This was not a battle he
could win.
It was not that he was inexperienced in this. He had had
women, countless women, their bodies pale with dusky nipples
that pouted for kisses. And he had had boys, their skin
silky and their chins smooth, eyes dark and lustful. There
was no shortage of willing bedwarmers for the Captain of the
Guard, pretty creatures that writhed happily beneath him. He
had heard rumors of his own prowess on occasion, listened
with smug, well-deserved arrogance of his skills as a lover.
None of it had prepared him for this moment, for the sight
of this Man on his knees, his head pillowed submissively on
his arms. Surrender was written clearly in every line of his
body; no boyish charms here, only harsh masculine strength,
shameless desire in the arch of his hips, shadowed in his
eyes. Waiting for him to do as he wished, to accept whatever
indignities Boromir yearned to visit upon his tender skin.
It had been a bargain. Boromir had met the challenge and now
here was his reward. He could order Aragorn to take him into
the liquid heat of his mouth, tangle his fingers into the
damp strands of dark hair and force him to accept more, to
feel him gag and struggle beneath his touch.
Or he could take him as he was, catch the slim curve of
Aragorn's hips in his hands and sheath his flesh within,
merciless friction between them and listen to the soft,
bitten-off whimpers of Aragorn finally, finally,
bending beneath him.
Aragorn would do anything he asked in this moment, in sweet,
silent compliance. And Boromir despised it.
Instead, he leaned away, waiting until Aragorn turned
towards him, brow creased, his eyes alight with confusion,
and only then did Boromir speak, softly, their first words
of the evening and he savored the taste of his own shame.
"Force me."
It was only when he was on his back, his wrists painfully
caught and held that he thought he saw a gleam of triumph in
Aragorn's eyes. Yet he was beyond caring, beyond anything
but his own desperate need, his delightful humiliation.
Aragorn moved above him in harsh, aching rhythm, possessing
him, each shift and withdrawal an exquisite torture of its
own as his body accepted his treachery with decadent relish,
and when the moment came for him to beg, he did so, words
spilling from his lips like wine from a dropped goblet. He
writhed beneath his possessor, wishing only to be taken, to
be owned, an eager participant in his willing
degradation.
-Finis-
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