Of Elf Queens and Hammocks by Elleth

Chapter 1

Alphangil looks at her wife and her lover with stars dancing in her eyes every time.

How can she not, when Fingwen is so beautiful, and even more beautiful when she happens to come upon her in their private gardens of Tol Sirion, lying spread-legged and with her head tilted back in the hammock strung up between two birches there? The material has enough strength to hold her, but even through the fabric Alphangil can see the way her back is arching inward, upward against Maedhris' seeking mouth, her questing hand.

Both are at work on Fingwen's body, and Alphangil all but crosses the flower-studded greensward at a run toward them, the sweet melody of Fingwen's moans and the wet lapping of Maedhris' tongue, the short, panting breaths as she is at work. Maedhris is often more comfortable giving pleasure to her lovers, sharp as a steel blade glittering palely that others might cut themselves upon, but Alphangil has never found this mesmerizing, beautiful woman with the cascade of red hair to the middle of her thighs frightening.

Maedhris' hair is unbound now, giving a modicum of privacy the way it falls, but surely no one could mistake the back-and-forth trusts of the hammock under the force of her fingers and Fingwen's rocking for anything but what it is.

Alphangil finally reaches the two of them, and even with her eyes closed and sweat beading under her circlet, Fingwen reaches for her, one hand outstretched, the other in Maedhris' hair, holding on to it as much as holding it back from finding it in every crevice of her body, as indeed happened before, and Alphangil laughs softly, full of love. She slides Fingwen's blue dress higher, blessing her silently, for she wears no bodice nor stays as she might in formal attire, baring her breasts, and leans down to lick at them, tasting sweat and arousal in a deliciously heady mix. She rolls her hands over Fingwen's lovely body and Fingwen's cries turn choked, louder, overstimulated, as Alphangil kisses her way down over her Fingwen's warrior's body and its scars. The leaves of the trees begin to rustle as Fingwen redoubles her effort to thrust, as if to break her pleasure on the fingers stabbing into her as sure and deadly as any blade, as sure as the tongue that might soothe any of her hurt.

Alphangil lingers at the joining of her hips for a moment to watch and let her own liquid heat pool in the pit of her belly, so strong her knees are shaking, but when it seems more and more that Fingwen, vocal as she is, is reaching her climax, she wants a taste of her wife herself, and bends to catch Maedhris' lips, who pulls away from Fingwen and returns the kiss without shame or compunction, a momentary break that leaves her lovely wife needy and even more vocal than before.

She takes her sweet time kissing Maedhris, however, to thoroughly explore her mouth and map up the joined tastes of the dry white wine that Maedhris prefers, the taste of strawberries - and Alphangil privately thinks that if they ruined her strawberry beds with their lewdness, she shall punish them both, for not inviting her along as well as the ruining itself - as well as Fingwen's delicious taste of salt. It is a heady mixture and more heat flows downward in her body; her eyes flutter. Resting her hand over Fingwen's in Maedhris' hair, she helps push her down again, following, and opening her mouth to breathe additional heat over Fingwen's inner thighs, dotted with love-bites, presses her tongue into firm muscle tensed to near snapping and softly yielding flesh, caresses Maedhris fingers as they pull out, strokes Maedhris' tongue with her own as she is at work on Fingwen.

Fingwen's release comes suddenly with a tensing and a shout; she keens so loudly birds startle into flight in the bushes, and Alphangil laughs helplessly against her as the orgasm still rips through Fingwen, which makes her keen again, a little lower, with the renewed onslaught on her senses.

While Fingwen is still shuddering through the aftermath and Alphangil moves to nuzzle into the messed-up braids, Maedhris pulls away, a thick strand of hair clinging to her wet chin, and she brushes it away a little irritably with her stump, then plucks a black hair, short and kinky, from her tongue, also laughing a little. This, also, is far from the first time it happened, as all three can attest, and none of them mind.

"Now," Alphangil says, trying to sound stern, but once again betrayed by her laughter and the love she bears them both, "Please tell me that my strawberry beds are still whole."

She does not miss the glance that passes between them, Fingwen's still heavy-lidded with lust and Maedhris' alert and glittering grey.

"Oh, you villains," Alphangil exclaims, but it lacks heat. She knows that when Maedhris gets carried away it is most often Fingwen's fault, the most adventurous of them three, and at the same time she reaches into the slit up the side of her summer dress and undoes the band that holds her short linen braies up. She kicks them off, leaving them lying in the grass, and then, in a moment of ruthlessness, tips Fingwen from the hammock onto the soft, springy turf of the garden.

She climbs in and pulls her dress up around her hips, leaving no doubt what her intention is. "First - this, and after - my strawberry bed while I watch from the shade that you are doing it well. You may feed me as well, if you gluttons left any."

Maedhris pulls Fingwen to her feet, and she has the grace to look demure and murmur, "As you command, my Queen."

Alphangil's eyes flutter, looking up at Fingwen and Maedhris. She could never be very angry with them, and even less so as she is once again made starry-eyed by them both.