragorn brought his fingers to his lips and thoroughly wet them,
then returned to the spot. Gently, he eased a finger inside.
“Aragorn!” Frodo arched
against him, his face contorted. But the buck in his hips told Aragorn that the
movement, while urgent, indicated nothing unpleasant. On the contrary, Frodo
rocked insistently against him. Aragorn let Frodo drive the movement, holding
his fingers steady so that, with each bounce of Frodo’s hips, they eased
farther and farther in. This was deeper than he had ever gone before; the
passage was certainly progressing. At another urgent thrust of Frodo’s, his
fingers passed entirely through the sensation-fired tissue of the penile organ,
and plunged into moist heat beyond.
“Aragorn!” Frodo writhed
beneath him. “Oh, Aragorn! What are you … I’ve never felt - Don’t stop doing
it!”
Keeping his fingertip in contact
with the interior volcano, Aragorn flared the rest of his fingers, so they
pressed along the inflamed tissues that comprised the sides of this developing
passage. His own member grew painfully tight, as he imagined what it might feel
like to be stimulated inside his erect organ, as well as along the
exterior.
Ah yes, the exterior. Aragorn
dipped his head, sought with his lips - and found. In moments that delightful
firmness was inside him, all plump and needy and already tasting pungently
of seed. Frodo bellowed at the contact; his arms flung wide, hands grasping at
the counterpane. Aragorn suckled luxuriously, never ceasing the jiggling
stimulation with his right hand. He could feel what it was doing to Frodo; the vibrations
were transferred to the organ in his mouth, stimulating it from base to tip, inside
and out, as his tongue swept round and round its lovely length, and his middle finger
pressed into a molten heat that he had never felt before. In time, would the
passage be deep enough? Would Aragorn be privileged to experience the delicious
intimacy of his partner, in yet another way?
With a scream and a shudder, Frodo
spurted into his mouth. Aragorn swallowed quickly, thoroughly, thoughtfully - delighted
to caress and clean and soothe this thing which brought such pleasure to his
dear love - and which caused Aragorn no small amount of satisfaction in return.
Frodo subsided. Aragorn embraced
him with a lingering tongue, then gently raised his head. The hobbit lay
splayed upon his back, eyes shut tight. Candlelight played across his exquisite
features, shining on the gloss of his parted lips, limning the sheer cloth on
his chest as it rose and fell with his rapid breathing. Gently Aragorn slid his
fingers from the newly formed orifice. He wanted to climb higher and fold Frodo
into his arms - but not just yet. Just now, Aragorn drank in the sight of him,
lying sated before him like some voyeur’s dream.
Those unearthly eyes cracked open.
A large-pupiled eye rotated beneath the lowered lashes, fixing on Aragorn’s
face. His breathing slowed, though he still jerked sporadically, between
starved breaths.
“Well, you are certainly making
progress,” said Aragorn. “Pardon me: excellent progress.”
“Ungh blugh,” said Frodo.
“On the other hand,” Aragorn kissed
Frodo’s belly again, “this grain sack is indeed faulty. It let a sizable
quantity of seed escape just now, unless I am much mistaken.”
“Guh,” Frodo panted. “Good … sack.”
Aragorn did slide up the bed then,
and cuddled Frodo in his arms. He kissed his damp forehead. “I am forced to
admit that I am rather fond of it myself. You see, I, too, Frodo, have an excellent
appetite.”
Lily, prepare for an episode in which:
Aragorn Finds Nothing Wrong
“Aragorn, nothing is wrong with
me!”
Aragorn glowered. “We can’t know
that, unless you let me examine you.”
Looking younger than his years in
his flimsy gown, Frodo crossed his arms, a little higher than usual because of
the budding bulge in his belly. “You never believe me.” Frodo tipped his face
towards Aragorn, the candlelight falling across that magical blend of softness
and angles that resulted in (to Aragorn’s eyes) indescribable beauty. Aragorn
felt a familiar stirring, despite the fact that Frodo himself appeared to be
feeling rather clinical. The hobbit enumerated his various points emphatically.
“I am making excellent progress. My appetite is excellent. My energy is
excellent. Even my complexion is excellent. Aragorn, there is not a thing wrong
with me!”
In answer, Aragorn patted the bed
bedside him. “Up.”
Frodo glared at Aragorn. Then,
grumbling, he clambered onto the bed. His condition was not so advanced as to
make the maneuver impossible, but Aragorn felt he had better reduce the risk of
a possible fall by placing a protective hand on the hobbit’s pert bottom. He
had intended merely to give his reluctant patient a boost. But with the
material so thin, and with it molded so snugly to such a perfectly shaped
posterior, that Aragorn couldn’t resist giving the fleshy mound just a little grope
- all in perfect taste, of course.
Frodo jounced onto the bed, and
then gave his would-be examiner a wry look over his shoulder. He let himself collapse
onto his side, then propped his curly head with a hand, and leveled a look at Aragorn
across his hip. “Is it customary for a doctor to manhandle his patients so, as
if he was tossing a sack of grain onto a cart?”
“Oh, no.” Aragorn crawled onto the
bed. “If I were tossing a sack of grain onto a cart, it would have to be much
better wrapped.” Aragorn slid his hand from Frodo’s knee to his thigh, pushing
the skimpy cloth towards the hobbit’s hips. “This grain sack appears imperfectly
sealed, to me.”
“Hmm.” Frodo smiled. “Are you trying
to tell me that something is not perfect about me?”
Aragorn kissed his thigh. “Let us
see.”
With firm but gentle pressure,
Aragorn pushed Frodo against the pillows. Frodo smothered a giggle, and focused
on the ceiling.
“Hmm.” Aragorn nibbled up the inside
of Frodo’s thigh, whilst his hands continued to work the simple gown higher over
Frodo’s hips. “Breathing seems a bit elevated. Heart rate, too.”
Frodo licked his lips. “I’m sure
it’s all within normal levels.”
“Excellent levels, don’t you
mean?” Aragorn’s hands positioned the gown over Frodo’s belly above the bulge.
Aragorn kept his eyes shut, nibbling the soft skin of the inner thigh. A
pleasant heat warmed his left cheek, though he did not turn to address it yet.
He situated himself more comfortably upon the bed, and brought up his left hand
to nudge the other thigh. “Legs open, please,” he murmured.
He felt a distinct quiver, as Frodo
eased his legs apart. Aragorn caressed the inside of the left leg with his
palm, and continued nuzzling the right with his lips. As his lips approached
the juncture of hip and thigh, Frodo twitched. Aragorn mumbled against his
skin, “How long have you been experiencing these spasms?”
“Oh…” Twitch. “Not long.” More
frantic breaths. “A few months. Minutes, I mean.”
“Which is it?” Aragorn moved his
lips from the thigh over Frodo’s hip, avoiding the pillar of heat that radiated
against his skin. Eyes still closed, he let his lips wander over the smooth
skin that bulged over the hobbit’s belly. He planted a kiss. “Is it months?” Another
kiss. “Or minutes?”
“Er, minutes I think. Yes,
decidedly minutes.” The hobbit moved restlessly, bouncing evidence of his
interest in this examination repeatedly into Aragorn’s neck.
Aragorn smiled, but did not relent.
Continuing to kiss with his eyes closed, he swept his hands over Frodo’s belly.
He rested them there, palms flat and fingers splayed. “Breathe,” he said.
Frodo did the best he could, but
the breath was definitely sketchy, interrupted midway by a hitch, and cut short
by the need for more bouncing.
Aragorn’s fingers pressed gently
against the firm globe beneath the skin. “Again,” he whispered, his lips
touching the skin.
The second breath was a repeat of
the first, followed by what could only be called wiggling. Aragorn stroked the burgeoning
belly, glorying in the tangible evidence of his love.
“I see nothing extraordinary here,
save that you seem to have partaken of an excellent dinner.”
“Oh, yes. Quite excellent,” Frodo
babbled.
Aragorn’s right hand descended -
again bypassing the obstacle that Frodo was trying desperately to place in his
path. It brushed the tender sac, now pulled close to Frodo’s body, making him
flinch. Gently, slowly, Aragorn reached below.
Some days ago, a slit had begun to
form in the swollen bulb. Now Frodo shuddered when Aragorn touched it. So
sensitive. Aragorn brought his fingers to his lips and thoroughly wet them,
then returned to the spot. Gently, he eased a finger inside.
“Aragorn!” Frodo arched
against him, his face contorted. But the buck in his hips told Aragorn that the
movement, while urgent, indicated nothing unpleasant. On the contrary, Frodo
rocked insistently against him. Aragorn let Frodo drive the movement, holding
his fingers steady so that, with each bounce of Frodo’s hips, they eased
farther and farther in. This was deeper than he had ever gone before; the
passage was certainly progressing. At another urgent thrust of Frodo’s, his
fingers passed entirely through the sensation-fired tissue of the penile organ,
and plunged into moist heat beyond.
“Aragorn!” Frodo writhed
beneath him. “Oh, Aragorn! What are you … I’ve never felt - Don’t stop doing
it!”
Keeping his fingertip in contact
with the interior volcano, Aragorn flared the rest of his fingers, so they
pressed along the inflamed tissues that comprised the sides of this developing
passage. His own member grew painfully tight, as he imagined what it might feel
like to be stimulated inside his erect organ, as well as along the
exterior.
Ah yes, the exterior. Aragorn
dipped his head, sought with his lips - and found. In moments that delightful
firmness was inside him, all plump and needy and already tasting pungently
of seed. Frodo bellowed at the contact; his arms flung wide, hands grasping at
the counterpane. Aragorn suckled luxuriously, never ceasing the jiggling
stimulation with his right hand. He could feel what it was doing to Frodo; the vibrations
were transferred to the organ in his mouth, stimulating it from base to tip, inside
and out, as his tongue swept round and round its lovely length, and his middle finger
pressed into a molten heat that he had never felt before. In time, would the
passage be deep enough? Would Aragorn be privileged to experience the delicious
intimacy of his partner, in yet another way?
With a scream and a shudder, Frodo
spurted into his mouth. Aragorn swallowed quickly, thoroughly, thoughtfully - delighted
to caress and clean and soothe this thing which brought such pleasure to his
dear love - and which caused Aragorn no small amount of satisfaction in return.
Frodo subsided. Aragorn embraced
him with a lingering tongue, then gently raised his head. The hobbit lay
splayed upon his back, eyes shut tight. Candlelight played across his exquisite
features, shining on the gloss of his parted lips, limning the sheer cloth on
his chest as it rose and fell with his rapid breathing. Gently Aragorn slid his
fingers from the newly formed orifice. He wanted to climb higher and fold Frodo
into his arms - but not just yet. Just now, Aragorn drank in the sight of him,
lying sated before him like some voyeur’s dream.
Those unearthly eyes cracked open.
A large-pupiled eye rotated beneath the lowered lashes, fixing on Aragorn’s
face. His breathing slowed, though he still jerked sporadically, between
starved breaths.
“Well, you are certainly making
progress,” said Aragorn. “Pardon me: excellent progress.”
“Ungh blugh,” said Frodo.
“On the other hand,” Aragorn kissed
Frodo’s belly again, “this grain sack is indeed faulty. It let a sizable
quantity of seed escape just now, unless I am much mistaken.”
“Guh,” Frodo panted. “Good … sack.”
Aragorn did slide up the bed then,
and cuddled Frodo in his arms. He kissed his damp forehead. “I am forced to
admit that I am rather fond of it myself. You see, I, too, Frodo, have an excellent
appetite.”