Faramir Fiction Archive

Simulacra (NC-17)

09 November 2011 | 30013 words | Work in Progress

IX

Beta: the fabulous Anorien – Thank you!
Warning: getting darker

“He’ll just die if he doesn’t want it.”

“That’s why we have to make him want it.” The leader, the one with the weasel-like face and sharp teeth, looked meaningfully at his companion over the knife in his hand.

Scoffing. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” The round-faced one whose greasy hair hung longer than the others’.

Slow smile from Weasel as he toyed with his blade, idly tracing the young elf’s jawline, firelight dancing off steel and black eyes alike. A quick flash and a hunk of golden hair fell to the ground. A long moment before the blood fell upon it. Wicked smile.

“You haven’t been with my crew long enough.”

The problem wasn’t finding a sturdy tree branch; it was measuring the rope properly. Weasel had something very particular in mind, something he really liked.

Bound and kneeling in the circle of firelight, the battered elf had time. Time to listen to their conversation. To question. Time for fear to set in and turn his heart hollow. It was curious, this hollowness. He might have cried out to his parents, his brothers, his gods. He never thought of it. That would come later.

Instead, empty waiting, beyond time. A sharp stone beneath his left knee hurt more than the welts, the wounds. His mind knew his body was sorely broken. He had fought them as long as he could to give his brothers time to escape. But now he felt only the exquisite pain of that stone piercing under his kneecap, and the emptiness.

In time he toppled sideways to lay senseless against the earth.

Searing pain. His head — his head was on fire.

Roundface had entwined a fist in his hair and was dragging him across the rocky ground to their chosen tree. Roughly he threw the elfling to the ground at its base. Unable to catch himself without his arms, Haldir fell forward, his head impacting the trunk hard. He tasted blood, focused on it. My blood. Mine. I’m alive. Please let me die. Let me die.

A hand stroking his cheek brought him awake. Gentle, cool. His mother? No, she was dead, surely. Please let her be dead.

The voice began. Almost singing. Twisting its way up his spine.

“Hi Beautiful. Welcome back my sweet. Ah, you’re so young. I wonder, have you ever had a man before? No? Oh Beautiful, we have something special planned for you. Something very special. Designed to make you want us. Beg for us. Do you know what it’s like to beg to be fucked? ‘Cause you will, Beautiful. You will beg for your very soul before this is over.”

His own sob, loosed before he could bite it back. Please let the others be safe.

A movement in the corner of his eye and a sickening sound of rope sithering over wood; the first tug on the end knotted around his neck. He feels the tree reach out to him in concern, questioning. Fear he’s never before known slices through his core. Heart racing, mouth of ashes. The very beginnings of pressure, constricting. He struggles wild-eyed, already sure he cannot breathe. He does not yet know. Weasel begins to laugh again, that sick slippery sound.

“Panicking are we Beautiful? You haven’t even begun to feel…”

Two haul him to his feet and hold him briefly as others yank the loose end of the rope downward. He struggles to keep his chin up, stretching himself taller to ease the pressure until it no longer works. If only he were bigger.

“Look at ‘im boys. He looks so proud with his head held high, don’ ‘e? Won’t last long, elf. You will beg. Everyone breaks in time.”

His feet leave the ground, desperately kick empty air. Swallow — I must swallow! I could bear it a little longer if – sweet Valar I’m –

Men laughing harshly as he dances in midair, reaching with weakening legs, spastic. Someone begins to sing a raucous accompaniment.

The strangely slanted weasel face alongside his own, breath hot and stinking in his nostrils. He wonders vaguely how he can smell when he can’t breathe.

“Ah, my Beautiful. How tempting you look, hanging there for me. Like poetry. You want air, don’cha? You’re desperate for it, would cry for it. Tongue getting big in there, is it? Brain feel like it’s exploding with darkness?

Well here’s how this works: I’m going to let you hang. Except if I’m holding you. You want me to hold you? You want me to keep you up, save you from the rope? Of course you do. But I’ll only hold you up in one position – on my cock. That’s right, Beautiful, as long as I’m fucking you, you can breathe. As long as I’m fucking you, you won’t die.

And you don’t want to die, do you? So young? Your whole life yet to live? No, you think you do, but some little part of you, some part that you can’t silence, is begging for air. For survival. Begging me to slide my cock inside that tight virginal hole and fuck you til I’m dry. And let my men do the same. Because every time we go up in you, you’re not hanging from the rope. Sounds good, don’t it? I’m going to let you think about it for a moment. Feel your options. So you can get it straight in there that you want me to do this. You’re begging me to do this.”

With each word he drives a dirty fingertip into Haldir’s chest. The vibration echoes through his pounding head, dully finding his heart so far away. Below the rope. Another world.

Oh gods I love this. He is so tight, so soft. Never done this to an elf before, nor to one so young. However the fuck elves count time, if it were human, this one would be barely a teenager. Just budding. And so ripe. So luscious to cover my face – thick ropes of hair, run my fingers through it – force elfboy’s head back farther. His blood sweet on my tongue – like mead. Intoxicating. Fear so sharp in him, the scent so strong. Hard to hold back – make it last. But we have time, all the time we need. At least a couple days. Then we can let him go. Let him live with it. Yes.

“Yes, Beautiful, that’s it. Don’t stop struggling. Writhe. Writhe for me. You’re choking. But you won’t fight me. I’m keeping you alive. And you want to live so badly you’ll do this. You think you want to die, but if you really did, this wouldn’t be happening, would it? You’d rather have this. Give up your soul, my beautiful elven whore. You do this so well.”

So good. But it wasn’t enough. His hunger still burned. Insatiable. More blood. More sex. More.

Til now the pressure on Haldir’s neck had eased with each thrust, allowing him a tiny gasp of air. Never enough. But now Weasel’s arms wrapped around his torso, pulling their chests together and grasping the thinly muscled shoulders of his captive. Haldir winced as broken ribs ground against one another. Saw the triangular face at the end of a tunnel.

“Now my lovely, I will truly fuck you.” Weasel began driving upward into Haldir ferociously. Each time, he yanked down on Haldir’s shoulders, brutally pulling the elf against the noose, tightening inexorably. His panicking body spasmed violently as he strangled. This was Weasel’s favorite part. The throes of death they called it.

“Did you know –“ he grunted between thrusts – “that you get hard – uh — when you’re dying this way? – Can’t – nnnh – help it —-“

Thought had fled. Nothing beyond his head, exploding. Eyes burning. So much pressure. Nothing below the rope existed. Until it hurt. Even that became lost in the darkness that would not take hold, only smothered him. Wet velvet and needles. Please, I will let my body go. Just let my head live. My head, where I am.

“Yes! Oh gods yes! You have no idea how tight you get when I do that. And that sound you make – Your terror is so hot. Again! Yes, again! Oh my sweet, I am going to keep you and do this to you every day. So sweet, so –“

With a guttural cry Weasel finally came, all stink and fluid.

He stilled for a long moment, buried deep, before stroking Haldir’s cheek. “Just think, love, from now on whenever you think about sex, it will be Men.” Cruel smile.

Stepping back, he motioned for two others to hold the boy up, then ran the calloused hand down the elfling’s body to grab Haldir’s arousal. “Hey look boys! Our baby elf liked his treatment. Look how hard he is!” He planted a kiss on Haldir’s sweat-sheened forehead. “Cut him down.”

“Told you you’d be wanting us. And best of all, my dear, now you can’t just die. We can keep you for as long as we want. Even when we let you go, you’ll never be free. We’ll be with you forever. You’ll always know I’m out there somewhere, touching myself and remembering the feel of you tight around me, the look on your bloodied face, that sound you made. I will always have you. And long after I’m gone, I’ll still be with you, master of your body and soul. I guess that makes us all immortal.”

As the noose loosened and cool air touched his throat, Haldir gulped so greedily he vomited. He reached out to the tree on whose roots he lay. I’m sorry.

Then slipped, panting, in the welcoming arms of darkness.

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