Firiel, the secret daughter of Galadriel and one of the Istari (to her last breath the Lady of the Light affirmed that it had been dark - and the party wild too) was in trouble. She had been eluding her pursuer for a sennight and now he was almost upon her. Her usually smalt spheres were now mazarine with exhaustion and anxiety. Her chest heaved, although her bindings still hid her full yet firm breasts, thus keeping her sex secret. The fey sorceress' garb was the antithesis of what it should be: plain sorrel coloured breeches, scuffed and muddied from her excursion, a rumpled and ill-fitting tunic that now matched the colour of the ground she had been scurrying across for days, and boots that had seen many a better day. Seeing that the feral wood-elf prince was almost upon her, Firiel decided to pounce him by surprise and hid behind a boulder in ambush.
The son of Thranduil slithered into the clearing oblivious of the presence of the half-Elf, half-Maia hidden on the other edge. Bent close to the ground he followed her trail with eye, nose and ear. The mixed breed stifled a gasp by bringing her hand - slim, with delicate yet strong fingers graced with pearl-coloured nails - to her usually red yet now pale-pink full and sensual lips. She was well aware of the Sylvan elves' affinity with nature and – as she had run out of "Pine of the Mountain" soap three days ago and had to fall back on "101 herbs and flowers for perfect skin" she was certain that the blond hunter had discerned her feminine scent, no longer masked by the male detergent. She would be offended had he not noticed.
Anticipating the inevitable she gracefully mounted her boulder, gripping it between her well toned thighs. Her muscles flexed under the trews which - in her half crouch - stretched like a second skin over her legs, showing their sleekness to best advantage. In a powerful voice the sorceress began the cadence of summoning. This was her secret weapon for close defense – to call upon a feline familiar from the Outer Circles of Arda.
A HOOY TCHIEH YEBALL SKUR-VEHSEE-NUH, COORVAH!
The Words of Power fell on the clearing, making the grass blacken and whither. Was her Valarin imperfect, or the Valar hard of hearing, or her slight lisp - which her friends said made her sound a bit sultry – for whatever reason the summoning brought forth a leotard instead of a leopard. While this new reality dawned upon her, that the skin hugging garment was treacherously revealing her charms to the ellon, the new circumstances were not without effect on the relentless hunter. His eyes became round and his immaculate yet weather-honed cheeks flushed, bringing colour to his chiselled cheekbones sitting atop a strong jawline ...
Firiel wished to scream in terror. However, the hunger she saw in the blond's eyes took her breath away and all she managed was a weak squeak. She well knew that the flush was caused by hot blood rushing to the male's head. And not only his head ... Firiel knew that he will now go all primal and medieval and reproductory on her. His visage assumed the expression she knew from the famous painting, shown to ellith only upon presentation of written parents' permission, the infamous "The Warrior and the Warbride".
In a single leap – "OMG, he was THAT keen!" - the blond prince of Mirkwood was upon her, grasping the collar of her leotard and ripping it apart – with ivory, rose-shaped buttons flying everywhichways - from her white throat down to her diamond-tipped navel piercing. Enslaving her in his powerful arms he squashed her lithe body against his broad chest and began to gnaw on her clavicles. Then he nipped her under the ears. Then he slid his hot, pink and delicately coarse tongue along the hollows of her clavicles again. Firiel felt her knees turn to goo and her knickers into a damp rag. His panting undid her and she matched his primal passions nip for nip, teeth savaged flesh for tongue tortured skin. The elleth's womanhood [however we understand it] pulsated with a dull throb. Firiel ripped the back of his leather jerkin apart and cleaved his muscled back, leaving bloody marks on his alabaster skin, while at the front end drawing blood from his heavily muscled shoulders with her suddenly insatiable teeth. She rubbed her now exposed and puckered nipples against his chest ...
While they writhed on the grass, their bodies united in a communion of the senses, in a rhythm perfectly synchronised with their bodies' needs in a fertility rite ancient as Arda, somewhere far away, somewhere in the Outer Circles of Arda, a she-leopard was sleeping. She stretched her graceful body and twitched her tail and after parts, dreaming of kittens.
AN:
Thank you ithilbereth for your assistance with this fic.