Rough Fingers on Ivory Skin
The tale of Boromir and his bride (who's name is decidedly not Gondorian but has quite a length story surrounding it.) This chapter alone is not enough to justify the R rating but later updates shall...
This story is due to the labor of Lars and Oliver over many chocolate brownie frappichinos commencing around 2 months ago. Kisses to Brooke who's notes and drawings of stripper angsty bunny made us laugh and to Siobhan for her constant encouragement and lovely sketch of our OFC. Hopefully our writing styles... Lars and her poetic prose laced in an excess of description and the interesting (obsidian) words choice and directness of Oliver's. (I hope I did it justice in that description, love)
Just read and review....
June 3013 T.A.
She lay on the bed adorned with silken sheets, slick and formidable against her skin, and heavy velvet drapes embellished with the emblem of the White Tree of Gondor shrouded the bed, suffocating her in the already stifling room. She glanced onto the stone floor where her gown lay in a pool of alabaster, immaculate, watered silk where she had shed it earlier and had been transformed, donning an ivory nightgown that revealed too much of her pale, wan skin for her comfort. In the mirror leaning up against the wall she saw her ebony tendrils of hair fanned across the goose feather pillow, and she viewed her small chest heaving up and down in a constant cadence with her shuddering breath. Dread engulfed her small, limp frame as she heard stumbling footfalls in the corridor, and a thread of light shone across her face as the heavy oak door swung open with a creak. And then her gray irises met his obsidian eyes and she lay bathed in the flickering, dancing illumination of the torches mounted on the outside walls, and the shadows cast by the leaping flames danced upon her face. He staggered into the chamber, their chamber, and she shrank back against the headboard, closing her eyes as he loomed ever closer.
Suddenly she was cognizant of lips, dry and windburned, brushing against her brow in a kiss that was almost reverent and gentle. She felt a hot breath bearing the bittersweet odor of dry mead at the nape of her neck, and hands the consistency of worn leather, lacerated and calloused, gripped her bony shoulders with something that frightened her. A burning desire. Her gray eyes fluttered open, and she gazed upon the scraggly hair of her husband, hair not quite the hue of honey, nor the color of rich, tilled soil, but somewhere in between. Hair shorn at the shoulders that now intermingled with hers. Her husband...
Abruptly she twisted away from his powerful, all consuming grasp, finally regaining her rationality. There she lay, arms clasped about herself, around the area of milky white skin revealed by the low cutting bodice of the slip.
He was perched in the edge of the bed, methodically removing his leather boots, then furiously hurling them towards the wall. One of them collided with the fragile mirror and it shattered, shards of broken glass reflecting the moon light that shone through the sheer, translucent drapes on the window.
Bathed in this eerie light, she didn't like it. She knew that she didn't like it. The atmosphere was all awry according to the whimsical notion of love her guileless mind had wrought and she was bewildered. Their was no logical reason that his mood should have fluctuated so rapidly. As she looked into his passion ridden obsidian orbs, she shivered uncontrollably, knowing what was to inevitably occur next. Boots and shirt successfully off after moments of clumsy fumbling, his mouth twisted upwards into a mocking, derisive sneer and he crawled towards her lithely, almost catlike. She shrunk back further still, pulling the silken sheets over the crown of her head, covering her virgin body and the cursed revealing nightgown that encased it from his wandering hands.
She didn't want him.
She didn't love him.
The one she loved she would pine for forevermore, knowing that she would never be his, as her love's eyes were trained always to Rohan, hoping for a glimpse of flaxen strands far in the distance.
With a throaty growl Boromir yanked the sheets back, and taking advantage of her horror, she took her lips in a searing kiss, tracing her plump, red lips with his moist tongue, begging for entrance. She kept her lips forcefully closed and remained cold and unresponding. Without warning, he began nibbling on her bottom lip, and then he bit with vengeance, drawing blood, red, red blood.
Wordlessly she slumped forward, burying her face in her cupped palms, onyx tendrils shrouding all, her thin body wracked with sobs, and her slim fingers wiping away the blood, safely concealed by her curtain of hair, and he caught her. He caught her with agility and reflexes gleaned from years of service on the perilous borders of Gondor, rapid, though dulled in his intoxicated state. Mentally he chided himself for his rash actions, regretting the notion that he could drink his troubles away. She didn't want this, she didn't want this... marriage anymore than he did. Appalled by his own actions, he shifted on the broad mattress closer to her, gently, almost reluctantly albeit stroking her hair, caressing her cheek with his rough thumb, all the while marveling at the feeling of her alabaster, immaculate skin touching his bare chest. He had to remember, and this was hard, that Name was just as fragile as the mirror, and if treated too harshly, she too, could break. The thought of him ravaging her, marring her, stealing her precious virginity no longer seemed so appealing, at least to his mind. His body, however, burned with unfulfilled desire, arching in earnest as the ends of her long, raven locks brushed his thigh.
Yet, that would be... rape. At that thought his tumulus stomach pitched up to his throat. He had heard yarns of women tainted by Soutrons and Easterlings, some bearing children, their beady black eyes intermingling with the elegance, grace, and majesticnessof one of Gondor.
Warily, his voice hardly audible, his tone gentle, feigning calmness, he murmured "Namè", and, as if awakening from a trance, her head snapped up, her hair slipping loose of his fingers, fingers he had had entwined in her locks, the hue of shined ebony. She recoiled as if she had been scalded, leaping from theirmartial bed, risqué nightgown askew, revealing broad expanses of pale, moonlit skin. She folded her arms across her chest, wrapping her legs around one another, stumbling to the corner, her eyes still transfixed on him.
"Namè, you must bear me a son, you must give the Stewardship of Gondor an heir! Do you understand me?" he spat.
"Do I look as if I could bear you a son, Boromir, even if I allowed you close enough to impregnate me?" She hissed, clutching the translucent silk of the slip closer to her slight, gaunt body.
His eyes traversed the length of her figure, seeing it in full view at last, not veiled by the heavy gowns of court decorum. Bearing him a child, son or daughter, would probably claim her life or seize whatever strength she had left. Yet, for all her frailty she was strong-willed, and he doubted he could overpower her.
Defeated he sunk down upon the bed, and, with a sigh almost seemed to collapse into himself.
Warily she strode across the onyx marble floor, cool to the bare soles of her feet in spite of the fevered night, and slid under the sheets, veiling that forsaken nightgown from the man next to her. Her husband... She turned from him, resting her fatigued head on the goose feather pillow, praying to Eru that the cadence of incessant pounding in her head would cease. Unbidden a tear slipped from her eye, winding down her upturned nose that gave her a childlike countenance, and finally plummeting off her steep chin.
She was his wife, she could not shy away from his touch nor his desire, forever. She could not forever remain a chaste, naive maiden. Mentally she resolved to do her wifely duties to come at his beckon, to succumb to his touch, to allow it, even if it meant losing herself in the process.
TBC
The tale of Boromir and his bride (who's name is decidedly not Gondorian but has quite a length story surrounding it.) This chapter alone is not enough to justify the R rating but later updates shall...
This story is due to the labor of Lars and Oliver over many chocolate brownie frappichinos commencing around 2 months ago. Kisses to Brooke who's notes and drawings of stripper angsty bunny made us laugh and to Siobhan for her constant encouragement and lovely sketch of our OFC. Hopefully our writing styles... Lars and her poetic prose laced in an excess of description and the interesting (obsidian) words choice and directness of Oliver's. (I hope I did it justice in that description, love)
Just read and review....
June 3013 T.A.
She lay on the bed adorned with silken sheets, slick and formidable against her skin, and heavy velvet drapes embellished with the emblem of the White Tree of Gondor shrouded the bed, suffocating her in the already stifling room. She glanced onto the stone floor where her gown lay in a pool of alabaster, immaculate, watered silk where she had shed it earlier and had been transformed, donning an ivory nightgown that revealed too much of her pale, wan skin for her comfort. In the mirror leaning up against the wall she saw her ebony tendrils of hair fanned across the goose feather pillow, and she viewed her small chest heaving up and down in a constant cadence with her shuddering breath. Dread engulfed her small, limp frame as she heard stumbling footfalls in the corridor, and a thread of light shone across her face as the heavy oak door swung open with a creak. And then her gray irises met his obsidian eyes and she lay bathed in the flickering, dancing illumination of the torches mounted on the outside walls, and the shadows cast by the leaping flames danced upon her face. He staggered into the chamber, their chamber, and she shrank back against the headboard, closing her eyes as he loomed ever closer.
Suddenly she was cognizant of lips, dry and windburned, brushing against her brow in a kiss that was almost reverent and gentle. She felt a hot breath bearing the bittersweet odor of dry mead at the nape of her neck, and hands the consistency of worn leather, lacerated and calloused, gripped her bony shoulders with something that frightened her. A burning desire. Her gray eyes fluttered open, and she gazed upon the scraggly hair of her husband, hair not quite the hue of honey, nor the color of rich, tilled soil, but somewhere in between. Hair shorn at the shoulders that now intermingled with hers. Her husband...
Abruptly she twisted away from his powerful, all consuming grasp, finally regaining her rationality. There she lay, arms clasped about herself, around the area of milky white skin revealed by the low cutting bodice of the slip.
He was perched in the edge of the bed, methodically removing his leather boots, then furiously hurling them towards the wall. One of them collided with the fragile mirror and it shattered, shards of broken glass reflecting the moon light that shone through the sheer, translucent drapes on the window.
Bathed in this eerie light, she didn't like it. She knew that she didn't like it. The atmosphere was all awry according to the whimsical notion of love her guileless mind had wrought and she was bewildered. Their was no logical reason that his mood should have fluctuated so rapidly. As she looked into his passion ridden obsidian orbs, she shivered uncontrollably, knowing what was to inevitably occur next. Boots and shirt successfully off after moments of clumsy fumbling, his mouth twisted upwards into a mocking, derisive sneer and he crawled towards her lithely, almost catlike. She shrunk back further still, pulling the silken sheets over the crown of her head, covering her virgin body and the cursed revealing nightgown that encased it from his wandering hands.
She didn't want him.
She didn't love him.
The one she loved she would pine for forevermore, knowing that she would never be his, as her love's eyes were trained always to Rohan, hoping for a glimpse of flaxen strands far in the distance.
With a throaty growl Boromir yanked the sheets back, and taking advantage of her horror, she took her lips in a searing kiss, tracing her plump, red lips with his moist tongue, begging for entrance. She kept her lips forcefully closed and remained cold and unresponding. Without warning, he began nibbling on her bottom lip, and then he bit with vengeance, drawing blood, red, red blood.
Wordlessly she slumped forward, burying her face in her cupped palms, onyx tendrils shrouding all, her thin body wracked with sobs, and her slim fingers wiping away the blood, safely concealed by her curtain of hair, and he caught her. He caught her with agility and reflexes gleaned from years of service on the perilous borders of Gondor, rapid, though dulled in his intoxicated state. Mentally he chided himself for his rash actions, regretting the notion that he could drink his troubles away. She didn't want this, she didn't want this... marriage anymore than he did. Appalled by his own actions, he shifted on the broad mattress closer to her, gently, almost reluctantly albeit stroking her hair, caressing her cheek with his rough thumb, all the while marveling at the feeling of her alabaster, immaculate skin touching his bare chest. He had to remember, and this was hard, that Name was just as fragile as the mirror, and if treated too harshly, she too, could break. The thought of him ravaging her, marring her, stealing her precious virginity no longer seemed so appealing, at least to his mind. His body, however, burned with unfulfilled desire, arching in earnest as the ends of her long, raven locks brushed his thigh.
Yet, that would be... rape. At that thought his tumulus stomach pitched up to his throat. He had heard yarns of women tainted by Soutrons and Easterlings, some bearing children, their beady black eyes intermingling with the elegance, grace, and majesticnessof one of Gondor.
Warily, his voice hardly audible, his tone gentle, feigning calmness, he murmured "Namè", and, as if awakening from a trance, her head snapped up, her hair slipping loose of his fingers, fingers he had had entwined in her locks, the hue of shined ebony. She recoiled as if she had been scalded, leaping from theirmartial bed, risqué nightgown askew, revealing broad expanses of pale, moonlit skin. She folded her arms across her chest, wrapping her legs around one another, stumbling to the corner, her eyes still transfixed on him.
"Namè, you must bear me a son, you must give the Stewardship of Gondor an heir! Do you understand me?" he spat.
"Do I look as if I could bear you a son, Boromir, even if I allowed you close enough to impregnate me?" She hissed, clutching the translucent silk of the slip closer to her slight, gaunt body.
His eyes traversed the length of her figure, seeing it in full view at last, not veiled by the heavy gowns of court decorum. Bearing him a child, son or daughter, would probably claim her life or seize whatever strength she had left. Yet, for all her frailty she was strong-willed, and he doubted he could overpower her.
Defeated he sunk down upon the bed, and, with a sigh almost seemed to collapse into himself.
Warily she strode across the onyx marble floor, cool to the bare soles of her feet in spite of the fevered night, and slid under the sheets, veiling that forsaken nightgown from the man next to her. Her husband... She turned from him, resting her fatigued head on the goose feather pillow, praying to Eru that the cadence of incessant pounding in her head would cease. Unbidden a tear slipped from her eye, winding down her upturned nose that gave her a childlike countenance, and finally plummeting off her steep chin.
She was his wife, she could not shy away from his touch nor his desire, forever. She could not forever remain a chaste, naive maiden. Mentally she resolved to do her wifely duties to come at his beckon, to succumb to his touch, to allow it, even if it meant losing herself in the process.
TBC