Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. I don't own these characters. This story is not meant to violate the rights held by New Line, Tolkien Enterprises, nor any other licensee, nor is any disrespect intended.
I love to take him when he is freshly spanked. I love the feel of his bottom, the skin so hot and smooth and tight, sometimes even shiny if he has been especially naughty, or needing a great deal of attention and had therefore been in need of a long spanking. I sometimes begin as I am now, taking him back over my knee, enjoying the sight of him there, well-spanked and all mine.
“Shhh,” I tell him, understanding his soft whimpers. “Shhhhhhhhhhh . . . behave.”
And then I touch him, cup one cheek, then the other, back and forth, just cupping, feeling the heat in my hand, perhaps moving the hot flesh a little, a gentle squeeze and then he knows, just from the feel of my palm, he knows there will be no more spanking. Sometimes his first purr comes then:
“Mmmmm . . . . mmmmmm . . . .”
I chuckle softly. Ahh, indeed, a purr of contentment, of excitement, as though he cannot quite manage the rest of the word – “Mmmmmmmm . . . mmmmmorrre.”
Not that he has to ask. I stroke and pet and smooth my hand along his silky, red bottom flesh until we can tolerate no more of it, until he cannot hold still and he begins to move, that sweet, slow grind into my lap. Oh, something is indeed happening between us, and I feel that large and hungry something pressing insistently upon my thighs. Time to tease a little:
“Would you like something else, little one?”
A nod. A whimper. So obedient. “mmmmmmm.”
“Perhaps something . . . mmmmore?” A gasp this time, low and throaty. I grin. “Mmmm. So I thought.”
I shift his position, handling him carefully.
“I love the way you move me, touch me,” he once told me afterwards. “You lay me down with such care, and I feel . . . I feel . . . .”
“As though you have no bones?”
He nodded. “You handle me like . . ..”
“Like a fine treasure.” I smiled at his blush. “Because you are one, sweetling.” More blushing.
“And I feel . . . owned.”
“Mmm. As indeed you are.” I needed then only flash him a quiet smile, authoritative and fervent, and he shivered deliciously.
And so now I settle him down, on the bed, or on the grass, or on the soft and fragrant forest floor, one of our cloaks beneath us. I intend to take him on his back tonight, for I love to gaze into his eyes when I enter him and move inside him.
But, at present, I place him on his stomach, eager to enjoy the sight of his sweet bottom a bit longer, to relish the results of my spanking. Luscious deep red . . . . “Mmmmmmm.” I smile. Lovely sight. I cannot keep from touching. It beckons my palm. And I generously share the sight with him.
“Such a pretty red bottom, little one.”
Squirming again. Nothing more. Only sweet squirming. A just response.
I smile, and I caress him again, patting his hot cheeks simply to see him wriggle and hammer his toes down and to hear him moan. Makes me grin. But he knows that there will be no more spanking, so he can lay nicely and protest with little useless gestures that delight us both. I chuckle low in my throat and he turns and flashes an impish pout over his shoulder and we revel in our playfulness for a while.
Now I stop touching him to see what he will do with that separation. He endures it but a little before he reaches around and finds my hand and brings it back to his bottom. Well, such impertinence deserves but one response, and I answer him with what I am certain he knows he has requested. A sharp spank, even the small one I give him now, upon such a red backside is enough to make him flinch and yelp.
“Stop that at once,” I tell him. “Any further display of such forwardness and I shall escort you back to camp.”
He is satisfied with my control then and he shudders and over-obeys by drawing his arms close to his body, bringing his fists up to rest on either side of his head. Ohh, how I long to take him instantly! He is that enchanting.
Instead I gather him up, his body still limp and supple, and I settle him across my lap, facing me, and I tell him how beautiful he is, how charming – such squeamish terms for a warrior! He blushes furiously but his shy grin wins out, my words tingling beneath his skin. I lean down and kiss him, my lips moving over his with the boldness of ownership.
He loves kissing. So do I. We do it often. His mouth is delicious. That truly is the only way to describe it. Delicious. All of him is delicious. But our kissing alone can take hold too quickly. That needful panic will surge within me and then I must take him at once, devour all of him at once. He is, of course, helpless to do anything but respond in kind. Our urgency will swell out of control and then we must hurry, frantic with need, and we finish far too soon. He knows this, but he cannot be bothered to consider such things. I must be the one who slows things down if I want this to last.
I do not always want it to last. Sometimes I permit that first mating to be fast and frantic, bursting over us. But tonight I have decided to take him slowly this first time. So I begin by kissing him sweetly, teasing his lips, rubbing mine back and forth over his, our breath blending, his short warm huffs entering me. My tongue then penetrates his mouth to find his, caressing it, tasting it, urging it into action – exactly what he is longing for.
How overly eager he is! His warm and wet and hungry mouth becomes more and more demanding. I pull back, lift him and give him a sharp little swat. Another yelp.
“Again you are too forward, my impertinent bratling. Behave. I shall not tell you another time.”
Once more he flashes me that pretty pout, his eyes glittering with mischievous lights. Oh, he knew quite well what he was doing.
This naughtiness needs answering, of course, so I reach down, my hand gliding lower and lower over his quivering stomach, gaining his instant attention and reminding him of his place. It matters not that I am rewarding him for his misbehavior. It is the game we love, the silent agreement.
He quivers, bravely watching me slide his shirt to his chest, baring him to my view. He shudders at my first touch, and I grin and feather my fingers along the length of him. He is achingly ready, poor youngling. He will be unable to bear much of this.
“Mmmmmm,” he hums, squirming, impatient. He wants more, of course, but he is unwilling to risk displaying further impertinence. It could earn him a longer wait or more spanking or, worse, a trip back to camp.
I do make him wait, but not overly long. He is behaving to the best of his ability, and that deserves rewarding. So I close his thickness in my hand and I hold him, just hold him firmly, without movement. He groans, huffing small ragged breaths.
I smile even though he has closed his eyes. “Look at me. You know I must see your eyes.” And those beautiful eyes pop open, earning him yet more favor. I squeeze him and stroke him, a languid up and down stroke, his firm skin warm and pliable, and he groans and quivers anew.
“My poor little one,” I whisper, brushing my lips over his, breathing my words into his panting mouth. “How eager we are.”
And he is, sometimes so much so that he cannot respond, other than to whimper yet again. I smile, and he notices, and he cannot help returning a resentful little grin.
“Please . . . please, I-I . . . .”
“Hush,” I tell him. “You know how I love to play with you. And when your sweet backside is hot and tender . . . .” I release him and lift him a bit and caress his hot bottom. “Mmmmmm.”
But impatience is winning within me as well. The ache between my legs is throbbing. I raise him and lean down and take his mouth again, drinking him in with little luscious kisses and licks, making us wait and quiver together, testing his endurance, and mine . . . mmm, sweet torment!
“How beautifully you are behaving,” I murmur into his gasping mouth.
“I-I-I am trying so hard, s-so, sooo hard! Please, please, please,” he whispers. “Oh, p-please!”
“Please what, sweetling?”
“Pleeease, I-I-I cannot . . . ohhh, please, pleeease take me.”
I chuckle and draw back and smile softly down at him. A damp sheen of arousal glistens on his skin, such delicious abandon. “Very well,” I tell him. “You have been good. And I am hungry to taste you, little one, and to mate with you.” He throbs in my hand and I pump him lightly and raise a brow. “But what must you do, or rather, what must you not do, sweetling?”
“I-I-I must not s-spend until you give me p-permission.” I gasp. How I voice that is beyond me. How I plan to achieve it seems impossible. He already has my whole body shaking, and if he uses his mouth on me, if he takes me into that warm wet mouth and begins to lick and suckle . . . I have likely just made an impossible promise.
But . . . I have not promised! I answered him, but I made no promise! Ahh, then I would spend when I liked and worry about the consequences of releasing without permission later! I catch my breath, merely thinking of it.
He smiles now, so impossibly beautiful. “Such naughty thoughts are reflected in your eyes, sweetling.”
“You shall promise me now, little one. You will not spend without permission. Nay, shh, shh, shh! Do not groan so. A promise will protect you from the naughtiness you were contemplating.” He chuckles softly. “My poor bratling. Alas, you wear your thoughts too openly after a spanking. Therefore, promise me. Now.” He kisses me deeply and thoroughly and my mind liquefies. “Promise me, pretty one, or we shall return to camp at once.”
He again raises a meaningful brow, and I wince and re-word it as he silently demands: “I promise not to spend without permission.”
Now he kisses me once more and tells me to stop pouting even though I am adorable when I pout. Adorable. Me. I blush yet again, utterly unable to stop it.
At last he slides me from his lap, lowering me to the cloak and he slips out from under me. My impatient heart hammers, but he moves with his exasperating slow grace.
I once accused him of being less interested in this than I was. He never seemed as eager. How could he be interested and still exercise such control? He gave me the most incredulous look, then he burst into gales of laughter.
“Forgive me!” he finally managed to sputter. “But, oh! That was too humorous! Not as eager?” And he broke up again and swatted me for my impudence. “Sweetling, such utter nonsense!”
He is more disciplined, not less eager. It amazes me. I long for such mastery. I begin panting and wriggling the moment his touch moves from a disciplinary one to a passionate one. He fondly scolds me for my impatience. He loves it, though. I suppose I love it, too. ‘Tis our dance.
I am on my back now, and he kneels beside me, studying me, thoughtful and fascinated. How, oh, how does he move at such a leisurely pace? He takes off my clothing, one slow piece at a time, murmuring that these mild nights are a blessing, as he loves to feel me entirely naked beneath him.
“I would see and touch all of you, beloved.” His hand strokes along my skin, his fascinated gaze following. “Every splendid, glorious inch of you.”
He is gifted in making me blush. But he rewards my compliance by removing all of his clothing as well, and now I have the added sweet torment of looking at him – every splendid, glorious inch of him.
How I ache to take him in my hand, hold him, squeeze his thickness, feel his hot, supple skin, tight, yet also soft around his hard length! He feels heavy and solid in my hand, throbbing in my palm. I quiver, recalling at once how he feels when buried in my depths.
How I ache to play with him, taste him and suck him and make him groan – ahh, that is soooo lovely! He has the lowest groan, deep and warm. It sounds as though it comes from the innermost part of him. I love drawing that groan from him.
How I ache to reach for him at once! Of course he sees that in an instant, and it makes him chuckle.
“When I say so, little one.” He leans over me, his mouth whispering into mine: “You may touch when I allow it. Patience.”
I hate that word.
Another traitorous whimper slips from me and he grins and kisses me some more and runs his palm up and down my body, stopping to tease all those secret places he knows about, sending hot jolts to my aching member, making me impossibly harder and hotter.
And now his mouth – ohhhh, his warm, wet mouth follows his hand! I tremble beyond all help. He stops here and there to bestow maddening licks and nibbles, returning often to my mouth, taking little drinks and running his hungry tongue within, caressing mine. Then he glides along my body once more, tasting me . . . my neck, my collarbone, back up to my ears, which makes me jump and shiver. I near spent the first time he did that to me. And now, ohhhhh, now he slides down to those sensitive little nubs I can scarce acknowledge as part of me. Ooohhhh . . . .
“They are called nipples,” he once informed me in a teasing tone.
“I know what they are called, for Valar’s sake!”
He laughed. “Aw, sweetling, such a pretty blush! Does it embarrass you to call them what they are?”
Chuckling, he had leaned down and played with them for a tortuous long time, tonguing, nipping, licking and suckling, and then finally biting each one and pulling until I gasped and writhed and let fly a quick scream.
“What are these tiny jewels called, little one?” he asked again when I was in a near babbling state.
And mine are incredibly sensitive. He enjoys that . . . as do I. But the word still flusters me.
He sometimes moves unexpectedly and he does now. He straddles my hips, and sits and slowly begins rubbing against me. I scarce have time to gasp before he grabs both our members in his hands, holding them together, caressing them against each other, our swollen sacs rolling over and over, pressing together.
I think we say it in unison, but I am not sure, because he is slowly grinding himself against me now, gazing down with that smoldering look . . . .
“Not yet. Do not dare.”
“Please . . . I-I-I --”
“I said no.”
I whimper again and dig down deep inside me, seeking restraint. I must have left it somewhere. But, just as suddenly, he releases us. My blood engorged thickness pulses, hot and alone and seeking, but before I can even groan another, ‘oh pleeeeease!’ he braces a hand on either side of my head and kneels over me and leans down. His mouth takes mine again, his deep, languid kisses sucking all protesting breath from me. He plays there, hovering, daring me to arch up and rub against him.
But I am good. I behave. I do. I cannot say how I do, but I do. I want more and the way to get more is to remain biddable. So I grasp fistfuls of the cloak beneath me and I squeeze and squeeze, twisting the cloth, feeling the muscles in my straining hands ache. If this will provide but a shred of distraction, just enough to help me behave . . . !
It works. I withstand his assault on my mouth. But now he rises up and smiles knowingly down at me – ahhh, so beautiful!
“Beware, lest you rip my cloak asunder,” he says, his voice full of cleverness.
Of course he would know my strategy.
“No matter. You have been good. And I know it is costing you.”
I gasp, daring to hope, and I sputter, “Ohhhhh, then please! Please! I-I-I --”
“You . . . what, little one?”
“I-I need to feel you inside me!”
“Mmmmm.” A hungry smile this time. “That sounds splendid indeed!” Leaning down, he traces his tongue around the rim of my ear. “Say it then. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
Gladly! I whisper two words to him, the only two needed. And he whispers back, “And so I shall, sweetling. Several times, at least.”
Rising swiftly, he slips down and knees my legs apart, and I quickly assist, spreading them with a brazen eagerness that makes him chuckle. Again, he surprises me. He stretches out between my legs and promptly takes me deep into his mouth.
“Ahhhh!” I cannot help arching! His hot, moist mouth, suckling --! “Ahhhhhhhhhh!”
He reaches down and pinches that burning place beneath the curve of my bottom, that place he had spanked repeatedly, and I cry out anew in a different tone, a wail of protest. He releases me from his mouth. “Then behave yourself, sir.”
“But-but-I-I thought you were g-going to f --”
“I am getting there, youngling. Patience.”
“You need preparing,” he says, taking wet licks along my pulsating length, his tongue playing swirling games over the tip. “And you know how I love the taste of you.”
I concede. I shall not survive this. I shall break my promise and spend, and he will rise and dress us both and march me back to camp where I will sit near the fire with the others, entertaining him with my pout and dying a thousand deaths.
Groan after groan rumbles from me as he plays. But I sense a building urgency in his touch, in his breathing, in the way his tongue washes over me. He grows eager, as well! I behave more, light-headed with hope. His needs are catching up to him!
He nuzzles my shaking legs apart wider and his mouth moves lower. He loves to leave nothing untasted. When he first did this to me I lost all control. I lost it time after time. A bit humbling. But it served to amuse him.
“You will learn, beloved,” he had told me. “I shall always want to do this to you, so you will learn to discipline your urges whilst I play. Practice, sir. I shall see you have many opportunities to practice this discipline.”
And he did, and I did learn a small measure of his wretched, sweet, terrible discipline. But tonight, ohhhhh tonight! I writhe beneath him as he plays and plays between my legs. I stare up through the high treetops to the black, star-speckled sky . . . try to count the dots of light . . . . Utter folly! Pure waste of effort.
My gasping mouth goes dry. I must wriggle away! Escape what he is doing to me! But he holds my hips in a firm grasp lest I forget myself and writhe too much. I can, in fact, scarce move at all. But my heart pulsates wildly. Time to beg.
“Pleasepleaseplease! Pleeeeease, I-I cannot --”
“No, t-t-truly, I-I-I canno --”
“Hush. You can, sir. And you will.”
But again, there is that hungry tone in his voice and that eagerness in his movements. Again I dare to hope. He tickles and licks but a few minutes more, then he leaves me with a sealing kiss and kneels up. Grabbing his tunic, he searches the many pockets until he finds the small packet of special liquid. Never unprepared.
His eyes positively glitter. “Are you ready, sweetling?”
I glare up at him.
He chuckles, still gazing at me whilst readying himself, and then me. In the beginning, my impatience with this necessary step was imprudent.
“Stop that. This must be done, beloved. I shall hurt you otherwise. So lie quietly now. Patience.”
Several times I argued and ended up with a hotter backside and a horribly longer wait. So now I lie quietly and endure and sometimes he takes forever to prepare me, enjoying the play of it, stroking my special place within and grinning at my desperate cries.
But thank the Valar for his own need tonight. He is lovingly efficient, tickling me inside but a little.
“So well disciplined.” He grins when finished. “You have been very good.”
And now, at last, he lifts my legs, spreading them, moving between them, lifting more. He gazes down at our joining point, guiding himself, watching himself enter me, and the intimacy of that makes me near shatter.
I cannot look. I close my eyes, quivering, and I squeeze his cloak in my now-sore hands. I try not to spend, try to breathe, try to . . . he has stopped moving. My eyes fly open. He is holding still, kneeling, studying me, waiting with perfect authority.
“Look at me. Do not hide your beautiful eyes, sweetling. You know that is not allowed.”
“S-Sorry, sorry, sorry! So sorry!”
Another indulgent grin and a wink. Then he swirls the tip of himself around my opening, spreading his moisture, coating me yet again, all the while holding my blurry gaze. His mesmerizing voice flows over me:
“There, there now pretty one. Such trembling! Shhh, you have been so well behaved. I am proud of you.”
And at last he guides himself inside me, pushing tenderly but insistently. For now he, too, is shaking. He glides within, slow inch by glorious slow inch. I open as widely as possible, wanting more, wanting all of him now, now, now! And of course, he stops and raises a brow at me.
“Enough of that impertinence. Patience, little one. Patience.”
Oh how I detest that word!
“Mmmmmmmmm,” he purrs.
I grin, cuddling him closer. My sweetly sated youngling. I respond in kind: “Mmmmmmmmm.”
He has recovered enough to speak. “Do we have time for more?”
I laugh softly, gazing down at him. “Insatiable bratling!” He flashes me his shy grin, delighting in my soft scolding. I kiss his delicious mouth. “Indeed. Soon. Be patient.”
“How I hate that word.”
“I know you do, sweetling.”
“If you wouldst rather not bother to exercise patience we can return to camp at once.”
“Noooo!” He hugs himself closer to me. Mmmm. Still naked. Lying stretched out atop me. His warm skin pressed to mine . . . he will not need to exercise his hateful patience for long.
“You know, you are very good at that,” he murmurs, kissing my chest.
I chuckle warmly. “Thank you, sweetling. So are you.”
He lifts his head to gaze at me. “I am?” he asks, wide-eyed.
I smile at his youthful tone, so guileless and wholly trusting. “Indeed, little one. Very good.” He grins, adorably pleased with himself, and wiggles down upon me again.
Taking him after a spanking, when he has few defenses, may seem unbefitting. Unfair advantage. But what folly! The first one to object to such a notion, and to object the loudest, would be this little one curled up upon me. So such nonsense did not take root within me.
He is entirely mine after a spanking. Making him even more mine, seating myself within him and loving him to a weeping state, then pouring my essence into him, claiming him as mine in the most intimate of ways – awww, it is sublimely transcendent for both of us.
“Are you ready yet?”
I laugh and reach down and give his well-spanked bottom a small swat and he yelps and reaches back to rub and turns the sweetest pout upon me. I think myself the luckiest warrior in Middle Earth.
“Soon, little one. Patience.”
“I hate that vile wo --”
“Indeed, sweetling. I know.”