Insolence
by Azziria

"You would die before your stroke fell!"

Icy blue eyes held his with a hostile and insolent stare. Éomer felt a hot stab of anger at the intruder's words. How dare this itinerant wanderer threaten a Marshal of the Riddermark in his own land? The elf should learn some manners.

Quickly the tall dark man stepped in to defuse the situation, deflecting the elf's arrow point, anxious to explain their presence. Unwillingly the blond elf dropped his bow, deferring to the obvious authority of his ragged companion, but his eyes still burned with a hostile and mistrustful flame.

Éomer would remember him.

"Théoden led your people into a trap! He brought them here when he should have stood and fought! You know that as well as I do!"

The elf's words stung. The truth hurt.

"King Théoden did what he thought was best for Rohan. Helm's Deep had saved us before, so he thought it would do the same again."

Éomer was in no mood for this. His quest to ascertain what provisions were available for his men had led him here, deep into the store rooms of the Hornburg, and to an unwelcome confrontation with the elf, who was also engaged in a hunt for supplies. The irritation that Legolas' manner towards him engendered in him had led to this heated and probably unwise discussion of Théoden's tactics.

"Théoden is our King. We serve him, whatever he chooses to do."

"Théoden is a fool!"

Legolas' tone was contemptuous, mocking.

"And you're all fools if you follow him."

"Enough!"

Spinning round, Éomer struck the elf a sharp blow across the face with the back of his hand. Legolas staggered, caught himself, looked up at him with blood welling from his lip. Éomer braced himself against a retaliatory blow, but it never came. Instead he saw something he had not expected, a dark, drugged look in the elf's eyes, and with it a flash of naked desire. He knew this, had seen this before; strong fighting men who had the need to subjugate themselves before another to gain their release. Often they hated themselves for their weakness, but still they returned for more. A stab of perverse excitement flashed through him at the thought of seeing the elf cowed, of paying him back for his insolence.

Two swift steps forward brought him up against the elf's body. He grabbed Legolas by the hair, pulling his head back and forcing the elf to look at him. He felt the slender form shiver, but Legolas made no effort to pull away. "So that's how it is, master elf! That's why you prefer the company of Men to your own kind." He tightened his grip and saw Legolas flinch. "Does Aragorn know of your penchant for the rougher habits of Men? Or does he indulge you himself?"

Through gritted teeth the elf said, "Aragorn is faithful to the Lady Arwen."

"So you have to seek your pleasures elsewhere, then?"

He saw the truth of it in the elf's eyes, saw also the raw desire that flared there.

"Shall I teach you a lesson for your insolence, elf?"

The elf's look was dark and desperate but still challenging. Éomer backhanded him across the face again, hard, and Legolas fell to the floor. Éomer stood over him, anger and contempt mingled now with a raw need to make the elf crawl to him, to teach him who was master here. Éomer knew men like this, had seen to what depths their warped desires would take them, and he knew how to use the elf's own weakness to humiliate him and put him in his place.

"On your knees," he growled. "On your knees before me, elf." With one hand he dragged Legolas' head up by the hair, while the other hand unlaced his breeches, freeing himself. "Go on," he commanded, "You know what to do." He saw the blond head bow to its task, felt a rush of pleasure as Legolas took his stiffening member in his mouth, running a hot wet tongue over the head of his shaft, licking it with feverish eagerness. He pulled the elf's head nearer to his groin, not caring if he gagged. "Go on, suck me. Let's see you put that pretty mouth of yours to some good use." The elf took him deeper, his lips tightening against Éomer's rigid shaft to create an unbelievably intense suction as he moved his mouth up and down, the back of his tongue rubbing against the swollen head as he did so to create a maddening friction. The sensation was unbearable, and Éomer felt himself racing fast towards his release. The elf was good at this.

At the final moment he pulled out, then came, spattering the elf's face with spurts of viscous white fluid. As the last tremor ran through him, he reached his hand down and smeared his seed over the elf's face and hair. "Look at you," he sneered, "You look terrible. What do you think I should I do with you?"

Legolas' voice was hoarse and low. "Punish me."

"Louder!"

"Punish me, my lord."

Legolas eyes had gone to the short riding crop Éomer carried at his belt.

"Is that what you want, elf? On your feet! Strip!"

Legolas stripped off his clothes, never meeting Éomer's eyes.

"Against that pillar. Put your arms round it." Legolas complied, and swiftly Éomer bound his wrists together. Then he moved round to consider his captive.

He ran his hand over the elf's body, feeling Legolas tremble beneath his touch. The elf's body was was slender but strong, the body of a fighter, with skin like a woman's over the muscles of a man, and. Éomer found the combination strangely erotic. Éomer stepped back and traced a line with the tip of the riding crop down Legolas's back to the cleft between his buttocks. Éomer could see that Legolas was aroused, his erect phallus jutting from his groin, and the elf groaned and ground his hips against the pillar as the tip of the riding crop teased his buttocks apart and travelled over what lay between them. Éomer wondered how often the elf had done this; the skin on his back was unblemished, but elven skin healed clean, leaving no clues as to what it had suffered before.

He raised the crop and brought it down hard across Legolas' back, scoring a vivid red line across the smooth white skin. The elf started at the bite of the whip, moaning something in Elvish. Mercilessly Éomer brought the crop down again, watching the smooth body writhe against the bonds that held it, taking cathartic pleasure in the pain he inflicted. Despite himself he was becoming more and more aroused, now that the elf was submitting to him. The crop fell again, drawing blood that dripped onto the floor, recording Legolas' humiliation in the dust and dirt. Again and again the whip bit flesh, until Legolas sobbed with pain, but still he did not beg for release. Eventually, when the elf's back was scored with a criss-cross pattern of bleeding welts, Éomer's own desire got the better of him. Pressing up against the elf, and breathing hard, he said in his ear, "Have you had enough yet, elf? Shall I stop now? Or are you going to show me how well you can perform for your master?" He ran his hand down Legolas' body, finding the hard erection that reared from between the elf's legs, the unmistakeable sign of his arousal.

Taking his knife from his belt, he cut Legolas' bonds, the elf slumping to the floor at his feet. "Up," he ordered. Shakily the elf obeyed, and Éomer grabbed him, spun him round and slammed him face-down over the top of one of the barrels, not caring if the rough wood drove splinters into the elf's soft skin. "Spread your legs" he snapped, and Legolas did as he was bid. "Now let's see what you're really good for, you little elvish whore." Éomer licked his fingers and pushed them between the elf's buttocks, feeling for the tight ring of muscle that lay between them. Finding it, he pushed first one finger in, then another, then with increasing force a third. Legolas moaned as he did so, writhing under Éomer's touch. Éomer jabbed his fingers forward, jerking the elf's groin against the hard edge of the barrel, and heard him gasp with pain and pleasure. "So you like that," he said, "You like it when I hurt you, don't you, elf?" He jerked again, feeling the elf's body tense and shiver against his. "This is all you're worth, elf. Something to be used and abused by those stronger than yourself. And you enjoy it. You disgust me."

Pulling his fingers out, he spread the elf's firm smooth buttocks, revealing the ring of puckered flesh that lay between them. Spitting on his palm, he rubbed the saliva over himself, then put the tip of his shaft against the tight opening and shoved. The elf cried out in pain as he thrust, but Éomer ignored him. The elf's tight hot passage gripped him hard and the friction as he moved was exquisite. Ungentle, he drove himself repeatedly into the waiting flesh, taking his pleasure with no regard for the body beneath him. The elf cried out again, but Éomer took no notice, caught in the fierce joy of the conqueror, his fires of his passion fanned by the writhing of the elf's body beneath him. With a last hard thrust Éomer came, and as he did so he felt the elf come too, shuddering underneath him, spilling his seed across the wood of the barrel.

Éomer pulled out, breathing hard, and looked down at Legolas' spreadeagled form. The elf was still slumped forward over the barrel, legs spread, and he was bleeding, the tender flesh around his opening torn by the force of the Man's thrusts. Éomer ran his finger over the wound then, forcing the elf's head down against the rough wooden surface of the barrel, daubed the elf's cheek with a smear of his own blood. "From now on you will show me more respect. Do you understand?" Legolas gave a barely perceptible nod, and Éomer shoved him down into the dirt.

Picking up the elf's shirt, he cleaned himself off with it and fastened his breeches. Then he turned to go, throwing the stained shirt at Legolas. "Clean yourself up."

The elf looked up at him, his eyes now filled with shame and guilt.

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