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He already knows the answer to his question before he’s breathed it aloud—he can see the thick lust in the gaze of his guards, the frustration in their tense forms and the way the muffled whimpers and moans so greatly affect them. Two stand outside the only occupied cell, facing outwards, though Thranduil knows they must dearly want to look inside. One lifts her head towards him as he drifts down the twisting path above the river, and he can see her fighting hard to be professional.
Thranduil casually asks, “Has he broken yet?” And she shakes her head, as expected. Thranduil nods and doesn’t bother trying to hide the grin that flitters over his face. He’d hoped for that result. He’d demanded it, although, truthfully, if he’d come down to find half a dozen guards all atop his prisoner, he wouldn’t especially mind the view.
He turns the corner and enters the open cell, equally as pleased with what he finds. There are no witnesses, no one playing with the prisoner—only his one offending guard, hung up from the ceiling by the most exquisite silk. Meludir’s wrists and ankles are bound by them, pulled firmly together, body arched to accommodate. The rope loops around his slender throat and traces square down his middle, cutting between his panting breast and down between his legs, cutting right into his quivering channel. His pink lips are spread around it, and the effort of trying to rub against it makes him sway lightly back and forth. The silk there is damp, moisture slicked all across his thighs, and Thranduil watches a single bead drip down to the floor, forming a small puddle of sweat and other juices. A separate strip is fit around Meludir’s sweet mouth, though it doesn’t do much to stifle the delicious sounds he makes. As soon as he sees Thranduil, a heavy moan rolls out of him, and his attempts to grind himself against the rope intensify. He swings wider for it, unable to get any friction. Perhaps it’s cruel, but Thranduil finds the tears at the corner of his eyes wildly endearing.
Thranduil strolls forward and takes his fill. He eyes every bit of Meludir’s exposed body, naked from stem to stern. The green silk stands out brilliantly against his creamy flesh. Thranduil takes his time simply enjoying that, until Meludir is trembling so hard that pity overcomes amusement.
Reaching out, Thranduil gently removes the rope from Meludir’s mouth. The circlet falls down to hang from his throat, and immediately, he’s opening wide, tongue hanging out, clearly desperate to be filled. Chuckling, Thranduil pets his cheek. It’s sorely tempting. But if he fucked Meludir like he so dearly wants to, it would defeat the point entirely. His cock is a blessing, and Meludir’s being punished.
“You will never be tardy for your duties again,” Thranduil muses. Meludir nods frantically. It makes him rock enough that the long braid trailing down his shoulder slaps against his chest. Thranduil takes a hold of it, twining it around his fingers, just to see the way that Meludir squirms and groans. Meludir’s always loved having his king’s fingers in his hair, running through it, tugging it, but Thranduil’s had it braided just for that reason—to resist the temptation to brush the honey-coloured waves. Thranduil releases it and idly asks, “You have not asked for relief from your guards, I see. A shame, I know they would truly like to enjoy you like this... and I know you would dearly like to be taken...”
“Only by you,” Meludir rasps, going instantly from silent to gushing. “I am sorry, my king, so sorry, but I will bear any punishment, take anything, do anything for your forgiveness—I—”
He cuts off as Thranduil circles around him and lightly swats one round cheek of his ass. The cry Meludir makes is perfection, and it echoes off the rocky walls and out into the corridor beyond. The guards will certainly hear it. And they’ll know to never be late for any of their duties. Meludir gasps, “Please, my king, please, I need—”
“Then you will get it from someone else,” Thranduil snaps. Meludir practically wails in return. Thranduil ignores it and instead rubs Meludir’s ripe ass, blunt fingernails scraping pink trails down the crescent globes. His touch stops at the ropes circling Meludir’s thighs, and he traces that rope right around to the middle. Finally, he’s standing behind Meludir, faced with the tantalizing view of Meludir’s flushed opening. Meludir squirms against his bonds and tries to spread his legs wider, but there’s only so much he can do with how tightly he’s bound. He’s held just above the ideal level—a little too high to line up properly with Thranduil’s crotch, but low enough to comfortably stroke. He could have Meludir lowered easily enough, but he tells himself it won’t be necessary. As much as he’d like to fuck his pretty archer right there in a mess of ropes and watch Meludir swing back and forth onto his cock, Thranduil knows it just wouldn’t do. Clearly, Meludir’s already let his king’s favouritism go to his head. He needs to be taken down a peg. Hung up and left out to dry. Perhaps he even needs some lesser lovers—a few rounds with a few commoners to bring him back down off his pedestal. Somehow, Thranduil just can’t bring himself to order it. It’s easier to push Meludir to beg for it, and enjoy the view in the meantime.
If Meludir doesn’t break, if he bears his entire sentence without the pleasure of being filled by another, then Thranduil might be tempted to forgive his tardiness and take him back. Preferably before the ropes are cut. Thranduil runs his hands along Meludir’s warm thighs and wonders when that should be.
His thumbs stray to the pink lips split around the rope, and he pries them wider, enough to see some of Meludir’s velvety insides despite the rope obscuring the picture. More clear liquid bubbles up and clings to the silk. Thranduil allows one finger to slip inside around it, and Meludir absolutely howls.
Thranduil tells himself he’ll just pet Meludir’s inner walls a few times, purely for his own pleasure, but the way Meludir’s tight channel clings to him is simply too enticing. He thrusts deeper than he means to, sliding all the way in to the knuckle, and then he crooks around, enjoying how slick Meludir becomes for him. He has to hold onto Meludir’s thigh with the other hand to keep Meludir from swinging away, but then he wonders why he’s bothering. Letting go, he gives Meludir a little push, and Meludir swings forward, only to slide right back onto Thranduil’s finger. Meludir groans helplessly, and Thranduil chuckles before withdrawing and wiping himself off on Meludir’s ass.
Meludir croaks another desperate, “Please.” It’s so pathetic that Thranduil almost breaks. He continues playing with just Meludir’s pouty lips while Meludir pleads, “My king, my love, please—I am so sorry, I will never be late again, I will serve you so well, I will—Ahhhh!”
Thranduil withdraws from the left cheek, the red rings of his teeth indented in that pale flesh. He’s tempted to kiss lower, to pull those two cheeks apart and breath over Meludir’s puckered hole, but he knows that’s a slippery slope. He hums, “You may have relief, if you wish. Scream loud enough, and it will sound even through your gag, and then your guards will run in to fuck your lovely brains right out of your body. I will even have more join them, if you like—we could have your entire regiment come through here and swing you back and forth between them, until you’ve warmed every cock and drunk from every cunt in my army. There is no need to hang here alone, untouched and unable to come.”
Meludir is silent, save for his panting and crying. With a sigh and a final pinch to the drenched valley between Meludir’s legs, Thranduil wades back around to the front. Meludir’s expression is absolutely wrecked, and when he looks at his king, the longing is so palpable that Thranduil’s heat actually clenches. He knows he has no more loyal a subject in the entire realm.
“I would do all of that,” Meludir mumbles, trembling so violently that it makes him stutter. “If you commanded it. But you said if I am to ever have you again, I must wait for you, and... my king... I would hang here all my life for that.”
Thranduil is ridiculously tempted. Given how long he has lived, how many lovers he’s had, how many things he’s tried, that’s a considerable accomplishment. He distracts himself from Meludir’s adorable face by reaching under to pinch one of Meludir’s pert nipples. He shudders but hardly reacts otherwise—clearly, he’s reached his limit of stimulation. His nipples don’t look as though they could possibly be any harder. His entrance certainly couldn’t be wetter. His entire body is flushed and sweating. The marks around his wrists and ankles are wider than they should be, especially given the softness of the rope—clearly, he’s been squirming too much in them. Thranduil cups his chin and rubs his bottom lip.
Then Thranduil returns the gag to where it should be. He bends down to kiss Meludir’s forehead and promises, “Only a little longer, pet.” Meludir brokenly nods.
With a deep breath, Thranduil leaves. He returns to his quarters, where he swiftly relieves himself—he must be in full control when he reclaims his favourite toy, which will doubtless be sooner than expected.