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Moralqua by Urloth

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Story notes:

Written for an Anon on Tumblr.

How lovely, Tuor can’t help but watch the long graceful limbs and the curve of a long, swan-like neck.

How pale and how elegant the hands that are fluttering against his shoulders, the long fingers heavy with rings of hematite and black-opal. How long the torso, and the curve of those hips are sublime, heavenly where those firm, round buttocks are. He wipes his mouth carefully, licking away the residue of seed, the taste far less musky then he is used to. Meanwhile his hands are busy, fingers stroking along thighs which have plenty of muscle, but also a nice layer of fat that make them soft and just right for what he wants to do.

He turns the elf over in the bed within Turgon’s palace, and slicks those admirable thighs with salve left ostensibly to help soften the callouses on Tuor’s rough hands.

Ah but he has a far better use for it now, gorging himself on beauty and pleasure, pushing knees which like the rest of the elf, are elegant and pale (knees! Even the elf’s knees!) and thrusting with a low moan between the giving flesh. Oh yes perfect, Tuor’s cock very much enjoys feeling the strength of the muscle and the warm, soft give at the same time, precum joining the salve in making the warm passage of it as wet as any girl’s cunt.

Pitch-black hair has been cast out from its former neat braid out across the frost-blue duvet with its embroidery of white swans. It flows out like an ink-spill, and Tuor can’t help but dig his hands into it, finding it thick as poured cream, but as soft as the furs the elves bestowed upon him when they replaced his tattered travelling clothes. The scent rising from it is lavender, and he brings a handful to his face, enjoying the sophomoric scent. His hands knead the pert behind presented to him in this position, his cock thickening with blood when the elf sighs and whispers perhaps Tuor’s not as uncivilised as thought.

He tilts his hips up, working himself against the spent sacs above to hear a muffled whimper, and pushing those delightful thighs together a little firmer, he pulls back to bathe their alabaster perfection with his seed. As the elf shivers and moans protest at being so soiled, he drags his cock up the crack of those firm buttocks before him to leave a trail of intent and possession.

Next time he will work the elf open with his fingers, and plunder the twitching ring of pink muscle he lets his cock head rest against to stain with the last of his cum.

Next time. But for now this is perfect; just what Tuor needed from the moment he saw the sultry, sulky creature before him protesting to strongly at his admittance to the city.

Maeglin.

Maeglin Lómion.

A name to memorise.