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Spell of Binding

Beta: None

It had been almost too easy. The older the race became, the more diluted the blood, the more pronounced their lusts. Though darkness surrounded the Elven woman and her conquest, she seemed still to glow from within with a pale light. A salty sea breeze caressed her bare skin, damp with perspiration and flushed rosy with arousal. She moved easily atop the Man, her small, round breasts cupped in hungry, heated palms. His stormy eyes watched her closely as she rose and fell upon his shaft, one hand between their bodies so that she could bring herself to completion as quickly as the Man she rode would find his. Her Lord would never spill his seed before she lay limp beneath him, but Men and Elves were very different creatures and she had learned much of them over the centuries.

Her breath hitched in her throat as the Man bucked beneath her, and in that moment when his mind was flooded with rapture, she plunged into his very being. There was corruption there, a covetous soul that sought to be what it could never become. As her own climax built, Galadriel wove a soft, quiet spell, words of binding to staunch the pouring of the filth in the Man's mind and to quiet his envious desires.

She threw her head back, her long silver-gold locks brushing the man's sac and thighs, and cried out her pleasure to the heavens. As she slid from the prone body, the Man already deep in slumber, she prayed to gods she had long abandoned that the Man would cease his attempts to reach the Blessed Realm. Many times had she found herself atop a Man of Númenor, her spells quieting restless hearts in the name of diplomacy.

But this Man was different, she mused as she wiped the Man's essence from her thighs. He was dangerous, intent on his success, and even the Lady of the Golden Wood, who had defied the Valar, did not think she could prevent what was to come. An end was coming, and with it a new beginning, but Galadriel mourned the loss of what Elros had given up his Elven fire for.


	Navigation single-part stories		Spell of Binding Beta: None It had been almost too easy. The older the race became, the more diluted the blood, the more pronounced their lusts. Though darkness surrounded the Elven woman and her conquest, she seemed still to glow from within with a pale light. A salty sea breeze caressed her bare skin, damp with perspiration and flushed rosy with arousal. She moved easily atop the Man, her small, round breasts cupped in hungry, heated palms. His stormy eyes watched her closely as she rose and fell upon his shaft, one hand between their bodies so that she could bring herself to completion as quickly as the Man she rode would find his. Her Lord would never spill his seed before she lay limp beneath him, but Men and Elves were very different creatures and she had learned much of them over the centuries. Her breath hitched in her throat as the Man bucked beneath her, and in that moment when his mind was flooded with rapture, she plunged into his very being. There was corruption there, a covetous soul that sought to be what it could never become. As her own climax built, Galadriel wove a soft, quiet spell, words of binding to staunch the pouring of the filth in the Man's mind and to quiet his envious desires. She threw her head back, her long silver-gold locks brushing the man's sac and thighs, and cried out her pleasure to the heavens. As she slid from the prone body, the Man already deep in slumber, she prayed to gods she had long abandoned that the Man would cease his attempts to reach the Blessed Realm. Many times had she found herself atop a Man of Númenor, her spells quieting restless hearts in the name of diplomacy. But this Man was different, she mused as she wiped the Man's essence from her thighs. He was dangerous, intent on his success, and even the Lady of the Golden Wood, who had defied the Valar, did not think she could prevent what was to come. An end was coming, and with it a new beginning, but Galadriel mourned the loss of what Elros had given up his Elven fire for.