Faramir Fiction Archive

Perfecting Beauty (NC-17)

Written by Fawsley

10 December 2007 | 677 words

Fandom: LotR
Beta and title duties: farothiel
Rating: R
Warnings: bdsm
Disclaimer: JRRT’s characters in a world of my own making
Note: for savageseraph for the sons_of_gondor hallowe’en trick or treat exchange

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Autumn’s sun is warm as that of summer, low rays casting a gentle glow upon all they touch. Beneath its sheltering canopy the grey bark of an ancient beech gleams with the dull silver of swordmetal, crisp russet leaves throwing shadow-dances upon the skin, pale as moonlight, of the man bound to the great trunk below.

He is, so his captor believes, a thing of almost perfect beauty.

Here in the woods there is no-one to hear his cries, none to make some confused and blundering intrusion into this very private world. The city’s confining stones are left far behind; the round and routine, the fops and flunkies, the public personas are all forgotten. Here roles and rules follow the beat of a very different drum.

The first touch of the whip is a lover’s sweetest kiss.

The teasing caress of leather upon skin traces a trail upwards over calves and thighs, lingering at secret places of unexpected softness. Not a mark is left upon buttocks, back or shoulders yet the victim writhes at the tenderness he is given, suffering under certain knowledge of what is still to come.

A sudden smart smack and the silence is broken.

Even before the captive has caught his breath and swallowed his cry the crows have taken wing, cawing in disturbed annoyance. The captor bides his time, waits patiently for silence to flow softly back around them before lifting his arm once more. Each fall of the whip paints a vivid crimson streak across the captive’s skin, each stroke brings perfection a little nearer, makes beauty a little more complete.

There is an art to master here, as much as there is a man.

A simple thing, and so innocent, the suggestion of riding out together on so glorious day as this. To the woods, perhaps? Yes, to the woods. Little said, yet both are fully aware of the unspoken request made and granted. The crown weighs heavy at times, the wearer would be rid of it if only for a few hours, and there is one who would gladly grasp the reins of power for him.

With every lash the burden lifts a fraction more.

Long hair tangled over lowered face, every muscle bunched and taut, sunlight glistening upon sweat-sheen. The captor knows his man well, knows how his body suffers, that the pain is unbearable, that with but a little more the man will break and scream and plead for mercy. He walks upon the very edge of the sharpest sword’s blade.

‘This is nothing,’ he says. ‘You can take far more. And you will.’

The flogging grows hard and fast and the captive’s world narrows to one where every ounce of strength and stamina is pitched against the need to beg. Reddened skin etched with a herringbone of welts, cries wrenched from his soul, desperate for it to stop, wanting it never to end. He is tortured by temptation, choking, sobbing, shakes his head once, twice in anguish, starts to form the words…

‘Enough. It is over. You did well.’

The captive slumps slack-armed against his bonds, shaking and gasping in gratitude at his captor’s brilliant timing as much as from the ending of the pain. The thongs at his wrists are loosened, strong arms take his weight, a soft cloak enfolds as he resurfaces into reality. It is all he can do to whisper his thanks over and over.

‘It is I who thank you. You are beautiful.’

Words are silenced by kisses, sealing a private world. They will rest here tonight, let healing sleep slide them slowly back into the lives they must lead. Morning will find them ready for the return to city and people, to duties and dilemmas, safe in the secret knowledge that should need arise, the king’s flesh is more than willing to submit to his steward’s full authority.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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