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Tales of the thousand and one nights

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Ar-Pharazôn, the King of Númenor, leader of the nation of the Kings of Men, the absolute ruler of the most advanced technologically and civilized kingdom from the dominion of Men at the times; the blessed, long-lived ruling lord of his glorious nation; swallowed another glass of potent wine (pillaged at some southern regions of Middle Earth), trying to quench his unhealthy desire.

He’d been trying to do so the whole evening. Unsuccessfully.

The thing was he hadn’t imagined lord Sauron to be as captivating as he was. But now, Ar-Pharazôn couldn’t stop looking at the golden tresses of the other’s hair, burning reddish in candlelight, tossing sensually at every movement of the owner. He kept his gaze fixed, unable to tear it away from, the elegant, sophisticated, well-mannered gestures of their prisoner. He devoured with hungry eyes the rich robes, so different from theirs, delicate, languid, encompassing the golden skin and the perfect manly lines of the other’s body in great detail. Sauron seemed the embodiment of an ideal silhouette, with no flaw. Manly, strong, muscled, sensuous, alluring.

He watched and tried to compare the godly sight before him with all the terrible horror stories he’d heard of their prisoner: the blood spilled by their greatest enemy or calamities committed in his name, or the dread the that sole mention of his nickname invoked in their barbarian captives. With the power and mastership and order established on the mainland by strength and command and unyielding ruthlessness.

No amount of alcohol enabled Ar-Pharazôn to put the two images together. For before him sat no wild savage’s chieftain, dirty and hairy, closer to an animal than a human being. No, before him sat the perfectly groomed incarnation of a pure beauty. Sauron could behave and talk and feast like he spent years studying manners of every culture of Middle Earth with their subtle differences. He could jest and pay compliments but kept everything well within accepted norms, didn’t overstep one social habit during the entire evening.

He was their prisoner and he should have been in chains but Ar-Pharazôn could treat royalty like noble blood deserved. The thought of chains brought unwanted visions to his addled mind: images of golden heavy cuffs around the slender wrists, of muscles straining in bounds, of that perfect bearing disheveled…

He sucked in a sharp breath as Sauron’s mesmerizing eyes, nearly blazing with gold, settled on his. He felt like a child caught in a prank, or maybe like himself being caught cheating by his wife. Yet the gold irises held no contempt toward him - they remained unreadable, mysterious, full of possibilities. But the mouth, those perfectly cut full lips, curled into a smile. And maybe he was imagining things, but Ar-Pharazôn saw it as a very seductive one.

Or perhaps he was not. For soon, without Ar-Pharazôn realizing quite how it happened, he realized that his captive was very close, sitting just next to him in the queen’s place. Where had Míriel gone? When had she disappeared?

“My lord.” The voice was low, purring, seductive, velvety. Ar-Pharazôn could listen to it forever. “I noticed your attention. Was there something you wished from me? Some undiscussed aspect of my surrender?”

The king almost spilled the content of his cup when a hand was placed at the inside of his thigh. He looked briefly around to see if anybody was paying attention but they were all engaged in their victory feast, with all the associate drunkenness and revelry. And even if there was some exception Ar-Pharazôn could not see, he decided that he didn’t really care of the opinion all his advisors and vassals had about him. Let them watch, let them envy. Even that old prick Amandil - let him look down as always, with his contemptuous stare, but he wasn’t the one this perfect unearthly creature had bestowed with interest.

“You-“ croaked Ar-Pharazôn, discontent with the crude sound of his own voice compared to the musical tones of his new companion, “still have your jewelry.”

He lacked anything sensible to say. I was watching you because you arouse me like no man should? Like no woman has in a very long time?

The smile diminished on that admirable face. Sauron grasped protectively the gold eye-shaped pendant hanging around his neck.

“Would you strip me of such insignificant fancies, my lord? You stripped me of title and power already. Would you only be satisfied when I’m left completely naked before you?”

Wide eyes, serious tone, perfectly political talk. Purely political. Must be. Yet the choice of words…

Eru be damned, whatever Sauron had meant by that, he was Ar-Pharazôn’s prisoner, Ar-Pharazôn’s to do with as he pleased. That he still breathed was a mercy. He belonged to him. As did everything upon him, every part of his clothing.  Ar-Pharazôn reached to the necklace.

Sauron hesitated, then let his own fingers unclench, giving him space. Their palms touched. The Maia was so hot Ar-Pharazôn felt it clearly even through his own wine-warmed skin.

“Why the eye? Why is that your chosen sigil?”

He caressed the metal before he realized what he was doing. Sauron looked into his face.

“You go straight for what I held most precious, my secrets. I can tell you many of them, my lord, unwrap mysteries before you, secrets you haven’t dreamt of but the time will come for that. You wish to know why I choose the eye. So be it, for I am at your mercy. Your request is my law from now on. I will tell you this one thing this night yet do you wish it discussed here, before your men?”

Suspicion crept into Ar-Pharazôn’s thoughts at this question about his men. Some were drunk, some groped servants, some even snored under the table already. They wouldn’t hear. Yet someone might be pretending, might actually be paying attention to Ar-Pharazôn’s own affairs.

Then he felt the hand on his thigh moving sensuously upwards and decided his mind in a blink of an eye.

He stood from the table suddenly, extending his hand gallantly toward Sauron. The Maia took it without any reservation.

 


 

 

“Perhaps you shall restrain me, my lord,” murmured Sauron into his ear in that captivating voice of his. “I’m a dangerous prisoner, a hostile captured in war, and you’re here alone with me. Some shackles would be in order.”

Ar-Pharazôn had half a mind to refuse him, to state that he wasn’t in any danger from a single captive, even a Maia, and that he could easily defeat Sauron if he so wished, as he did once already, commanding the impressive Númenórean army. Yet his eyes fell upon the golden chain his hostage was holding - somehow produced from somewhere - and his imagination was filled once again with the picture of a perfect submission. He deemed refusal would be counterproductive at this point and accepted the chain.

He took Sauron’s hands, finding himself acting strangely delicately as if intimidated at once by the presence of a deity. He locked the heavy gold shackles onto the slender wrists, the click reverberating within the silent room. Looking at his handiwork, at Sauron bound and eyeing him submissively, Ar-Pharazôn felt a rush of power heating up his whole body, concentrating in his loins. 

“Perhaps you should search me now, my lord,” prompted Sauron, “I may carry some weapons.”

Ar-Pharazôn couldn’t even think any more on whether his captive’s words bore any ambiguity. Dazed with the consumed wine, with the scent of the godly creature in his arms, drunk with all the power at his hands, he reached to the offered marvel of creation that was the other’s body. He begun at the other’s arms, fearing to start at such a fragile part of anatomy as the neck. He touched the rich soft fabrics of the foreign clothes, feeling the firm muscles beneath. He traced the length of Sauron’s arms, down to where shackles held his palms together; traced the heavy golden bracelets before returning up his sides, his back; first touching him gently, then more decisively, close to groping. He couldn’t get close enough, he wanted to get to the bare skin…

He hesitated at the other’s clavicle, about to rip the clothes, tore between the mad need and the impropriety of the gesture.

“I’m at your mercy, do with me as you please,” whispered Sauron, and that was all the encouragement Ar-Pharazôn needed. Fine fabrics gave under his strong hands as he tore away the material, exposing the flat of Sauron’s breast.

The eye pendant dangling on its thin chain caught his gaze. Ar-Pharazôn grabbed it possessively, allowing his hand rest on the hot skin beneath, making more contact than strictly necessary.

“Meaning,” he growled. Maybe he should have been concerned that in the presence of his prisoner he was reduced to one-word statements, but it didn’t seem important right now.

Unlike him, though, Sauron remained fluent, his words flowing in an easy melodic stream.

“It is but a symbol locked into a pretty ornament. A token to always be wary. Like an eye it represents these ideas: always open, always vigilant, a reminder to never lose your focus for your enemies could use it against you. To see everything and everyone around and use the gathered knowledge to your own purposes.”

“Hah, I could use it here, where everyone schemes against me… That bastard Amandil and his self-righteous son Elendil.”

“Perhaps you could use me, my lord,” Sauron’s voice caught as if uncertain. Ar-Pharazôn could feel his breath falter under his palm placed on the other’s smooth chest, “in such a manner.”

Watching those moving lips made it hard to focus onto the conversation.

“For spying?”

“For gathering information.”

“And why shall I trust you?” it struck Ar-Pharazôn how belated his question was when he was pressing his half-naked prisoner to the ornate table behind him with his own body, standing between the other’s slightly spread legs. And the rich fabrics of Sauron’s clothes, hanging from him in shreds, were accentuating rather than obscuring his natural charms.

“Because I depend on you,” Sauron’s breath was warm upon Ar-Pharazôn’s face. “I’m completely at your mercy, disarmed before your splendor. It’s only natural that I wish to gain your favor so that I do not spend the rest of my life in these shackles.”

Sauron raised his manacled hands to emphasize his point, and the chain clinked, the gold glittered in the candlelight of the chamber like the jewelry of southern whores. Heavy bracelets on the lean wrists strengthened yet the golden glint the Maia seemed to emanate on his own.

“Beautiful,” Ar-Pharazôn rasped.

“They are, my lord,” his captive’s tone was indulgent now, as if he could read Ar-Pharazôn’s sinful thoughts but instead of begrudging him for them, acted like a lenient caretaker toward a spoiled child, “yet I'd prefer not to wear them all the time… Would be very uncomfortable in bed.”

As those plump lips formed the word ‘bed’ Ar-Pharazôn couldn't restrain himself any longer and hauled Sauron into a rough kiss, violent and full of forbidden desire. Sauron reciprocated eagerly. He didn't taste of wine, rather with something subtle that no greasepaints could brought up, that Ar-Pharazôn hadn’t ever tasted even on his wife’s plain unvarnished, unappealing lips. She never wore make-up, didn't use what she seemed to think were whores’ tricks to not encourage him into her bed too often…  the thought about that bigot wench caused Ar-Pharazôn to imagine her outraged face if she saw the scene him and Sauron made right now.

He wrenched himself away from the kiss suddenly.

“We cannot.” He told his captive.

 “Why not?” Ar-Pharazôn only now realized Sauron’s shackled hands were tangled into the front of his robes. His golden captive did not retrieve them and Ar-Pharazôn didn’t feel like pulling away.

“This… is wrong between two men,” he half-heartedly repeated teachings instilled in him from his early childhood by priests and public opinion. Even to himself his words didn’t sound convincing and even less so to Sauron’s ears probably.

“I am no Man, nor your equal,” reasoned Sauron. “And who would know? And even if they knew, who’d dare to judge you? You’re the powerful ruler, you can take what is yours. I’m your spoil of war, claim me as your war prize.”

To hear him speak so, giving himself over to the will of Ar-Pharazôn, was too much for the King to stand against. Ar-Pharazôn seized him in his arms, shredding the rest of the robe from him until he had him completely naked, until all that marvelous body was exposed to his possessive touch. He raved his hands though the other’s chest, abdomen, buttocks, all at once and everything apart, greedy for that beautiful, smooth, unblemished skin…

There was a scar, near Sauron’s throat, an old lacerated wound, resembling more a bite of a dog than a war injury. But surely such a mighty lord was above a mongrel’s bite?

“What is it?” Sauron visibly tensed as Ar-Pharazôn dallied there with his touch.

“How’d you come of such a mark?”

“One secret a night, my lord. Don’t make me reveal it all to you at once, let me keep my mysteries a bit longer, along with your interest. You’d grow bored of me otherwise.”

“I could never grew bored of you.”

Sauron chuckled in a far more sophisticated and composed manner than someone drinking the whole evening equally with other guests had a right to.

“You flatter me, my lord, though I’m afraid the wine is speaking.”

“I’m not drunk… Well, I am but sober enough for this,” Ar-Pharazôn shifted his hips suggestively, brushing them on Sauron’s exposed thigh.

Sauron’s still bound hands wandered coyly to Ar-Pharazôn’s robes, parted the coat’s sides and palmed him through the breeches, detecting, undoubtedly, the waking erection.

Sauron gasped. “You truly are great, my lord.”

Ar-Pharazôn growled and was about to push him backward at the table made for signing diplomatic documents and ravish him like a woman but Sauron sank to his knees suddenly, with the grace of an elf.

Ar-Pharazôn’s breath hitched at the sight of Sauron kneeling before him, completely naked, chained, vulnerable; looking up with a golden gaze and lips curled into that secretive smile.

“Let me serve you properly, my lord, as your dignity requires: on my knees. Let me show you the depths of my devotion.”

Then Sauron’s hands opened his breeches diligently, only as far as to take out his full length and when those hot lips closed around his head, Ar-Pharazôn forgot all his plans concerning as complicated things as sexual positions. He couldn’t even think in coherent words, he could only feel the wet slide of Sauron’s tongue, sense the delightful heat surrounding him, hear the wet noises and the moans that he realized were his own. He couldn’t care in that moment of his dignity, he grabbed that silky golden strands of Sauron’s hair he admired the whole evening and thrust into the compliant mouth, perhaps a little too rough, not that Sauron complained.

Ar-Pharazôn fucked his face with lack of restraint, like the absolute ruler that he was, taking what was his. And Sauron, as he himself pointed out, was his to take. He was controlling the depth and the pace, he was the one fully clothed in his regal attire while his prisoner was naked at his feet.

Sauron didn’t seem to mind the rough treatment. He took Ar-Pharazôn into his throat, keeping his head bent at just the right angle, adding an occasional lick to the underside of Ar-Pharazôn’s cock, that made the king groan and jerk his hips even harder.

Ar-Pharazôn looked down at the breathtaking sight of this beauty, this miracle of nature having those full lips wrapped around his cock, that was sliding in and out of them, glistening with saliva. Sauron kept mostly motionless, his eyes were closed, his restrained hands rested submissively onto his lap, not trying to slow Ar-Pharazôn’s movements or help him keep the balance.

Far from minding the harsh thrusts, Sauron apparently enjoyed them for Ar-Pharazôn noticed, through his squinted eyes and the haze of pleasure encompassing his whole being, Sauron touching himself with both hands as they were bound too tightly together to separate them for the task.

Ar-Pharazôn decided – or felt, it was more pure animal desire than a conscious thought – that he wanted to possess Sauron even more completely, as closely as it was possible for two human bodies to join with each other. He pulled out of Sauron’s mouth, wincing as cold air replaced the other’s blissful heat.

“Stand up,” he demanded hoarsely, “I want to- I want you.” He didn’t know if he was making much sense but Sauron must had understood him anyway for he raised to his feet, almost towering over the king.

“Get on the table.”

“As you command, my lord.”

Ar-Pharazôn’s cock twitched impatiently as Sauron followed his request, placing himself onto the table edge, legs spread invitingly, his own cock – perfect as the rest of him – standing upward. Each of Sauron’s movements were deliberately sensuous in Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes: the stretch of his leg, the arch of his back, the shackled hands extending toward him…

For a brief moment Ar-Pharazôn worried Sauron would ask to remove the restraints adorning his wrists yet his concerns turned out to be unfounded, as Sauron beckoned him closer, throwing his bound arms around Ar-Pharazôn’s neck, locking him into an embrace of flesh and gold.

“Come, take me,” Sauron urged him, drawing him closer yet, wrapping his legs around Ar-Pharazôn’s waist, “give me-”

Ar-Pharazôn cut through his speech effectively as he did exactly what the captive in his arms was begging him to do. He pushed into Sauron’s hole, his slickened with spit cock sliding in surprisingly easy, which  made him wonder briefly if Sauron came prepared for any opportunity or if he planned this all along or was it some Maia’s trick. But then the friction and the tension around his cock were just right to make it pleasurable but not painfully tight and Ar-Pharazôn didn’t remember his thoughts anymore.

He drew into the welcoming heat, over and over, melting into the arousal spreading from his loins to his entire being in pleasurable sparks.

“Yes, yes, like that, my lord, right there, harder,” his prisoner was almost ordering him at that point but Ar-Pharazôn was past the point of seeing any inconvenience in that; his desire-ridden body following the whined instructions almost instinctively; hips slapping Sauron’s ass into the age-old dance of seeking completion.

Sauron’s hands scraped at his back, he could feel the claws even through the coat fabric but they were no more than the pleasant spikes strengthening sensations yet. He twined his own hand into Sauron’s gold tresses, the other sliding down to Sauron’s cock to stroke him graciously.

Sauron’s hips moved in answer to his shoves as much as his position allowed, meeting every thrust upward with a rewarding clench.

Finally it was too much and even though he craved to prolong this fleeting pleasure for the entire night, Ar-Pharazôn felt himself tensing, going frozen with each muscle strung tight until he came with an animalistic grunt, his seed shooting out of him, flooding Sauron’s insides.

Distantly he felt Sauron’s cock in his hand’s suddenly clenched grip jerk and cover his fingers into strands of semen.

Exhausted, Ar-Pharazôn practically slumped into Sauron’s arms. His weight stopped onto his captive from further fall as Sauron still held himself sitting upright, stilling Ar-Pharazôn’s boneless body with his limbs.

Ar-Pharazôn buried his face into the gold waterfall of Sauron’s hair, breathing in his godly scent, feeling sated and happy.

“I won’t lock you in a dungeon,” he said into the silky strands, as soon as he was able to master his own voice again. “I will keep you at my side, day and night, forever.”

“Thank you, my lord, that is indeed a great honor,” answered Sauron with his chin propped on Ar-Pharazôn’s shoulder, his face out of king’s sight.

If Ar-Pharazôn could see him in that moment, he would see the smile that curled Sauron’s lips, smile filled with malice and triumph and very little true gratitude.