Mending Broken Hearts III Unbelievably, miraculously, the gift Gandalf the White had given to me
at his parting had done the one thing I had never even dared to dream
of: my lover, the very one who had died in my arms years ago, had
returned.
He had returned to middle-earth in a blaze of light, surrounding him
like a halo. And now he is lying in my arms, naked as a newborn child,
yet looking very far from innocent. He is his old complaining,
grumbling self again—and I love him, Valar, I love him so incredibly.
My heart feels like breaking every moment, both from immeasurable joy and
the unbearable fear of losing again what had already been lost for far too long.
And though I still feel dizzy, hardly able to catch any coherent
thought, my head spinning with the vastly different emotions of
unexpected magnitude my heart had to cope with in the last few minutes, he
is still complaining.
He worries about my looks, that my hair is too clean, he fears he has
been turned undead and so it goes on. He hasn't been here ten minutes, yet I already know why I have truly missed him: He loves me, and I can be sure
of that, but also he constantly contradicts me, consciously or not, and
his way of seeing things is so vastly different from mine that my mind
has to jump and run at the same time to catch up with him. Though it is
my beloved Arwen who makes me human, makes me a man, it is Boromir who
makes me feel alive. Alive and kicking.
And now, instead of showing any trace of gratitude for being
resurrected, he complains about the cold stone floor he is forced to lie
on.
Did I really say I missed him?
I am kneeling on the floor myself, cradling Boromir's head in my lap,
stroking his hair, his unclad body truly lying on the bare stones. My
eyes trace along the curves of his sides, follow the inward curve of his
waist, slightly turning outwards as I go deeper, his strong legs, all of
his body is manly, so strong, so adorable.
And so... exposed.
"So what have you noticed now, my love? That I'm naked?"
Your voice is filled with bemused annoyance, but truly it strikes me
most exquisitely that you lie here, naked, giving me the rare
opportunity to watch you as slowly as I like.
"Actually, yes," I answer. "You are naked."
Indeed you are.
Once more my eyes glide along your body, taking in details I have almost
forgotten, but that come back as soon as I see them. How the light catches
in the fine hair on your legs, making it sparkle like spun jewels. How
lovely you look, lovely and delightfully physical.
"No—," you exclaim. "You cannot truly think of—."
Think of what?
Oh! That. Well...
I feel my face grow hot as it hasn't done since my earliest youth, and
a dirty grin splits my face. I have already acted far less responsibly
than I have done during the whole time since our last... encounter. So
why bother now? Later there will be more than enough time to sort things out,
now I won't waste any opportunity.
"You just brought me back from the dead, you haven't even had the
decency to explain to me what has happened, and now you start giving me
hungry eyes!"
Hum, actually, yes. It's such a delight to be only me, not to act
reasonably, not to take care of the sensitivities of nobles, not
thinking of the political consequences of my actions. Being me again,
being like I was when I still was Aragorn.
"You are an evil man," you say, pulling me down towards you, kissing me
wildly, passionately.
What vigour for a man who had been dead by all accounts only moments
ago!
I smile into our kiss, letting myself fall, dissolving deep into your
embrace, into you. And suddenly, it happens again. Like a repetition of
our first kiss, your caresses shred whatever web of gloom I have spun
around myself, reaching me like the first light of morning reaches a
wanderer lost in the darkest of nights.
And I melt again.
All my tension, all my worries seem to liquefy, pearling away, never to
be seen again. I can breathe again. Every breath feels like the first
draft of fresh, sweet air after years of confinement in dark and cramped
rooms. Suddenly, life is not a pleasant duty, but a reason in itself,
filling me with strength, with resolve, with joy.
Now, spring has finally reached my heart.
Like a bundle of tinder, hidden away in the deepest part of me, my
passions ignite as my lover's own desire washes over my soul. I feel
them burst into flame, lighting up my innermost self, burning away all
but my desire to share our bodies, to merge our minds as well.
And I can sense that you want the same, I can feel it in your touch,
hear it in your throaty breath, smell it on your body.
Placing your head back on the floor, I pull my stupid tunic over mine, more tearing than anything else. I crumple the fine fabric to a
soft ball, pushing it under your head, and slide next to your body
without thinking.
It is as if you haven't been away at all, everything is so familiar, so
very present to me. The way your muscles move beneath your skin, soft
and pliable one moment, the next hard and bulging, radiating strength
and power.
The golden trail of fine hair that runs down from your navel—how many
times have I imagined following that path downward, how often have I
dreamt of touching again those soft golden curls that your clothes always
hide.
And you are glad to be alive again, I can see that. One pivotal part of
your anatomy is all ready, at attention, quivering in anticipation. When
I look into your eyes, you grin.
"So what?" you say. "You thought I was dead or what? Now come on, get
moving!"
And with these words, you take my hand and place it deftly between your
legs, pressing it against your balls, pulling me close to you with your
free hand. I can feel your excitement, feel you hot and hard, the shape of your hardness once more like a sword-hilt in my
hand.
And your scent. It washes all over me, filling my mind, filling me. And
I know that the closeness of our bodies, the kind of closeness I haven't
had for years, is beginning to gnaw at my mind. Bit by bit, my attention
focuses more and more on you, on your body, on us.
A soft groan escapes you, and the excitement I can hear in it
makes me shiver in response. I close my hand around you with more
pressure, moving it slowly, carefully controlling my movements.
It doesn't take me long to make you twitch, to make you squirm and groan
under my hand—I have been faithful to you, in a way, but that has
not prevented me from learning. One definite advantage of being of the
same gender—I know your body almost as well as I know my own.
My head is dizzy with your delight. Like a strange, sensual kind of
drunkenness it dulls the edges of my wits, making me want to feel your
passions rise ever higher, making me want to feel you come in my hands,
in my mind.
But then, all of a sudden, you push my hands away. I open my eyes which
I hadn't at all noticed I had closed, looking at you in surprise. And in
your eyes, I see fire.
That kind of fire that I almost had forgotten, for it is a dangerous
thing, wild and with a mind of its own. And the kind of fire you tend to
lose control of. For a moment, I am frightened, afraid you might hurt us
once more, hurt us like you did that night in the little grove.
But then, I see that smile in the corner of your eyes, and I know I
need not fear. You're in control of yourself, and it is lust that makes
your eyes gleam, not rage.
With a smile of my own, I lean back, intrigued to see what you intend to
do.
I see that you watch me. That you take delight in my body, savour every
inch of skin you see. To you, I'm not High King Elessar, maybe not even
Aragorn, only the man you love. And right now, this is all I long to be.
Except, maybe, to be somewhere else. These stone tiles are
distractingly cool, I have to admit.
But then, suddenly, you stand up, stretching your body in the light of
the late afternoon, beautiful, filling my vision. I look at you,
questioningly, but you only smile and pull me up to my feet as well,
embracing me, kissing my neck, your sword hilt pressing against my own
hardness.
While I still hold my arms around you, you let yours glide lower,
your hands caressing my back, cupping my buttocks, pressing me against
you even harder. I can feel the soft, delighted shiver run though your
body like a wave, and another wave of dizziness hits my head. By the
Valar, obviously I have missed this far more than I expected. I hardly
notice that you start opening my breeches, only when a waft of cool air
brushes against my legs and my exposed manhood I realise what your hands
are doing. The soft, velvet-like leather crumples to a tiny heap around
my ankles, and fully unclad we both stand, holding each other, revelling
in the feeling of our bodies finally together again.
Sunlight is painting colourful spots on our bodies, and if I had any
thought to spare, I'd say the sky was taking on a faint hue of rose as
if blushing.
"So, you have truly missed me," you say, one of your hands softly
caressing my almost painfully hard manhood.
I can only nod, for all my breath, all my concentration is on the gentle
touches of your hand, fondling me with teasing expertise.
Your head is resting against my neck, and I can feel you grin fiendishly
under the stubble of your beard. You close your arms around me in a
bearish hug, gently lift me up and turn me around half a circle. I had
almost forgotten what strength this body of yours could develop.
Questioningly, I glance at you—and instead of an answer, you give my shoulders a shove.
With a tiny sound of surprise, I stumble backwards, but only half a pace
away, something catches my leg and I fall.
But, unexpectedly, not onto the floor, but into the armchair that had
innocently been standing there all the time, the same armchair I had
been sitting in when I started my attempt to call back my long lost love.
You stand in front of me, your hands on your hips, eyeing me
like a hunter whose prey finally is where he wants it to be, your
hardness bobbing, pointing at me in a most indiscreet way.
"What—" I begin, but you put a finger across your lips, silencing me.
Coming up to me, standing in front of the armchair I sit in, you smile
at me. No, you grin, and it's not a shy grin at that.
My eyes wide open with curiosity, my heart pounding in my chest, my
whole body itching and twitching with anticipation of whatever might
come, I watch you kneel down in front of me, your eyes locked
with mine.
Then, you bend over, and I can see where this is supposed to lead. I
begin to groan with delight even before your lips cup the head of my hilt.
I shiver when you brush the soft stubble on your upper lip against me,
feel the soft caress of your hair dangling down to almost touch my
thighs.
I can see the muscles of your back, moving between your broad shoulders,
see your head move in my lap, your back still dappled with patches of red and golden light. And though I want to watch you, savour the fact
that you are with me, my resolve dwindles like water leaks out of bare
hands, and I lean back my head, closing my eyes, concentrating only on
the sensations that flood through my whole body.
And you know what you do, don't you? Every move of your lips seems to
make the ground sway, every touch of your tongue makes me want to
scream. I can feel my passions rise, in accord to your moves, every time
a bit higher, every time pushing me closer towards the edge.
You have done this often, haven't you, love? How many of the men you have
lain with have lost their sanity in the process? None? Then you were
lucky, for I feel the oppressive intensity of the lust you generate in me
almost painfully washing over the pitiful remains of my struggling
consciousness.
And I love it. Groaning loudly, I couldn't care less. All my world is
centred in my lap, my head swirling, and I bet, you bastard, you are grinning
while you bury your face between my legs.
By The One, this is too much.
Though I truly try to hold back, though I struggle not to let
my passions overwhelm me, I cannot hold on any longer. I give in, and I
feel the last bits of my mind being washed away in a flood of emotion,
losing myself completely in my peaking passions, breaking apart,
dissolving into nothingness...
Re-emerging consciousness. Reality still swaying. My heart pounding, my
breath still going rapidly.
Oh Valar, that was... Beyond words.
I open my eyes, and the room stops swaying, at least mostly so. You
still kneel in front of me, smirking. You kiss my navel, my chest,
slowly rising on your feet. Kissing my chin, my lips, I revel in your
scent once more, deep, musky, not unlike an old forest. You part
my lips with your tongue, and I gladly let it enter, slinging my arms
around your neck. Tasting me in your mouth is unexpected, irritating at
first, then surprisingly satisfying.
I end our kiss, pulling back my head a little to thank you—but what I
see in your eyes stops the words in my throat.
Your deep green eyes are still on fire. Though you have doused mine so
thoroughly that even now I can hardly think straight, for you it is far
from being over, and I am not so sure that I like what this spells for
me.
But you like it, that's for sure. Fiendishly grinning, you put your hands
around my waist, pulling me halfway up towards you. My whole body is so
relaxed I can hardly move a muscle, all mellow with peaceful relaxation.
Putting me down again, you blink at me in astonishment, then your face
lightens in evil amusement.
"Boy," you say, your voice dripping of satisfaction with your own good
work. "My, we have enjoyed that, haven't we?"
You bend over me, still grinning, your eyes green like a forest with a
fire in its heart, breathing heavily. Feebly, I try to wipe away
your smirking face above me, too lazy even to worry, and you chuckle.
What a lovely sound.
"Turn around!"
Around what? Oh. Me. A tiny part of my mind is very upset about my body
reacting so sluggishly, another one is having hysterics about what is probably going to happen, still trying to remind me what went wrong the first time we were together. But tiny as they are, these
two parts barely manage to gather the volume necessary to gain my
attention, which right now is completely occupied by the task of
standing up and turning around without falling over my feet.
My gods, have I ever been this drowsy afterwards?
As soon as I stand again, you put your hands on my hips again, kissing
my lips, turning me around so that I face the chair now.
As my gaze brushes over the door to my private study, I vaguely remember
that I had placed two Guardsmen in front of it to make sure
that nobody enters unannounced. By now, they must be pretty irritated by
the noises coming through the door they are supposed to guard.
I'm still trying to figure if that demands any kind of immediate action
as you push me forward onto the armchair once more, this time with my
knees on the seat, my arms finding some hold on the headrest.
"That is good," I hear you say while you assess the panorama in front of
you. Gently slapping my with both of your hands, you add:
"Though I can see that you have done less running lately. Not so much in
training anymore, darling?"
I turn around, trying to give you a glaring look, but, you bastard, you brush
your hot manhood against my exposed back, and all I manage is an absent
stare as all my attention is drawn towards the feel of your warm and
solid flesh against mine.
I'm feeling exposed, bared, about to be used every minute—but though
it unsettles my mind, I feel so very relaxed and trusting that I
really cannot bring myself to care. It's funny, in a way. Me, the
mighty High King Elessar, submitting in this almost hilarious pose to
the late son of the late Steward of Gondor. I wouldn't have believed
this myself, had someone told me even this morning.
But now, this is what I want, this is what I need—someone who is
strong enough and worthy of my trust. Someone who will not fail to catch me if I let myself fall.
You're still fondling the small of my back, and though I can hardly
remember how the one time I offered myself to you felt, my body
does so very well. I quiver with anticipation, and once more that
dizziness threatens to swallow my mind as you begin to search for my
entrance, as your fingers gently but determinedly try to open a passage
that will allow you to enter my body.
Once more I close my eyes, my whole body yours to do with whatever you
want, concentrating on every single one of your touches, cherishing each. I
feel your fingers move inside of me, feel the heat of your body close to
mine and, every now and then, the gentle yet so enticing touch of your
hardness against my flesh, hard and soft at once.
Your fingers inside me are so unfamiliar, so strange a sensation that it
makes me want to squirm, but then again, it makes my body long for more,
more of you, more of your flesh inside me.
I can imagine how it will feel, can imagine your hardness filling me,
stretching me, almost impaling me. And though still not a familiar thought,
I long for it. I want you to be inside me, to take control of me,
to feel the lust you derive from using me, to use me. I'm yours, now.
So lost in my own lustful thoughts I am that I almost miss the moment when
you finally enter my body. I wondered why your fingers had withdrawn,
but before I could open my still-closed eyes, I felt your hilt gently
pressing against my entrance.
You hold me by my waist, controlling all my moves, taking care not
to move too fast. And then, by almost indistinguishably increased
pressure, I feel myself open, accommodating you within me, widening,
straining to let all of you enter my body. I hold back a low groan,
maybe a throaty scream of lust, by biting into the upholstery of the
armchair I am kneeling on, squirming, making silly little high-pitched
noises despite myself. Your advance slows, stops, and from where I feel
you within me, hot and hard and far bigger than expected, a wave of
tickling lust rushes though my body, making me shiver, making me shake
all over.
My eyes still closed, my teeth still clenched onto the innocent fabric
of the chair, I can almost feel your grin against my back, feel you being
oh-so-proud of your achievement. Yes, this is exciting,
unexpectedly gorgeous—but this is only secondary to what I really
want. I want you. Want to feel you, want to feel your passions, your
lust, want to be part of that.
So get moving!
And move you do, all the Valar, that's for sure! You begin carefully, , stopping, then slowly returning into the warm darkness my
body offers you. I can feel you so clearly, every vein so defined, as if
my longing imagination enhances your every detail. But then, as if you
had wasted enough time on teasing now, you pick up pace, and start to
move with determination, with passion and impact.
With every one of your thrusts, I feel my breath leaving me, cravingly
sucked back when you retreat, only to be shoved out again when you slam
into me once more. One heavy thrust is now immediately followed by the
next, and my already oversensitive body is struggling to keep up with
the flood of sensations bashing at the shore of my mind. Remotely, I
become aware of the grunting sounds I am making. Absently, I note that the chair and I get pushed a bit further along the floor with each
of your forceful thrusts.
Oh Valar, what is this? What kind of frantic coupling am I engaged in?
I bite into the chair once more to keep me from screaming out loud,
barely managing to muffle the animalistic noises emerging from my throat.
My whole head is now tingling with too much lust-filled sensation, my
hands are sweaty, my throat is sore, and I can barely keep my knees from
slipping off the chair under your determined shoves.
What is this? I feel so little in control of myself, and I delight so
much in it. I feel your body close to mine, touching me, filling me. I
hear you above me, panting, groaning, grinding your teeth in passionate
concentration. Still every single of your thrusts makes white-hot waves
of sensation run though my entire body, washing over my mind, making it hard to think any thought that is longer than the time between two
thrusts.
And then, as I had feared, my knees slip, unable to hold my body on the
declining surface of the armchair underneath the impact of your thrusts,
sweaty and unsteady as they are. I slip out of your hands, out of the
chair, downwards until I come to rest with my face on the seat, panting, hardly conscious, my butt against your shins,.
You pat my shoulder, panting yourself, asking under your breath:
"You alright?"
I simply nod, turning my head, watching your sweat-covered body
in amazement. How lovely, how incredibly delightful you are, so strong
and physical and unselfconsciously gorgeous. I try to turn around, try
to find any position even partially more graceful than that froggy,
twisted thing I am in, only managing by an inch. The floor is still cold
as ice, but how surprisingly welcome that is right now.
"Ready for more?" you ask, your face still glowing, your eyes on fire
yet still in control. Seen from the ground where I sit, your bobbing
manhood is filling most of my view, shiny, so close, so huge...
I take a breath, trying to shake some of that echoing dizziness out of
my head, look at you—and nod. Not that I'm ready, nor would I
ever be. But I want to feel you inside me, feel your passion peak
when I hold you. So I nod and you reach out your hand to help me rise.
My chest brushes your throbbing manhood on my way up, and I can
almost see how close you are to the point I so desire to share with you.
You smile, still slightly out of breath, and close your
arms around me in a tight embrace. What a sensation to feel our hot,
sweat-covered bodies so closely together, to feel them press and slide
against each other, to feel the heat you radiate.
And then, one of your arms around my waist, the other under my butt, I
feel your muscles tense up, your body hardening, and with a heaving,
apparently very experienced move, you lift me up into your arms. Only
slightly staggering with the weight of my body, you hold me,
grinning, breathing heavily. I sling my arms around your neck to give me
some hold, but your grip is steady, determined, unwavering. Once more, I
am surprised by your strength—whoever brought you here,
they have returned you in excellent condition. Or, more probably, it is
that ever-recurring wonder of a man regaining amazing amounts of
vigour as soon as his best parts are busy, even if he's been half-dead a
moment before. Or dead, that is...
One of your hands gently strokes my back, and I feel your beard rubbing
against the soft skin of my throat. Burying my face in your hair,
breathing in your scent, I hold my breath in anticipation of what is
to come. I like that position, though I would have never expected to
ever be lifted in this way.
Then, slowly, carefully, you lower me in your arms, until I can feel
your hardness once more pressing against me, trying to gain admittance
I will myself to relax, and again, delightfully, I feel you slide into
me, enter me, fill me. Groaning softly, I lean back, only to see
your eyes wide open, watching me. So full of desire, of lust—and of
love. My heart feels like it is flowing over, and my love for you returns stronger than ever before. I lower my head and kiss you,
passionately, our tongues caressing each other with fierce passion.
And while our mouths are still joined in our kiss, you begin to move
within me once more. Slowly, carefully you move, savouring each single
sensation. This time, I am far more aware of how you feel, my own
torrent of emotions receding to a constant rush in the background. I
feel every single muscle of you straining with each of your movements,
feel your breath go hard, feel your heart pounding heavily in your
chest.
Still every time you advance into my body, a wave of pleasant dizziness
hits my head, but not as hard as before. Less and less I listen to my
own body brimming with pleasure, but concentrate more and more on my
lover's emotions.
Suddenly, you take a single step to the side, abruptly, almost
staggering. I hold my breath, ready to let myself slide off you at a
moment's notice, but then you move again. Another, slightly staggering
step, then even another one. Realising that you're on the way to my
sideboard, I grin into your hair, gently nibbling at your earlobe.
I had already noticed several times that the height of that particular
sideboard would suit very well in some, well, more private moments. It
was one of the few pieces of furniture I had kept of what I found when I first
claimed these rooms, and I'm sure that you have recognised it.
Nice to see that we watch out for the same things, at least in
furniture.
Then we have reached our destination, and with a single move, you use my
back to swipe the sideboard's surface clean, brushing a priceless silver
chandelier onto the ground. I couldn't care less.
You carefully set me onto the sideboard, leaning my back against the
wall. Freed of your load, you lean forward to kiss me, your hands
against the wall at both sides to my head, my legs still clasped around
you, your manhood still within me, throbbing with dire need.
And once more, you grin into our kiss, your sweaty, straggly hair
dangling into my face, onto my chest, and without leaving my lips, you
begin to move. In our kiss, in your breath, in all your being I can
feel how close your passion is to its peak, how much you restrain
yourself not to finish too soon. Slowly, with deliberate care, you
retreat in a single gliding motion, only to return into me in the same manner.
It is so delightful. I can feel your concentration close around the
place where our two bodies merge, feel your lips quivering against mine,
feel you clench your teeth when the waves of passion that run through
your body become just too strong. Your movements become more
determined, but not faster, jerkier, but still so careful, as if you are trying
to feel your passion inside me as consciously as I do.
And then, finally, you close you arms around my neck, pressing me close
to you, and I can feel your whole body tensing up. You move within me now
with tiny, concentrated movements, and your hardness feels bigger to me
than ever before.
You lean your head against my neck, your arms still around me, every
muscle in your body visible now like cords of steel beneath your skin.
I shiver in delight, , almost feeling as if it were my own barrel
that was about to burst. Gently biting into my shoulder, you stifle a
moan, and I know that it is NOW.
Like a wave of hot oil I can feel it wash over both of us, an
immeasurable pressure finally released, flowing into me, shattering us,
renewing us. I hear you groan, feel you bite into my shoulder, drawing
blood, but the emotion I feel from you is far stronger, far more intense
that that little bit of distracting pain. I join you in your most
passionate moments, delighting in it, savouring it as much as I did my
own.
Yes, you are back, you are here, and you are mine now, mine to love
forever.
Tension is flowing out of you like water out of a broken bottle, and you
relax into my arms, panting, quivering, squirming in delight.
"Is there still a bed in the room next door?" you ask under your
breath, your head resting heavily on my shoulder.
I nod, grinning, saying:
"I should have thought of that earlier. Rarely use it myself."
You help me slide down from the sideboard, and arm in arm, we walk over
the few paces to the small door that separates the tiny sleeping-room
that adjoins my study. Your study.
Drowsily, we both nestle into the clean sheets, searching the other's
closeness in mutual contentment.
And then I remember the words Gandalf had given to me as a hint, and a
giggle escapes my throat despite myself.
"What?" you ask.
"I just thought of what Gandalf said."
"Gandalf?"
I nod, still clasped to your chest.
"Gondorian bricks are no good to rest your head on, but sometimes they
are of more use in beds than in graves."
For a moment, we're just lying there in comfortable silence, then you
say:
"He wasn't talking of me, was he?"
"Well, actually, yes."
I lift my head to get a look into your eyes, but I am too drowsy to
notice that darkly glowing anger in your face.
"And, you are of more use here than wherever you had been before—" I say, intending a gentle tease, completely misjudging your mood.
With a single, violent motion, you push me away from you, forceful
enough to hurl me out of the small bed onto the rug in front of it. As I
look up in bewilderment, your face twists with rage, and looking at me
viciously you hiss:
"Whatever strange magic you have used, Aragorn, one thing I can tell
you: I will never be any man's toy, whether king or beggar!"
Did I really say that I had missed you?
"Never, hear that?"
I would surely never have missed that side of you. You're full of wrath
once more.
Great...
by
Osiris Brackhaus
t had worked!
