On Carven Throne by Innin

Chapter 1

"Oh, bless the summer court!"

Galadriel turned her head aside despite the hands tightening in her hair and muffled her peals of laughter against the heated skin of Lúthien's thigh. The lazy, purring indulgence in Lúthien's voice reverbrated through the entirety of her body, now softening against the carven angles of Thingol's throne pressing into her spread legs, the fingers in Galadriel's hair growing slack, stroking and patting as though she were a beloved cat brushing against her mistress' legs.

Galadriel thanked the stars that the court had moved into the forest for the warm season, leaving the throne room empty, lifted her head and pressed a kiss to Lúthien's damp curls, but when she meant to straighten from the hard steps of the dais digging into her knees, Lúthien's fingers grazed against her scalp – fingernails, just the hint of a warning, at odds with the deep, contented voice, the pleased sigh, the half-lidded eyes.

"Stay down. We are not yet done."

Galadriel smirked.

She knew days like this. When the summer sun beating down onto the forest spiked straight into Lúthien's blood, it made her near-untiring – and more: daring, mischievous, insatiable, the reason they were down here in the first place, Lúthien the Queen of Menegroth on her father's throne: She'd keep Galadriel kneeling until her legs were numb, would push herself onto Galadriel's mouth relentlessly until it was only Lúthien's smell and taste under Galadriel's lips and fingers like a heady delicacy to savour, until Galadriel would make a game of wringing climax after climax from her until she whined with delight and need, growing more and more sensitive the longer they played, until a cool breath blown close against her clit, a nip of teeth, a fingernail, sent her mewling and spiraling into the umpteenth orgasm of the day.

And Galadriel, though entirely untouched, would draw her own pleasure from her lady's sight at the end, when she'd finally beg no more, no more, magnificently dishevelled and the fabric of her dress drenched night-blue with sweat around the neckline, between her breasts, sweat beading over the royal circlet on her temples resting on flushed skin beneath, her chest shuddering as it heaved and sank.

And then, a final time - against Lúthien's pleas but not her will, the final flick of Galadriel's long fingers against the oversensitive flesh, sweet revenge to see Lúthien and her haughty pride undone completely, toes curling, a soundless jolt throughout her – and then sagging bonelessly and trembling like a bird, her eyes blown so wide they were black, not grey – and a flitting brush of mind to mind and Queen Lúthien's triumph after all, the most pleasant form of discipline - a rush of directionless, senseless pleasure racing fiery tendrils down Galadriel's spine and thence into her body, a white burst of stars and heat and quiet behind her eyes.

Galadriel shuddered in expectation of what was to come. They had only played the first round yet.