The librarian 2/
LotR 1332 words
Summery: Erestor = Erestor!
This one PGish, eventually NC17
Warnings: BDSM
For kharessa, because you like these three and Melpomean the library assistant is yours
Feedback: In the dictionary, under 'feedback whore' there is a picture of me. Topless. Need I say more?
AN This is not what I usually write, I find it excruciatingly difficult. Suggestion / criticism welcome - I'm trying to break out of my previous frame.
The gardens of Imladris were Celebrian's true passion. She personally had planted much of it, spending a few hours each morning tending and nurturing. The result was magnificent. Roses wound up the trunks of mallorn trees, blooming in full bouquets that rained petals upon winding paths. Flowering plants tumbled unexpected from hidden nooks and secluded glades. She had coaxed her trees to bear multiple varieties of fruit, so that one tree gave apples, pears and persimmon, another carried four kinds of citrus. She achieved this all without the use of magic, though in the process her garden had become one of the most magical spots in Rivendell.
Erestor walked with Melpomean silently. It wasn't his intention. He desperately wanted to talk with his assistant, to carry on as equals outside of the library. So far his efforts had failed. He realized how little he knew about Melpomean, how much he took him for granted. The oversight left Erestor with no easy opening to begin a conversation, so after a few aborted exchanges he gave up, and they walked mutely down the trails that Celebrian had planted with miniature herbs, releasing their fragrances under the crush of heels.
"Come let us go through the orchard and gather some fruit. I feel hungry"
It was a lie, but at least doing something would feel less awkward than wandering aimlessly with his assistant. Erestor changed paths leading Melpomean into the grove, uneasy in the realization that once again he had fallen into the pattern of telling Melpomean what to do.
The orchard truly was one of the most beautiful places in Celebrian's garden. Erestor remembered the first time he had visited it. Master Rumil had brought him here after Erestor confessed he had never seen the gardens. It had never occurred to him to invade Celebrian's glory he tried to explain. Rumil had laughed at that, asking Erestor what the point of beauty was if no one enjoyed it? Fruit that is not picked withers on the branch he whispered, even from the best in the garden. He had pulled Erestor under the apple's boughs and kissed him then, light dancing in his eyes. It had been the first of many firsts for Erestor.
He paused at the tree where Rumil had taken him so long ago. He hadn't thought of that afternoon in a very long time. He laid his palms against the trunk. She remembered him, echoing the joy he had felt under her branches and singing it back. A creak interrupted them, and Erestor opened his eyes in time to see Melpomean climbing upwards, to the ripest fruits near the treetop. He had discarded his robes and the breeze billowed his under tunic. So lovely.
He climbed down, flushed a little from exertion standing face to face with Erestor. He held up an apple.
"I brought you fruit Sir, the best in the garden"
The best in the garden. Erestor felt his ears begin to burn. Had Melpomean picked up on the echo? His face held no guile, only wonder at the beauty of this place. Erestor took the apple, piercing its taut skin with his sharp teeth, tasting the white flesh hidden beneath. Watching Melpomean, feeling the apple's juice dribble sticky on his mouth, Mel's eyes were wide now, his wonder focused on his master, lids hooding, his fingers trembling and reaching for the liquid glistening on Erestor's lips. Erestor realized he could take him now, under this tree as he himself had been. Enjoy his beauty as it was meant to be. Tempting. Was that what he had been to his Master? A taken temptation? Available and owned by his Master? He shook the thought away, breaking the spell.
"I think it's time we returned to work".
*
Have made an interesting discovery today. Slave is not as thick as he pretends. After the tea incident I have been ignoring him, trying to finish the backlog of work I have. I assumed Slave would be his usual lazy self and sleep in the corner. No such luck. Spilling supplies, loosing scrolls, he even burned the parchments I was preparing, including the dwarf one I was making into a cover. I chained him to the table and went to beg Master for a different slave when Slave confessed. He was trying to provoke me to beat him! Such a strange creature.
I have told him that from now on he will only be beaten as a reward. Life in the Library has vastly improved. It seems he already knew his letters; his hand is fair enough to make usable copies. He works quite hard now that I beat him afterwards. There's something strangely beautiful about him as the lash strikes. His face contracted in pain, so helpless and aroused by [missing section] never taken, though it is my right to do so. He [word missing] while I was beating him. I have denied him the right of release without permission. Knowing he suffers so makes my own [piece missing] I have tried to capture the expression, but my poor artists skills do not do him justice.
Erestor paused. A portrait? He had sorted all of the written documents from the pictures. He felt an overwhelming urge to see the librarian's slave, his face contorted in agony and ecstasy. He riffled through the scrolls. Finding at the bottom of the pile a stack of sketches. These too were blackened and damaged, but Erestor had no doubt he had found what he was looking for. It was a simple portrait, a framed face. The youth stared back from the page, his features sharply drawn in pain. Not quite an elf, definitely not an Orc, something caught between the two, dark and yet lovely. His hair was pulled away from his face, revealing the strain from veins in his neck and forehead. His teeth were clenched, his full lips grimacing, clearly in agony and yet not. Underneath two simple words in the librarians handwriting:
My Slave
Ecstasy and agony. Erestor had not though such a thing was possible. But here was a picture of it, so vivid he could not deny it. He had but few lovers after Rumil had broken him in. Soft sweet maids and men, gentle kisses on Ithil lit balconies. The little romances that he had dreamt of as an elfling: elegant, tender, delicate and yet, profoundly unfulfilling. They had never lasted more than a season. Burning out in ritualized ardor, or never burning at all.
He reread the passage. The Slave had reached his orgasm from being beaten. The image intrigued him. He went to the back of the library, to a corner filled with fanciful volumes about love and passion. Erestor hadn't read anything from this selection since he was Melpomaen's age. Never the less he was sure he would remember if there had been anything about pain and release.
He scanned the books. They were all as he thought, the flowery tales of love he had reread often enough alone in the library. A few favorites were more worn than others, their bindings cracked from overuse. His eyes trailed to the more technical volumes, he had read those too. Not one had mentioned pain as a tool to pleasure. He was almost done when he spotted a small book, tucked in the corner. Erestor was sure he had never seen it before. He pulled it from the shelf, revealing the title:
Of Pains Pleasures
He opened the cover, reading the author page:
Glorfindel of Gondolin
LotR 1332 words
Summery: Erestor = Erestor!
This one PGish, eventually NC17
Warnings: BDSM
For kharessa, because you like these three and Melpomean the library assistant is yours
Feedback: In the dictionary, under 'feedback whore' there is a picture of me. Topless. Need I say more?
AN This is not what I usually write, I find it excruciatingly difficult. Suggestion / criticism welcome - I'm trying to break out of my previous frame.
The gardens of Imladris were Celebrian's true passion. She personally had planted much of it, spending a few hours each morning tending and nurturing. The result was magnificent. Roses wound up the trunks of mallorn trees, blooming in full bouquets that rained petals upon winding paths. Flowering plants tumbled unexpected from hidden nooks and secluded glades. She had coaxed her trees to bear multiple varieties of fruit, so that one tree gave apples, pears and persimmon, another carried four kinds of citrus. She achieved this all without the use of magic, though in the process her garden had become one of the most magical spots in Rivendell.
Erestor walked with Melpomean silently. It wasn't his intention. He desperately wanted to talk with his assistant, to carry on as equals outside of the library. So far his efforts had failed. He realized how little he knew about Melpomean, how much he took him for granted. The oversight left Erestor with no easy opening to begin a conversation, so after a few aborted exchanges he gave up, and they walked mutely down the trails that Celebrian had planted with miniature herbs, releasing their fragrances under the crush of heels.
"Come let us go through the orchard and gather some fruit. I feel hungry"
It was a lie, but at least doing something would feel less awkward than wandering aimlessly with his assistant. Erestor changed paths leading Melpomean into the grove, uneasy in the realization that once again he had fallen into the pattern of telling Melpomean what to do.
The orchard truly was one of the most beautiful places in Celebrian's garden. Erestor remembered the first time he had visited it. Master Rumil had brought him here after Erestor confessed he had never seen the gardens. It had never occurred to him to invade Celebrian's glory he tried to explain. Rumil had laughed at that, asking Erestor what the point of beauty was if no one enjoyed it? Fruit that is not picked withers on the branch he whispered, even from the best in the garden. He had pulled Erestor under the apple's boughs and kissed him then, light dancing in his eyes. It had been the first of many firsts for Erestor.
He paused at the tree where Rumil had taken him so long ago. He hadn't thought of that afternoon in a very long time. He laid his palms against the trunk. She remembered him, echoing the joy he had felt under her branches and singing it back. A creak interrupted them, and Erestor opened his eyes in time to see Melpomean climbing upwards, to the ripest fruits near the treetop. He had discarded his robes and the breeze billowed his under tunic. So lovely.
He climbed down, flushed a little from exertion standing face to face with Erestor. He held up an apple.
"I brought you fruit Sir, the best in the garden"
The best in the garden. Erestor felt his ears begin to burn. Had Melpomean picked up on the echo? His face held no guile, only wonder at the beauty of this place. Erestor took the apple, piercing its taut skin with his sharp teeth, tasting the white flesh hidden beneath. Watching Melpomean, feeling the apple's juice dribble sticky on his mouth, Mel's eyes were wide now, his wonder focused on his master, lids hooding, his fingers trembling and reaching for the liquid glistening on Erestor's lips. Erestor realized he could take him now, under this tree as he himself had been. Enjoy his beauty as it was meant to be. Tempting. Was that what he had been to his Master? A taken temptation? Available and owned by his Master? He shook the thought away, breaking the spell.
"I think it's time we returned to work".
*
Have made an interesting discovery today. Slave is not as thick as he pretends. After the tea incident I have been ignoring him, trying to finish the backlog of work I have. I assumed Slave would be his usual lazy self and sleep in the corner. No such luck. Spilling supplies, loosing scrolls, he even burned the parchments I was preparing, including the dwarf one I was making into a cover. I chained him to the table and went to beg Master for a different slave when Slave confessed. He was trying to provoke me to beat him! Such a strange creature.
I have told him that from now on he will only be beaten as a reward. Life in the Library has vastly improved. It seems he already knew his letters; his hand is fair enough to make usable copies. He works quite hard now that I beat him afterwards. There's something strangely beautiful about him as the lash strikes. His face contracted in pain, so helpless and aroused by [missing section] never taken, though it is my right to do so. He [word missing] while I was beating him. I have denied him the right of release without permission. Knowing he suffers so makes my own [piece missing] I have tried to capture the expression, but my poor artists skills do not do him justice.
Erestor paused. A portrait? He had sorted all of the written documents from the pictures. He felt an overwhelming urge to see the librarian's slave, his face contorted in agony and ecstasy. He riffled through the scrolls. Finding at the bottom of the pile a stack of sketches. These too were blackened and damaged, but Erestor had no doubt he had found what he was looking for. It was a simple portrait, a framed face. The youth stared back from the page, his features sharply drawn in pain. Not quite an elf, definitely not an Orc, something caught between the two, dark and yet lovely. His hair was pulled away from his face, revealing the strain from veins in his neck and forehead. His teeth were clenched, his full lips grimacing, clearly in agony and yet not. Underneath two simple words in the librarians handwriting:
My Slave
Ecstasy and agony. Erestor had not though such a thing was possible. But here was a picture of it, so vivid he could not deny it. He had but few lovers after Rumil had broken him in. Soft sweet maids and men, gentle kisses on Ithil lit balconies. The little romances that he had dreamt of as an elfling: elegant, tender, delicate and yet, profoundly unfulfilling. They had never lasted more than a season. Burning out in ritualized ardor, or never burning at all.
He reread the passage. The Slave had reached his orgasm from being beaten. The image intrigued him. He went to the back of the library, to a corner filled with fanciful volumes about love and passion. Erestor hadn't read anything from this selection since he was Melpomaen's age. Never the less he was sure he would remember if there had been anything about pain and release.
He scanned the books. They were all as he thought, the flowery tales of love he had reread often enough alone in the library. A few favorites were more worn than others, their bindings cracked from overuse. His eyes trailed to the more technical volumes, he had read those too. Not one had mentioned pain as a tool to pleasure. He was almost done when he spotted a small book, tucked in the corner. Erestor was sure he had never seen it before. He pulled it from the shelf, revealing the title:
Of Pains Pleasures
He opened the cover, reading the author page:
Glorfindel of Gondolin