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22 December 2006 | 1376 words
Title: Dreams and desires
Summary: Faramir’s imagination works overtime whenever his king comes to visit…
Feedback: Would be most kind of you
Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my pervy imagination!
Faramir thoroughly enjoyed Elessar’s visits to his home in Emyn Arnen.
What should have been extended into a dwelling fit for a Gondorian prince he had insisted remain as an ancient hunting lodge. It was little more than a tower with two service wings added so many centuries ago that now all seemed one glorious rambling whole. It was a place to escape from the dignity and formality of the citadel at Minas Tirith, and Elessar’s formal excursions to inspect and approve Faramir’s local policy were, both knew, more excuses to relax away from the pressures of court life.
It was good that he was able to offer this respite to his king, a bolt hole when needed. Faramir felt pleased about that. But there was also pleasure to be had from the fact that when Elessar visited, the steward’s imagination went wild. His secret desires would be spun out into dark fantasies, elaborating on the day’s events to script some scenario that would always ultimately end in him taking or being taken by his king.
Yes, Elessar’s visits were the inspiration for many a lurid dream.
Summer had long lingered into autumn, the gold of the sun mirrored in the reds and russets of the leaves, the Rowan trees heavy with scarlet berries. The two men had enjoyed exploring the countryside on foot, following hidden paths, regaling each other with tales of their lives as rangers, their battles against the dark forces, singing songs and telling tales, gathering renewed strength from nature to carry them through the winter months to come. This would be Elessar’s last visit before spring.
Seeing Elessar – or Aragorn as he insisted on being known on these visits – clad in his worn ranger garb, his hair elf-locked, dirt under his finger-nails – was powerfully erotic. The steward had to be content to let the king believe that he was the less fit of the two, ever walking behind his companion, when in truth it had been the glorious vision of his leader’s muscular thighs and tight buttocks before him that Faramir had been unable to resist. He was treading on dangerous ground.
Towards the end of the week thunder had rumbled around the sky all day, threatening but never delivering. A hot, close night developed into a dank humidity where sleep was impossible. Faramir had tossed and turned in his bed – even with the shutters thrown wide his chamber was a stale oven. Finally conceding defeat, he rescued the discarded quilt, tucked a pillow under an arm and descended naked to the courtyard in search of peace. A bucket of cold water over his head would solve many problems, then he would make his bed on the hard chilly stone of the tower roof. He had done it before and should have made the move earlier.
The courtyard was green and tranquil, moss and ferns covered the ancient crumbling stonework, crickets chirped within hidden crevices, an owl swept on silent wings to blot out the stars for an instant. Even the clank of the bucket’s chain against the sides of the deep well sounded comforting. The water was icy and his breath was almost taken from him with the shock before returning fourfold. Another bucket followed and left Faramir shivering, teeth chattering, before he wrung the water from his long hair and flung it back over his shoulder.
As he raised his head he realised that he was not alone, Aragorn was there, watching him.
“I see we are both suffering and are of like mind, my steward. I would be grateful if you would send a bucket down for me as well!”
Faramir obliged, concentrating far more than was necessary on the task, confused and excited in the presence of his naked king.
Aragorn stepped towards him and took the brimming pail, pouring it over his long lean body.
“Another, I think” he muttered.
Faramir envied Aragorn’s ability not to shiver. He himself was shaking still, though whether from the cold or from something else he knew not.
Aragorn soaked himself again, head back and eyes closed, relishing the chill on his skin. Faramir was desperate to gaze where he should not, busied himself with tidying the bucket, straightening the chain, all totally unnecessary.
“I had thought to sleep on the roof…” muttered Faramir, desperate for Aragorn to join him, terrified in case he did.
“The night is fierce and perhaps we may find some cool comfort there,” his companion agreed. “I shall retrieve my bedding and join you.”
For three entire turns of the spiral stair Faramir was subjected to the gorgeous sight of Aragorn’s naked buttocks moving before him. He was glad when Aragorn turned off into his chamber, spared the sight of the steward’s growing erection. Faramir made for the far corner of the tower roof, settled himself into a nest of quilt and pillow and hid his arousal.
Aragorn eventually returned trailing his quilt, clutching the pouch that Faramir knew contained his pipe and tinderbox. Rarely was he without it when acting the ranger.
“The stars seem larger tonight, more brilliant” he commented, tamping down the pipeweed.
“Ever they appear so in Ithilien. Perhaps they are indeed closer.”
The two men gazed upwards for a while, pointing out stars, tracing constellations, sharing their knowledge of the skies. Faramir breathed deeply, catching the aroma of Aragorn’s pipe. He wondered what Aragorn’s mouth would taste like at this moment.
“Forgive me, share this with me”
Faramir shook his head.
“It is not a skill I have ever mastered. Merry and Pippin did their best to instruct me but all I could do was cough and splutter. I enjoy the scent of it, but can think of better things to put into my mouth.”
Where had that last sentence come from?
What was he thinking of?
Ah, he knew too well what those thoughts were!
Embarrassed beyond belief, Faramir shuddered and huddled into as small a ball as he could make himself into, hoping beyond hope that Aragorn would read nothing into his words, would believe his steward referred only to good food and wine.
A gentle hand rubbed his tensed back.
Slowly, rhythmically the hand massaged.
“Relax Faramir, all is well.”
Gently Aragorn’s hand strayed to stroke Faramir’s tumbled hair.
“Relax, relax… Will you not look at me? Unfold, sit up….”
Faramir could only whisper from within his clenched hands.
“I dare not, my lord…. I am ashamed…”
“What is there to be ashamed of? Sit up, Faramir…”
“I cannot…I, I am…I am aroused…”
Aragorn’s breath was hot against his cheek as he took Faramir’s clenched hand, soothed and smoothed tense fingers, raised it to his mouth for a tender kiss, then guided the hand to the heat of his groin.
“And am I not also aroused?” he whispered.
Gently Aragorn moved Faramir’s hand up and down the thick shaft, breath quickening, becoming shallow.
“Faramir. Look at me….”
Slowly Faramir uncurled himself, finally meeting the gaze of his king. Aragorn’s grey eyes were like stars, his wet black hair slicked across his stern face, lips parted in desire. Gently, Aragorn drew Faramir around to face him, took his cock in his hand, came closer, and at last Faramir knew the taste of pipeweed on Aragorn’s mouth.
Pulling each other down into the soft tumble of bedding, all inhibition was lost as they worked together to explore and express all their repressed desires.
It was Aragorn who first emerged from their nest of debauchery, searching for his pipe as the first flush of dawn brushed the horizon.
“Well, my love, a new day is upon us, the timid lustful steward is confined to the past and it is my turn to choose.”
Faramir did little more than snort from the depths where he lay hidden.
“And the game I choose is… I’m a naughty elf caught stealing from the rangers’ camp and have to be punished!”
Somewhere beneath the covers, Faramir’s imagination began to run wild once more…
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: KisaMura , ophelia