Master
Boromir lies on Aragorn's large bed, his own leather vambraces the only item
of clothing on him.
He lies on his belly, his hips propped on fine silky pillows so that his
back is arching gracefully, his bottom—,a warm shade of pink after his
afternoon beating—,nicely presented for his lord's pleasure.
Boromir pants slightly through his open mouth, his body glistening with
sweat, golden hair falling over his eyes while he looks pleadingly over his
shoulder, cheeks flushed with pleasure and shame.
His thighs—,parted to reveal his hidden opening, reddened and moistened
because Aragorn has spent long excruciating minutes tonguing him open—,are
trembling: with the effort of keeping still, recalling the sweet violence of
the blows from his king's hand, or anticipating what is to come, he cannot
say.
"Please," Boromir begs, voice hoarse, and shifts his weight on his knees so
he can present himself more properly. "My liege."
He can see Aragorn, kneeling—,like no king should—,at the foot of his own
bed, lips red and bruised from their hungry, crazed kisses, his manhood
stiff and proud and ready... Enough to make Boromir moan, his mouth
watering, his blood catching fire.
"Please," Boromir begs, half-hiding his burning face against his own
vambrace, so that only one green eye shows from under golden locks tangled
and darkened with sweat.
"What," Aragorn finally asks in a low, husky voice, letting his left hand
trail along the smooth curve of Boromir's rear, "would my Steward ask now of
his King?"
The ring of Barahir is cool and hard against still-tender skin, and it takes
Boromir's next words away along with his breath.
*Take me. Hurt me.*
Boromir shifts his hips, and the grip of Aragorn's fingers tightens on them,
keeping him down, sending Boromir's heart fluttering wildly behind his ribs.
*Master me.*
Aragorn's eyes are kind, blue like the summer sky; they are filled with
patience and longing and a kind of tender cruelty that could—,if only
Boromir looked closely enough—,feel like love.
"Please," Boromir whispers again, blinking too quickly in the dim afternoon
light; and looks away.
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by
Cinzia
ool air drifts in from the open window, filling the room with the muted
calling of the soldiers relieving the guard in the High Court, and with the
scents of Minas Tirith in summer. Blue sky and white stone flicker in the
faint breeze stirring the curtains.
