Stress Relief by ohboromir

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Stress Relief

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Idril sat at her loom.

It was slow work. Her hands were not dextrous, fingertips long numbed by cold. It had taken much effort and many tutors to learn to weave at all, and in the length of time that it took for her to do one piece, another weaver might have finished twice as many. She stood, kicked the loom in frustration – at least the lack of feeling in her feet was beneficial for venting her annoyance - and wandered to her window, smoothing her dress before stepping out onto the balcony. Some air would calm her.

Weaving wasn’t the true cause of her mood. Her stresses were innumerable; there was her wedding to plan, her duties to the city, the waves of dark mood that came of her for no reason at all. It seemed now, when she would most like to be joyful and carefree, that every single lord of the city had some complicated but meaningless dispute to bring to her, or to her father, who inevitably asked for her advice along with her cousin’s. The slow progress of the wedding cloak she was weaving for Tuor was just the latest of her problems.

“I thought I might find you out here, my lady.”

She startled at the sound of his voice; usually Tuor’s coming was easy to hear, his steps heavy to her ears, even his breathing loud. But she had been so lost in her thoughts that it was not until her fiancé’s strong arms slid around her waist that she realised he had found her.

“You were looking for me?” She arched an eyebrow as she leant back against him, enjoying the solid warmth of his chest.

“I always am.” Tuor’s chuckle reverberated through his chest and through her.

Idril sighed.

“If you would rather be alone, my dearest lady, I – “

“No.” She quieted him with her hand on his arm. “I am only a little stressed, that is all. You comfort me.”

Tuor was quiet for a moment, still holding her, his head nestled against her shoulder. Then his hand sank lower, dancing lightly over her groin.

“I could help you relax, my lady.”

“Could you now, Lord Tuor?”

“Indeed,” he purred in her ear, “I would have you here on your balcony, I would taste you, torment you, drive you so mad with pleasure you can spare no thoughts for anything else.”

“Who is stopping you?”

Tuor laughed, and turned her in his arms, pushing her back against the high metal rail.

It was a scandalous scene, she thought. Anyone might look up to see them, and yet, she was not afraid. No, it made her heart race, sparking like one of her cousin’s gas lamps in her chest – let them see how well Tuor loved her. She did not care.

He sank to his knees before her, pushing her skirts up over her hips. Sometimes, they still lit candles and sang hymns for the Valar, old Vanyarin songs that echoed in empty halls. This was an act of worship far more meaningful. His hands, rough and calloused and strong, slid up her thighs, teasingly light until he reached her hips, holding her firmly in place. He held her legs apart.

“Relax, my lady.” How could she, when his every touch set her aflame? Tuor pressed a line of kisses up her thigh, his beard delightfully rough against her skin.

“Allow me to take care of you. Ah,” He laughed softly, “Already wanting, princess?”

He flicked her wet folds with his tongue, taunting, groaning at the taste of her. Idril reached to wind her fingers in his hair, but he batted her hand away. Tuor sunk his face between her thighs. Her grip on the rail behind her tightened.

“Oh, my Tuor…”

He teased her, circling her clit with his tongue, the pressure not quite enough. She ached for him, burned for him; the short months until they were wed stretched on endlessly. Then, she could have him in her bed, and in her, and no one could separate them.

But she could think of her longing no more, for Tuor pulled away, beard slick with her arousal. She whined.

“Easy, princess.” His thumb circled her entrance, pressing inside her ever so slightly – she clenched around him in response, as if she could draw him in.

“By the stars, you are beautiful like this.” He pressed two fingers inside her, crooking them just so, and Idril flung her arm over her mouth to muffle her wail as she ground down against him. “So eager for me, so beautiful; you are like silk in my arms. You are the sun made flesh.”

“T-Tuor, my T-Tuor…” She arched off the railing as he brought his mouth to her folds again. The heat building in her stomach grew, the pressure inside her almost painful in its urgency. So close! Another moment, and -

“Tuor!”

“You are still thinking.” He chided, as he knelt back on his haunches and hooked one of her legs over his shoulder. Slowly, oh, so terribly slowly, he kissed her ankle, then her calf, every inch of skin, creeping gradually up her leg. She throbbed for him, but he ignored her in favour of more sweet kisses along her thigh – he nipped the soft, full flesh there and she gasped, squirming.

Idril pushed herself further back on the railing, unafraid of falling, and tugged open the front of her dress and her stays, so her heaving breast could be free. She was flushed down her chest, a bright contrast to the green of her gown.

“Tuor, I want you.” She was used to demanding, but he only laughed as he leaned in to devour her again.

Again and again, he brought her to the edge, with his mouth, with his fingers, both together. Always, he knew when she was close, and pulled back, to worship the smooth skin of her thighs or her stomach with light and fleeting kisses.

“My princess,” he crooned, as he let her come down from the last high. “My clever princess. Is your mind at peace now, my love?”

Idril could only moan softly in response, arching her hips towards him. This must have been a satisfactory answer, because his mouth was on her again, his tongue against her clit, taunting her with pressure just as he knew she liked. His fingers, three of them, sank into her easily, stroking her inside, stretching her, and Idril bit into her own arm as she pressed back against him, slick and hot. This time he did not pull away, and the pressure inside her built to a crescendo, until all at once it burst inside her, white-hot pleasure overcoming her. Her head fell back, eyes closed and body stiffening and clenching as she came with a muffled scream of his name, her mind blissfully blank of all but this.

As she came down from the high, trembling and weak-limbed, Tuor gathered her in his arms, pulling her dress from her fully and laying her down on it, murmuring soothing praise to her beauty, to her mind, to the pleasure she gave him. She opened her eyes again and looked at him, thinking of his pleasure at last. His face was flushed, eyes dark and full of desire, his beard wet with her orgasm. Idril reached out and pulled him close. She kissed him, tasting herself.

“My lady,” His voice broke a little – she noticed the wet stain on the front of his trousers as he freed himself from them – he had spilled once already just watching her. “I want – may I...”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

Then he was above her, sliding into her, and they groaned in unison; there was nothing so fulfilling for them as this closeness. For a moment, all was still.

And Tuor was pounding into her. She was boneless still from her orgasm, and only moaned and panted beneath him as he chased his pleasure, watching and drinking in the love and desire in his face, adoring the way the hair on his chest and at his groin rubbed against her skin in sweet friction. If he ever dared to remove it, she decided then, she would threaten to refuse to lay with him until it grew back (although she doubted that she would keep such a resolve).

She could see his climax drawing rapidly near, he had been so close from just watching her, and she could feel it in the fledgling bond between them, his lust and pleasure seeping into her in little flashes. Tuor sank a hand between them to rub furiously at her clit, fingers slippery but determined, and she clenched around him and came again, shuddering. He followed, pulling out just in time to spill over her stomach. Her name fell from his lips like a prayer.

They lay on the ground in shared silence, as his seed dried on her skin, their fingers linked together as they gazed up at the afternoon sky. Idril felt the power of movement slowly returning to her, and she rolled onto one elbow to gaze at Tuor instead, brushing his hair from his flushed face.

“So, my lady,” he said after a moment, grinning back at her. “Are you still stressed?”

She laughed.

“I can hardly remember what I was thinking about at all.”