By: Malinorne
Beta: Marina's husband
Characters: Maeglin/OFC
Rating: R (het; slash implied)
Warnings: Smut. Non-romantic smut. What do you expect from an elf like him?
Summary: One morning when Maeglin's faithful maid brings him his breakfast, she finds that he has a hunger for more than bread...
Author's notes: This little piece was inspired by Marina's fic 'Stormy Days'. It should stand on its own, but if you like the characters you shouldn't miss the chance to find out more about them in her stories, here: Eδriel and the story setting are borrowed from Marina with her generous permission; Maeglin and Gondolin are of course Tolkien's.
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I hurried up the stairs to Maeglin's private chambers. He was seldom an early riser, but once he got up, he wanted his simple breakfast of goat's milk and bread delivered immediately. Occasionally, he had a night guest and I had to rush back to the kitchen to prepare a heavier meal. The typical citizen of Gondolin did not share my master's simple tastes, reminiscent of his humble origins in Nan Elmoth.

I hoped to find him alone. He would usually have his bed mates leave well before dawn, a habit I loved him the more for, except when that bed mate was I. My love for him was fierce and jealous, and hopeless, too. After years in his service I had come to accept that the Lord of the Mole would never wed me, though it still hurt whenever Galdor, my fellow servant and rival for our master's attention, brought it up. It was my secret joy that whomever I might find in Maeglin's bed in the morning, it would not be Galdor.

At the top of the stairs, I knocked thrice on the heavy oak door and then entered. Maeglin would rarely answer – he would just wait impatiently inside, and once I arrived, regard me critically with his penetrating gaze. Although I could not get enough of looking at him, I had learnt not to stare, at least not in the morning.

With my eyes modestly downcast, I handed him the tray, which he took and then placed on the table beside his bed, as he did every morning. I turned to leave him to his meal, but before I reached the threshold, he caught my wrist in an iron grip.

"Stay," he hissed, and kicked the door shut.

A shiver of expectation came over me. I knew what that single word meant, what Maeglin had in mind when he invited me thus to share his breakfast. I did not need to look to know that his grey eyes had already darkened with lust.

He led the way to the bed and I followed meekly, careful not to let my excitement at the prospect of being with him show. We both knew that I was more than willing to share his bed, yet he preferred to command me to do so. Letting him have his way was a small sacrifice to make. Besides, his cold demeanour aroused me to no end and filled me with an even greater need to please my master.

While I waited for him to get seated comfortably with his back against the headboard, I discreetly opened the lacings on my blouse. The direction of his gaze confirmed his approval, as did the lack of verbal rebuke. He patted his thighs and I placed myself across his outstretched legs. Then, as soon as I lay still, he reached for the tray and balanced it on the low table formed by my back.

I held my breath at first, very much aware of the goblet of milk, filled to the brim, but as soon as I heard him drink, I began to relax a little. He ate in silence, taking a bite of the bread and then chewing it slowly before he would lift the cup to his lips again. Between bites, his hand wandered to my breasts or rear, giving them a quick squeeze before he would concentrate on his meal again. The slowness of it, this insufficient touching, made me ache with lust more than generous caresses would.

Then I felt his hand glide over my backside with a pleasant heaviness, continue down my thighs to the hem of my skirt and then slip underneath the material.

I grew tense with anticipation, willing him to go further, which he did not. He would have found me wet, of course, aching for his fingers to touch me intimately. Perhaps that was exactly why he stilled his hand on the sensitive inside of my thighs.

He took another bite of bread, but then his other hand, rather than finding the goblet, grasped my hair at the nape of my neck and pulled. I gasped at the suddenness of it; the pain was negligible. The delicious pressure of his other hand just below my bottom was well worth the moment of discomfort. He held me like that only for a few seconds, then he released my hair and took the goblet instead. He must have spilled a few drops – I could smell the milk on his hand when it cupped my chin. Surprisingly gently he then eased his thumb into my mouth, between my slowly – as if reluctantly – parting lips.

I tasted the invading digit with great pleasure, caressing it with my tongue the way I knew he favoured, and was momentarily rewarded – with a hard slap on my behind. But only one; he was already holding the bread again. His thumb in my mouth was replaced with two fingers, thrusting energetically between my lips. Then, another bite of bread – the last if I had counted correctly – and the last drip of milk. I could not be sure; the tray remained on my back with the weight of the earthen goblet and the wooden plate on it.

But his left hand finally pushed my skirt out of the way, baring the lower half of my buttocks to his gaze. And then, he shoved my thighs apart and finally, finally he touched me. None too gently, but it was a sweet assault to feel his fingers thrust into my moistened sheath repeatedly, and even more so when his other hand travelled to my breasts and began to massage them, now and then making me gasp when he pinched a nipple.

Through all this, I fought to remain silent, moaning softly only when I was beyond controlling myself. Such as when he, at last began to alternate the thrusts of his fingers with pressing my most sensitive nub. Maeglin then told me to be quiet, but I knew he liked observing my reactions to his manipulations, regardless that the only evidence that he enjoyed subjecting me to his depraved breakfast was his engorged manhood that pressed against my belly.

Then I suddenly felt the weight of the tray disappear, as well as his hands. I tensed again, waiting, breathing heavily, willing myself not to complain at the loss of his touch. I tried to concentrate on the parts of him that I could still feel: his strong thighs and the eager member between them that I hoped to see released. He could not end this here, could he? I waited a little longer, and then a small moan of disappointment slipped between my lips.

He met it with a slap to my behind and a throaty "On your knees."

Maeglin didn't utter many words that morning, and yet no more were needed between us. I rose onto my hands and knees and moved in front of him, facing away. There, I sank down to my elbows and rested my head between my hands, presenting to him a perfect view of my behind and the place inside me that was begging to be filled by more than his fingers.

He mounted me quickly, wasting no time to bury himself to the hilt, and then begin a hard and fast ride where he pulled out almost entirely before slamming back into me all the way. Soon he was panting heavily, but otherwise remained quiet.

I, on the other hand, was now free to allow myself to moan without abandon. I knew that Galdor hated them just as much as Maeglin enjoyed hearing this vocal evidence of his sexual power over me. This knowledge only added to my pleasure.

At the punishing rhythm, he didn't last long. I knew when I heard him suppress a grunt that he was nearly there; then he suddenly elicited a roar of triumph as he drove into me a last couple of times before we collapsed onto the mattress. His heavy breathing in my ear as he rested his full weight on me sent me shaking into the throes of my own passion. If only, if only this could last.

"Tell Galdor to draw me a bath," Maeglin said coldly as he withdrew, leaving a sticky trace of his seed on the inside of my thighs.

I could not loathe him even at that moment. Nor could I look at him. Ever faithful to my master, I straightened my clothes and hurried down the stairs with blushing cheeks to convey the message.

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Posted: June 11, 2011

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"Long live Thranduil, great Elf-king of Greenwood!"