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Mrs Hudson's Cream Jug

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221B, Mirkwood Street,
London,
Middle Earth.

2AM

Thranduil glared intensely at the delicate bone china teacup on the coffee table before him. His slender, nude form was draped over the old, sunken armchair on 221B Mirkwood Street.

Without warning, suddenly, there was an eruption of glass from the other side of the room. With a high-pitched shriek of rage, a muscle-bound Adonnis thrust himself through the broken pane. He skidded across the floorboards and crashed into the opposite wall, collapsing into a sweaty, wart-ridden heap of lust-inciting virility.

Thranduil tossed his hair inexplicably, adjusted his crown, and turned his burning gaze towards the misshapen lump on his floor. His hips parted slightly in anticipation and he cocked one eyebrow, assessing the orc with a trained eye. The orc struggled to its feet, three-toed and gnarled, and Thranduil turned his piercing stare to the green-skinned monstrosity's revolting, yet enticing face. There was an involuntary stirring somewhere below.

The orc grunted in pain as it turned its dim-witted attention to Thranduil. Blood dripped slowly from innumerable tiny cuts, each drip congealing entrancingly as they met with the shimmering putrescence that coated its bile-green skin. Thranduil's exquisite left nostril flared lecherously as he felt the warm, bubbling cock snot begin to rise within his monstrously engorged fuck muscle.

There was a moment of complete stillness as the Orc's dim, heavily-browed eyes devoured the image of Thranduil's captivating body, feasting on the delectable vision of every perfectly sculpted muscle. It grunted and took a step forward; one of the erupting pustules on his left thigh caught on his filthy loincloth, which promptly dropped to the ground. Thranduil struggled to maintain his composure as an irresistible, rampant desire rose from deep within in response to the newly-revealed, lesion-encrusted rogering iron, and threatened to burst through his “façade”. It was taking his full concentration not to instantly release all control over his ice cream machine. He resisted the urge to dwell on the images of billowing ropes of his hot, juicy gabble-froth bursting forth from his gargantuan gigglestick and coating the hideously warped, shambling creature with gallons of freshly pasteurised bollock yoghurt.

His right nostril quivered.

There was a frantic rapping at the door and Mrs. Hudson glamorously swept into the room with a packet of digestives in one hand and a small cat in the other. Her jaw dropped in shock as her eyes darted over the scene of grotesque ecstasy.

"My word, the old man does have his Sunday clothes on!" she exclaimed lustfully. “You boys and your quivering jolly members. I really can't keep up!” She paused for a moment to fully absorb the fierce aura of burning passion that suffused the scene. “Oh, my dicky ticker... You really will be the death of me, dears. I'll just pop into the kitchen for some more tea. This dry widow's mouth...”

The depravity of the housekeeper's intrusion into his cave of wonders roused Thranduil's thirst ever further. He would be unable to suppress his wanton longing for much longer. A bubbling yearning was threatening to spill over from within his happy hunting grounds. In a futile effort to preserve the illusion of his equanimity, he reached out a long, slender finger and passed it through the curved handle of the teacup. Glancing up from underneath his intensely furrowed brow, Thranduil's glower was turned back upon the orc, lip quirking up with suggestive hunger.

Its confidence bolstered by Thranduil's invitation, the orc shambled closer and closer. Its grunts grew stronger and more animalistic. With each breath, the loop of faintly yellow saliva that hung from his chin grew longer and thicker, threatening to drop down and splatter across the faded rug below its twisted feet. The orc reached out with a tentative hand towards Thranduil's desperately straining master of ceremonies.

“AND THEN THEY HAD SEX AND IT WAS PRETTY DAMN GOOD.” yelled Thranduil, his composure slipping at the critical moment.

There was a pause, then a crash from the kitchen. “Ooh, I've toppled my cream jug!”