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Don't go shopping when you're bored

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“My dear Azog, you know very well that you are not my type,” Thranduil purrs, taking another sip of his wine.

“Really, you can't get it up if he isn't your type?” Bolg smirks, watching him greedily with his pig eyes.

“You are quite young Bolg, so I'll remind you of my preferences, this time,” Thranduil whispers venomously, making both of them come to the edge of their seats to hear him better. “I always have ways to get it up, but when somebody is so not my type, the best way to get my cock rock hard would be to put a nice long knife in that somebody's belly. Slowly.”

There is a moment of thick silence, punctuated by Bolg's gasp, Azog's eyes watching the pink tip of Thranduil's tongue slowly licking the plump lips, and then Galadriel starts laughing, seeming to not be able to stop.

 

 

 

 

GALADRIEL

“Oh, Thranduil, for that I would pay to watch!” she manages to utter finally.

“I promise to invite you, my lady, if that actually happens, Thranduil smirks. But I'm afraid those... brave types... are much too rare around these parts.”

Bolg almost jumps from his chair, wanting to say something, to rage at the humiliation probably, but his father stops him short.

“Entertaining as usually, Thranduil. Actually, I know what I want from you, on top of that amount, if you really want the boy," he smiles lewdly, then licks his own lips. "A show, in the club, after you break in the boy. Let's say, 3 months from now?”

Thranduil sips some more wine, considering.

“Seriously, I think you are lying to me, Azog. If the boy is as innocent as you claim, you cannot imagine he would have the proper responses in such a short time. And no, Bolg, just beating him half to death would not be such a show to attract the people your dear father wants here, for that he has you,” he drawls, contemptuously.

He sips some more wine, considering, licking again those maddeningly plump lips.

“Let's do it like this, Azog: I want to have a little discussion, alone, with the boy – just a discussion, and if what he tells me is interesting enough, I will agree to not one, but 3 nights of showing him – but not in 3 months – I will choose the date, somewhere between 6 months and a year from now. You know very well that I would not put on a lame show, so I need the time to properly make him respond. So, what do you say, do we have a deal?”

“You just forgot me here,” Thorin fumes, throwing his glass on the floor.

“Nobody can forget your presence, Thorin,” he drawls, and Thorin fumes even more, because he knows that's not a compliment, “but since you are not willing to offer more to our greedy host, you can just hope I don't really like what the boy has to say to have him,” Thranduil smirks again.

“Why would you want a whore to speak, 'tis beyond me,” Thorin grumps, knowing very well the amount of money Azog can make from 3 nights of special shows, when the ticket will probably be at least 1000 per couple. He is not willing to pay more than 100.000 dollars extra, even for the privilege of having such a pretty doll just for himself. He is sorry that he can't have him for a night, but since Azog claims he's such an innocent, he would not let him sample the wares. Too bad, but hey, did he really want a boy who does not know how to please a man? Also, he's so skinny, he might have broken him if he used him like he enjoys, nice and rough. Maybe it is better that that whore will get him, he thinks, and starts laughing, a whore buying another, that's rich.

“More beer,” he yells, since his glass is on the floor.

*

Thranduil still wonders why he's here and what the fuck he's doing, seriously considering buying another human being. He hadn't drunk enough to say the alcohol has addled his brain, and even with all his previous history, this is something he had never condoned. Playing master and slave is one thing, but the young man – practically a boy, a little voice in his head screams – clearly is not playing anything at the moment. Or is he?

He snorts to himself - whatever the boy thinks or wants, clearly he has to do what Azog demands, because the consequences would be dire indeed if he doesn't. Thranduil knows that the talk about cut off body parts and broken bones is not just talk, and he's sure the boy does too. So, maybe, he could actually do him a favor by getting him out of there, he muses – he never actually mistreated somebody, no matter what people may say about his tastes in the bedroom.

And he's bored out of his mind lately – all he does is work and sleep, he didn't even fuck somebody in the last 3 months – which must be a record for his adult life. Not that he didn't have offers – without being vain, although he is, it's been years since he'd need more than 5 minutes to convince somebody they would be lucky to have his attention like that (and seriously, he can't say he couldn't have found 30 minutes for doing the deed, if he really wanted to). The trouble was that he was really fed up with meaningless things, where the sack is all there is; or, worse, the friendship fucks, where both parties are just scratching an itch, or, worst of the worst, just doing a friend a favor.

No, seriously, he realizes that he didn't even masturbate much during the last months – probably once a week, to be able to sleep after 16 hours work days, and what for? He actually does have more money than he could spend, and nothing really relevant to buy – he already has an estate and mansion, limousine, fancy sports cars – which he hasn't found time to drive during the last year -, a helicopter and a private jet (yes, they belong to the company, but he is the company), priceless art, jewelry… He's not even old, for Christ's sake, he's just turned 37 and should live his life, he can't enter some stupid midlife crisis or something.

Yes, this might be the thing to do: have his own personal boytoy. He gets up, straightens his shoulders, stretches a bit, for good measure, knowing every eye in the room will watch, knowing the tailored silver-gray shirt will show his torso to the best advantage, and tells Azog to let him speak with the boy.

After the scummy one leaves the room, Thranduil pulls out his little toy from his pocket – he doesn't really think Azog has bugs around, but if he does, it will thwart him to no end to not be able to know what the two talked about, so he enjoys starting the program and is sure he actually has privacy.

“It's a device which stops microphones and cameras from working, in case there are any around,” he tells the miffed youth. “So that your master can't know what we speak about and you can be honest with me.”

“But I was honest!” The boy seems very disturbed at the idea he could be lying, and isn't that strange?

“I didn't say you wanted to lie to me, boy, but Azog has a certain reputation, so I would never find fault in anyone trying to please him, so they don't have their bones broken. I didn't believe in heroism when I was 20, I won't start now.”

The boy just nods and waits for him to go on.

“Look, I will tell you what I want and what I don't and we'll see what deal we can reach.”

The boy seems to be really bewildered now.

“Deal?” he asks. “With me?”

“Yes, I understand Azog will collect the money this time,” Thranduil goes on, and the boy does flinch at that, “but I'm more interested in other things than what he sells, for now.”

“I... I'm not sure I understand,” the boy says. “You are here for sex, are you not?”

He blushes so prettily that Thranduil might actually believe he's an innocent. If not, he's an Oscar performer, and then, where is the difference, really?

“Well, as I was saying, I want some things clear,” he states, calmly. “Number one is trust. And, to gain yours, even if this deal doesn't go on, I will pay Azog an amount, so he will not be mad at you and accuse you of ruining things for him. But if I will have you permanently in my house... ”

At this, the boy gasps and his eyes become very large.

“Permanently what?!?”

“Seriously, they did not tell you they want to sell you for good?”

At first, the youth seems to not be able to find words at all. He seems to breathe hard and have issues swallowing, and Thranduil looks around for some water, but the room is completely bare: a table and two chairs and brick walls. Typical.

Thranduil opens the door, yells for Azog and demands water, orange juice and more wine and just glares Azog away after they arrive, putting the tray on the table himself. He then pours a glass of water and hands it to the boy, who gulps it and seems to recover just a bit. Satisfied, he pours some wine for himself and sips a bit.

“I am in this room for quite some time,” the boy says, finally. “I was brought here sometimes in the morning of Tuesday, the 2nd,” he adds. “I had a… discussion with Mr. Bolg and Mr. Azog, where I was told that it would be a very good idea from my part to keep my mouth shut and just do as I am told. Then you and the other persons came and looked at me, and you also wanted to see my ankles and my arms. And then you came back. This is all I know about what is happening.”

“OK, we are still on the 2nd, barely. It's almost midnight now,” Thranduil says. “Since when are you working for Azog?”

“I arrived in the city 2 days ago, in the morning, a little after sunrise. I tried to find work everywhere – but nobody has any need of a farm boy, so… I need to eat and a place to sleep would be nice, so I decided that I will become a prostitute. But I had no idea the streets here are owned by other people, so Mr. Bolg caught me on his territory and… ”

“And you decided you want all your bones whole, I see. How did you decide to become a prostitute?”

“Well, if I could not earn money, and I don't know how to steal, what else could I do?”

“It's just strange, men do not think that often on this option,” Thranduil says. “For how long did you know you are gay?”

“I am not gay,” the boy answers, “it is a sin.”

Thranduil can't stop his laugh. Really, the boy is a treasure.

“And being a prostitute is not?”

The boy sighs, and his shoulders slump.

“I'm afraid I am too hungry to care at the moment,” he says, with a blunt finality.

“And, of course, since this morning you didn't eat anything?”

"No, I just had some water when they allowed me to go to the bathroom."

Typical, Thranduil thinks again. The guy will make 250,000 cash for the boy, plus a ton extra from showing him, and can't give him some fucking pizza. And calls himself a businessman. Or the ass of one.

So he opens the door again, asks for food to be brought in – which actually is an issue, since apparently they don't serve any kind of food there, ever – but really, Thranduil doesn't care about that. So somebody donates his sandwich – it looks a bit crumbly, but hey, if the boy really didn't eat the entire day… And Thranduil starts to be pretty convinced that he didn't – because he eats with a passion totally unjustified by the poor offer – and is still trying to restrain himself and eat politely, and is so thankful that Thranduil starts to wonder if he wasn't starved for several days. He is pretty thin, actually.

“OK, one last time, from the beginning,” he says, after the boy finishes the food and he refills his glass with orange juice. “I don't really care that much how much experience you have or you don't, I want you not to have any diseases – and this I will check with a medic, so you better tell me now if you have any. Same goes for drugs – I can easily check that too.”

“I am healthy, the boy says, "although there are many years since I saw a doctor, because it was very expensive, so I wouldn't have any drugs.”

The explanation starts to seem off and, together with the rest of things, doesn't make so much sense.

“Where are you from?”

“Green Prairie, Ohio. It's a small community, so I only worked at farms and such, I… ”

“Why did you leave?”

The boy's face looks conflicted, shamed? He sighs then, straightens his shoulders and answers:

“I turned 18 and I wasn't good enough for grandfather, I didn't listen well enough, didn't work hard enough... so he told me to go.”

“And your parents?”

“Well, my mother had me out of wedlock, and then she died when I was 7. I didn't know my father, but grandfather said he was a scoundrel.”

“And I imagine the neighbors agreed with him?”

“Grandfather is the head of the community, the pastor,” the boy says, and finally Thranduil starts making heads and tails of his situation.

“Was it a special kind of community?” Thranduil asks.

“It was surely different from the city,” the boy says. “But I think I know what you are asking – he always said that our community was virtuous, that the neighbors were sinners and doing bad things.”

A cult then.

“And you guarantee this is not a story concocted by Azog, to have you in my house and spy on my organization for him? Because,” and his voice turns glacial, “if that is the case, whatever Bolg promised to do to you, is way better than what I will do, do you understand this, boy?”

“I don't understand what you are talking about,” the boy answers, not very sure, but seeming very, very tired. “I told you only the truth, since I am not a good liar and I prefer not to try it and be punished for it. All I can say is that I am willing to work as hard as I can, for whatever that is worth, and would be very grateful to have food and a place to sleep. And maybe warm water to wash with in winter,” he adds, wistfully.

“And if you don't need work, I can... have sex with you or with whomever you want,” he adds, gulping. “I don't know what else to offer.”

Thranduil remains silent, studying the young face, realizing once again that, if the boy is not telling the truth, he must be the world's best actor. A world which seems to be made of dark shadows, because an 18 years old boy should not speak like that or find himself begging to be used for some food and a bed. And, really, warm water in winter, if he's lucky? Is this the Dark Ages?

“OK then, I suppose you'll have to wait here until I finish the deal with Azog then. Drink some more juice, you seem to need it. I will take you, and I decided to believe you, for now. But you did hear what I said earlier, right? Or do you need me to clarify?”

“Please tell me exactly what you expect from me, to do and not to do,” the boy answers, with a decisiveness Thranduil approves of.

“I want honesty and loyalty,” he answers. “You have only one boss – and that is me. I tell you to do something, you do it. I tell you not to do something – you do not do it. You do not keep any contact with Azog, Bolg, or anyone from their organization. Or anyone from Thorin's organization. Or any other rival I have.”

“I do not know anyone in this city,” the boy says, “so I wouldn't speak to them anyway. And I don't know who you are, or what do you do, so I do not know who your rivals are. I can promise to be obedient and do what you ask, as much as I know how. I don't know much, I’m afraid, but if you tell me how do you want me to do something, I will.”

“Even if it's a sin?” Thranduil decides to tease.

“The biggest sin is to commit suicide,” the boy replies, monotone. “So if I can do something to stop my death by hunger or cold, I will do it.”

Thranduil shivers, because he can remember how black despair feels, and this is exactly what the boy shows right now. He starts wondering again if he should really do this, but squashes the thought immediately. Life with him will be way better than this boy has ever known. Oh, he shouldn't call him just “boy” anymore.

“I am Thranduil Green,” he says. “You are?”

“Legolas Robertson, Mr. Green.”

He nods and leaves the room, tells an agitated Azog, in front of the others, to have witnesses, that yes, he will pay $ 250,000 and will do 3 shows for the boy. Yes, he will get the cash, probably by tomorrow evening, but wants the boy now. Yes, he throws him a $ 100 bill for the time spent with the boy and the sandwich and whatever else, but he wants to leave now, and take the boy with him. No, he doesn't want to stay anymore.

He sees that everyone thinks he is in a hurry to fuck the boy, and that makes him want to break all their necks, but sees a bit of something else in Galadriel's eyes. Really, she is the only one who's opinion he would give a fig on, and she looks a bit unsettled.

“My lady, may I speak with you a moment?” he asks her, and moves to the other corner of the big hall.

“Yes, Thranduil, what is it?”

Her tone is icy and he understands she judges him lacking. He wants to turn away, but that wouldn't be right.

“Could you let Elrond know I need him to look at the boy, as soon as possible? I think he didn't have a very easy life, and I want him to do a complete check up – he might even be malnourished,” he says. “Also, infections, things like that. I would have to pay cash, of course, since insurance would be complicated in this situation, but I want this done, and fast.”

Galadriel smiles a little now.

“This is what you asked the boy?”

“What did you think I'd ask him?” he counters.

“Well,” she calmly replies, “everybody knows I have long questionnaires for people I play with, so I can't complain about other people's questions.”

“But you don't approve of this,” Thranduil adds.

“I imagine you have your reasons,” she replies. “But yes, he is not consenting.”

“Actually, he is. No, he doesn't really understand what he consents to, but tell me, my lady, do all your submissives really understand where the night will take them?”

Galadriel laughs again, and shakes her head.

“No, many do get surprises,” she says. “I will speak to Elrond to make an appointment but, Thranduil, you do realize he won't like it, don't you?”

It's Thranduil's turn to laugh, because this could be the understatement of the century.

“I'm going to wear ear plugs,” he says, leading to another peal of laughter.

Really, Galadriel is his kind of woman. If she wouldn't be old enough to be his mother, and happily married.