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The throne room was empty at this late hour. The denizens of Angband were in bed, or labouring into the night: all except for their lieutenant.
Mairon stood expectantly at the base of the dais before the great throne. Melkor had drawn him from his chambers, summoning him with an insistent prod against his mind, and now Mairon wondered whether his master had thought of a last-minute alteration to his plans for the next day. He was due to head north in the morning, out in the frozen wastes beyond the Thangorodrim. Communication from their outposts stationed there had dwindled from scarce to non-existent in the past years, and Mairon had taken it upon himself to assess whether their position in those northern territories had been compromised.
But if Melkor intended to give him any new orders, he seemed in no hurry to do so.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” Mairon asked when it became clear that Melkor was far more preoccupied with simply staring at him.
Melkor smiled, almost to himself, a wicked, secretive smile that made Mairon shiver. This was not a summons to discuss administrative matters.
As if reading his thoughts, Melkor waved a lazy hand, saying, “Be at ease, Mairon. I have not called you here to assign you any new tasks.”
Mairon relaxed ever so slightly. He rocked back on his heels, clasping his hands in front of him and idly fiddling with one his rings. He met Melkor’s smile with one of his own, coy and teasing.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, then?”
At that Melkor laughed. He stood up, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the great hall as he descended the dais, and for the first time Mairon caught sight of the coil of rope in his hand. His eyes lingered on it, breath quickening in both excitement and trepidation at the thought of what his master had planned for him.
Melkor came to a stop mere inches from him. Mairon could feel his master’s power prickling over his skin, a constant ebb and flow like a beating heart.
“You have a fair tongue, Mairon,” Melkor told him, and the way he said his name, dark and honeyed and hungry, set arousal flushing through him. He cupped Mairon’s cheek, dragging his thumb over his lips, parting them ever so slightly. “Fair, and skilled in more than just words. Why don’t we see what else it can do?”
Mairon drew in a sharp breath. The suggestion was plain, it was perverse and thrilling, and with a quick nod he made to sink to his knees.
Melkor stopped him with a hand clasped around his upper arm. “Disrobe first.”
As ever, Mairon obeyed. He kicked off his boots, peeling off his shirt and leggings once he was done, resisting the urge to fold them into a neat little pile. Once more he stood facing his master, golden-skinned and golden-eyed amid the shadows of the throne room, shivering despite the heat coiling in his stomach. Numerous braziers were dotted about the hall, and torches mounted high upon pillars bathed them in ruddy radiance, but they did little to dispel the cold. Melkor’s very presence seemed to chase away the warmth.
Once he was sure that he had Mairon’s full attention, Melkor let his gaze slip downwards, raking his eyes over his body, lingering on his cock and the ring clasped around its base. For the past few weeks Mairon had worn the ring at Melkor’s request, and the constant pressure had made him think of his master’s touch far more often than usual: in meetings and in the forge, on the sparring grounds and in his bed at night, and now he felt himself stiffening in earnest under Melkor’s undivided attention.
Without warning, Melkor spun him around. He tugged his wrists behind his back and tied them there with the coil of rope, none too gently. Mairon let his master manoeuver him without protest. The rope was tight around his wrists, coarse and unyielding, and he jerked against it just to feel it drag over his skin, enjoying the thrill of his sudden helplessness.
Melkor turned him back around, and this time he did not stop Mairon as he dropped to his knees. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing it back from his face with a tenderness that was at odds with the collar he withdrew from some hidden pocket of his robes. It glinted golden and horrific in the torchlight, and like a punch to the gut Mairon recognised his own hand at work.
Many moons ago he had wrought it at his master’s request: a collar cast in richest gold and adorned with needling spikes, its inner surface bearing several tiny, blunt prongs. At the time Melkor had been vague about what he intended to do with it, and Mairon had not pressed him. The collar was heavy, heavier than any mortal neck could bear. Mairon had thought it a mere extravagance on Melkor’s part, something cruel and pretty for him to keep in his chambers and occasionally admire.
Clearly, he had been mistaken. It was only his intricate knowledge of the collar’s craftsmanship, the bluntness of its inner spikes, that kept Mairon from flinching away as Melkor fitted it around his neck. His shoulders sagged under its weight. It was not uncomfortable, it was not painful, but he was acutely aware of its pressure around his throat with every breath he took. Still, he remained silent, he remained still, and Melkor smiled at him in something he might have called pride if only it wasn’t so obscene.
Beautiful, Melkor crooned into his mind, more intimate than words, more intimate even than the melding of flesh. Like one in a trance Mairon pressed himself close, nuzzling against Melkor’s erection through the layers of his robes and trousers.
Melkor laughed, breathless with his own arousal, deftly unclasping the front of his robes and undoing the lacings on his trousers. His cock sprang free, and without waiting for further command or permission from Melkor, Mairon dipped his head and took him deep into his mouth.
Melkor groaned, fingers hooking through the collar as he pulled Mairon closer still, and Mairon went willingly. He pressed himself down to the base of Melkor’s cock over and over again, hollowing his cheeks, setting a fervent rhythm.
“I should put the collar on you again when you come back from your travels,” Melkor said, voice husky with pleasure. “Lock it so you can wear it for me day and night.”
Mairon pulled off his cock with a wet pop. “What would the soldiery say, my lord?” he asked playfully, flicking his tongue over the head of Melkor’s length, throwing him a grin when his hips bucked of their own accord. “Their lieutenant traipsing about with a collar around his neck would be the talk of the fortress for months.”
“Let them talk. Anyone who sees you like this would only say that you are exquisite, and that you are mine.”
“Everyone already knows that I am yours, my lord.”
Melkor did not reply. He simply tugged upon the collar to stop Mairon from taking him into his mouth once again.
Mairon glanced questioningly up at him, but Melkor was already tucking himself back into his trousers.
“Lie down,” Melkor ordered, taking a step back to move entirely out of Mairon’s reach.
The corners of Mairon’s lips drew down in disappointment, but he had no real objections to his master’s command. He tested the knots still binding his wrists behind his back, wondering how best to avoid dropping face-first onto the floor.
Noticing his hesitation, Melkor sighed and grasped him about the shoulders, bodily lowering him to the ground. For a moment Mairon felt like a doll in his master’s hands, a thing for him to touch and manoeuver and use, a thing made for his pleasure.
The feeling was not an entirely comfortable one, and he squirmed as Melkor kicked his legs apart. He felt something being fitted between his knees, what seemed to be a wooden bar fastened in place with coils of rope. He did not know where the bar had come from—had it been lying on the floor in plain sight, blending in so well that he had missed it? If so, what else had he missed?
He licked his lips, mouth suddenly too dry. “What did you have in mind, my lord?”
“You’ll find out.”
Melkor was crouched by his legs, looping rope around his ankles. He clearly had a plan, an elaborate plan, a plan he was not willing to share, and that worried Mairon most of all. His arousal was still there, a sordid little seed that Mairon could not get rid of even if he wanted to, but the helplessness that had been so alluring before now bled increasingly into unease.
“I don’t think I want this,” Mairon said as Melkor methodically continued, coiling rope after rope around him, over his abdomen and chest and arms.
Melkor did not stop what he was doing. “It’s not up to you.”
Cold dread spilled through Mairon’s stomach. He wondered if Melkor intended to hurt him. He wondered if he had done something to deserve it. He forced himself to speak, forced himself to ignore the tremble in his voice. “Have I displeased you, my lord?”
That got Melkor’s attention. He moved to kneel by his head.
“No,” he said simply.
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Oh, Mairon.” Melkor reached for him, stroked his hair as if he were a dog, scared and shivering on the ground. “I am doing it because I can. Because I want to. Because you know as well as I do that you enjoy it. Beyond your protests, there is a part of you that craves this, this surrender, this loss of control, the way you can do nothing except feel what I want you to feel.”
Mairon did not say anything. There was nothing he could say. Melkor’s words were true; they hit their mark, they stripped him down to a bright core of desire, a wildly beating heart. Melkor smiled at him, radiant and triumphant. He tucked a curl of hair behind Mairon’s ear in a featherlight touch.
“I wish you would accept this about yourself.” Melkor’s fingers slipped from his face. He stood up, reaching for a chain up above and dragging it down with a screech of metal. One by one he attached all the loose ends of the ropes to the chain, and then wandered off to a corner of the hall outside of Mairon’s field of vision, leaving him to lie splayed and immobilised upon the floor.
“You like to be tied up, you like to be hurt,” Melkor continued. “You crave the paradoxical freedom of it, being in a space where there are no real consequences or decisions or mistakes because everything is out of your control. It is no sin, Mairon. Let this happen.”
And with that Melkor started turning a crank: the chain shortened, the ropes snapped taut, and Mairon felt himself being hauled into the air inch by inch. It was unreal, surreal. The ground swayed and blurred beneath him, adrenaline was lightning-bright in his veins, and he felt like he was floating, suspended in space and time; he started laughing, quietly at first but then loud enough to echo around the throne room.
So this was his master’s plan. Mairon shook his head, still laughing helplessly. He supposed he might have attempted to refuse even if Melkor had told him what he intended, but never mind—this was good, he was elated, intoxicated; his mind blissfully blank, every muscle in his body pulled wonderfully taut.
Melkor returned to stand close to him. Fingers carded through his hair, pulling it into a loose plait, and Mairon pressed himself into the touch. He sighed happily, enjoying the gentle intimacy of it, thinking it little more than idle fancy on Melkor’s part.
“It’s not so bad after all, is it?” Melkor said, sounding amused, and Mairon shook his head no; it wasn’t bad at all, he felt weightless and exquisite, drunk on the thrill of it.
Once he had finished braiding his hair, Melkor reached into his robes, withdrawing a sturdy hook. It was made of gold much like the collar, bulbous at one end and tapering into an eyelet at the other. Mairon gasped when he laid eyes on it, his mood instantly shifting, arousal bursting in his belly with such force that it knocked the breath from his lungs.
A grin curved over Melkor’s lips, dark and indulgent. He took Mairon by the chin, raising his head, helping him bear the burden of the collar. The sphere on the end of the hook nudged against his lips.
“You know what to do,” Melkor said, and Mairon moaned in response, soft and eager. He sucked the sphere into his mouth, curling his tongue around it, and his cheeks burned crimson at the naked hunger in his master’s eyes. “Good boy.”
After a few seconds Melkor tugged on the hook, and the sphere popped out of Mairon’s mouth with an obscene sound. Melkor circled around him, coming to stand by his hip. Without preamble, his fingers slid over the curve of his arse, squeezing his buttocks apart, and with his other hand Melkor pressed the sphere against his entrance. Mairon tensed involuntarily; though slick with his own saliva, the sphere was cold, and uncomfortably large without Melkor’s fingers easing the way first. He grunted and groaned, he wriggled his hips, but there was nowhere for him to go and Melkor was relentless. Suddenly his muscles gave way, the hook settled deep inside of him, and Mairon could do little more than pant with the hurt of the stretch.
He had just begun to get used to the fullness of the sphere when it was withdrawn. Melkor slid it back to his entrance, twisting it partly free of him, and Mairon bit his lip to silence a curse as his muscles were forced to stretch anew. His thighs strained to close in involuntary reflex, but they were held wide open by the bar between his knees. Slowly at first but then more vigorously, Melkor began fucking him with the hook, hard, shallow thrusts that set him swinging in mid-air, jaw slack and cock bobbing between his legs.
With one last forceful shove, Melkor sheathed the hook inside of him as deep as it would go. He angled it downwards, pressing the sphere hard against his prostate, so hard that bright bursts of light speckled across Mairon’s vision. At the same time his master reached for his hair, winding his plait around his hand and jerking his head back, further and further until he could knot the end of his braid through the hook’s eyelet. Mairon’s hips were forced upwards, the collar dragged at his neck left stretched and trembling, and he gasped at the gape of his entrance around the hook.
The sound transmuted into a whine as Melkor appeared in his field of vision. Fingers rubbed over his nipples, pinching, tugging on the golden rings threaded through each nub. Melkor clipped a weight onto each piercing, and his nipples were pulled downwards, teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain. His cock throbbed between his legs, and Melkor trailed his fingers over the swollen veins there, light and teasing, sliding up to the ring peeking from his tip.
“Wait—” Mairon began, realising what Melkor intended. He was tied and he was full and his nipples ached, and a weight attached to the tip of his length would be too much, too much. But it was too late; the weight was already there, and he groaned deep in his chest, his cock left heavy and tender by its burden. Before Mairon could open his mouth to say anything else, Melkor attached a fourth and final weight to the ring at the base of his cock, weighing it down, its pressure no longer teasing but cutting, hurting.
Once he was done, Melkor took his face into his hands. Fingers caressed over his cheeks, and Mairon pressed himself into his master’s touch: something soft, something gentle amid the unyielding fullness of the hook deep inside of him, the ache of flesh pulled downwards by the weights. He felt like he might crumble, erupting into sparks like metal struck by a hammer. The sensations blended together into something almost overwhelming, and he did not know if he could take it, he did not know how long Melkor intended to leave him hanging there all wanting and tormented. But as Melkor blindfolded him with a strip of cloth and withdrew from him, it became clear that he had no choice but to endure it all till his master decided to release him.
“My lord?” he called out, but there was no reply.
With a hand at his hip Melkor pushed him, setting him swinging, leaving him alone: sight taken away, a myriad of shifting, shrieking sensations tangling within him. The weights swung like tolling little bells, making him clench down on the hook inside of him with their every tug on sensitive flesh. He did not know where one sensation ended and another began; it was inescapable, he did not know the body could feel this much without breaking apart, but there he was, swaying in his ropes for his master’s pleasure.
“Please,” Mairon said once endless, unbearable minutes had passed, but still his plea was met only with silence.
All he could hear was the echo of his own sordid little sounds, amplified and thrown back at him from the walls of the great hall. The hook buried deep inside of him, the tug of the weights on his cock and nipples, even his master’s taste lingering on his tongue from what seemed like a lifetime ago—they all melded together, breathtaking and infuriating and not enough, not enough. The pain crashed into desire crashed into blinding need, and he could do nothing but hang there and be ripped apart and drip his lust onto the floor below.
He could not give name to the emotion that swelled in his chest as he heard Melkor return to him. It was caught somewhere between hope and relief and pure animal craving. In that moment he would have carved out his own heart if his master had commanded it of him. But Melkor did not touch him, not the way he wanted him to: he did not take him in hand, did not replace the alien pressure of the hook with the push of flesh into flesh.
Instead Melkor seemed to have procured a wooden cane from some secret stash, and now he tapped it against the swell of his arse.
Mairon flinched away from it. “Please don’t, my lord, not like this,” he said quickly, unable to keep the panic from his voice. “Please set me down first.”
“Oh, but where would be the fun in that?”
The next thing Mairon knew was the stinging smack of the cane as Melkor brought it down over his arse, not hard, not yet, but enough to set him swinging. The weights swayed, pulling on flesh that was already too sore, too tender. Mairon instinctively tossed his head, and with his hair still attached to the hook, it only served to dig the sphere that much more firmly into his prostate. He grunted wordlessly, and behind him Melkor laughed in sadistic delight.
“You make quite a sight, little one. Stuck and spread, dangling here like an obscene centrepiece. Perhaps I should keep you like this. Announce to everyone that you are no longer the lieutenant of this fortress, but the ornamentation, the entertainment…”
He struck Mairon again, harder, and this time Mairon screamed. His chest burned as though fire was blazing beneath his skin, his cock bounced between his legs and ached with every tug of the weights, welts throbbed over his arse where the cane had hit him, and whatever pleasure there had been in it before now broke into something jagged and excruciating and devastating.
“Please stop, my lord, please,” he begged, slurring his words, hardly aware of what he was saying.
Melkor paused for what seemed like a full age of the world. As if from a great distance, Mairon heard him sigh.
“You will take ten more strikes,” Melkor said, and his tone brooked no argument, “and you will count them for me. Then, if you are good, you may have a reward.”
Mairon let out a breath he had not even realised he was holding. He had not expected any concessions from his master. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
The next blow was brutal. It left him winded, unable to even scream.
“One,” he said through gritted teeth once he had managed to suck in a couple of breaths. Behind his blindfold he screwed his eyes tightly shut.
The cane fell again and again and again, and dutifully he counted, two three four, he endured the pain of it that seemed to cut down to the bone. The hook rammed in deeper than it should have ever been able to, the weights swung wildly and he swung with them on the end of his chain, and still he counted, five six seven, he counted as his skin burned where the cane had struck. Three more times he let his master hit him and hurt him and bruise him, eight nine ten, he clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached as the weights felt like they would rip his piercings right out of his skin. Then finally, ten, it was over and his voice as he counted was no more than a whisper, shaky and hoarse.
Melkor let the cane drop from his hand and it fell to the floor with a resounding clatter. For one blessed moment everything was still, and Mairon simply breathed, taking in deep lungfuls of air to steady the erratic beating of his heart. He realised he was shivering. He felt light-headed.
“You’re all right,” Melkor murmured to him. Fingers wrapped around the hook still lodged inside of him, gently tugging on it. “Just relax for me.”
The familiar lilt of Melkor’s voice helped him focus. He felt a little more like himself. He bit back a groan as Melkor eased the hook out of him, loosening it from his hair and setting it down upon the floor next to the cane. The bar between his knees followed suit.
He felt Melkor pushing his thighs open and he let him. He felt Melkor’s tip at his entrance, felt the easy give of muscles around his master’s well-slicked length, the sear across his buttocks as Melkor pressed himself flush to his bruised skin.
“There,” Melkor said, fully sheathing himself inside of him. “Your reward.”
Mairon moaned low in his throat. Melkor stretched him wide, filled him to the brim, set a fresh flare of arousal howling through him like something bright and primordial and hungry. Mairon wriggled his hips, wanting, needing Melkor to grab him and fuck him, but he could not do much still bound and strung up like he was.
A push from Melkor’s hand sent him gliding forwards only to swing right back. Melkor nearly slipped free of him then filled him anew, and then propelled him forwards again, over and over until Mairon lost count. It was slow, indolent, and under different circumstances Mairon might have enjoyed the intimacy of it, but right now it was not what he wanted, not rough hands and rough thrusts and bruises to remind him of it afterwards.
“Please, my lord,” he pleaded. He squirmed in his bonds again, to no avail.
He could sense the smirk in Melkor’s voice when he spoke. “Please what?”
Mairon hesitated; he bit his lip, grunting as Melkor’s length split him open on a downswing.
“I want to hear you say it,” Melkor pressed, giving him a vigorous shove, sending him crashing back onto his cock.
“Fuck me,” Mairon said in a wavering voice, wanton and breathless, “please…”
“I believe I already am.”
Mairon growled in frustration. “Not like this. Just… please.” Melkor did not respond, did not change what he was doing, and as he buried himself to the hilt within him, desire burst in Mairon’s belly, brilliant and blinding like an imploding star. “Please, my lord, please fuck me harder, I want to feel it tomorrow, I want—ah—”
On the next downswing Melkor grabbed the ropes around his waist, holding him still.
“Look at you,” he said, starting to thrust up inside of him, slow and gentle, and Mairon wanted to scream. “You’re so sweet, so pliant. So desperate. It would be delicious to keep you like this, always on edge, full and wanting but never satisfied.”
The sound that ripped from Mairon’s throat was animalistic, a vehement refusal.
Melkor laughed, changing his rhythm, fucking him that little bit faster. “Perhaps not. It is just as delectable watching you come undone, after all.”
And then finally, finally—
Melkor started plunging into him, brutal, wrenching thrusts that left him gasping, arousal spilling through him like liquid fire, setting him aflame, tearing him apart. After a few moments Melkor reached around to take him in hand, stroking him in time with his thrusts, and the violent pleasure of it shocked the breath out of his lungs. He panted and moaned, he chanted Melkor’s name like a prayer, the tension coiling and pulsing, sending him spiralling higher and higher and higher until his orgasm shattered him.
He spilled with a scream, shuddering helplessly, seed splattering over the weight still attached to his tip and the floor far below.
Melkor fucked him throughout his orgasm, and did not stop even when he was done. He merely slowed down, thrusting into him more languorously now, drawing it out, savouring him.
Mairon’s thighs were shaking from being held open for too long, his nipples felt raw, his cock altogether too heavy. Melkor was grinding against his prostate, fluid was still drooling from his slit, and he whined with the overstimulation.
“I thought this was what you wanted,” Melkor said, dismissive of his discomfort as he chased his own pleasure.
“It was, my lord, it’s just…” He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to think through the blare of sensations that were truly starting to hurt. “It’s just too much.”
Melkor clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Endure, then, little one. You are sworn to serve me as I see fit. This is where you belong.”
Mairon subsided into silence. Melkor was right, of course he was. Millennia ago he had pledged himself to him, and if it was service of the flesh his master demanded, then it was his duty to obey as he did in all other things. So he set his jaw, ignored the agonising pull of the weights on his cock and nipples. He let Melkor use him for his own pleasure and told himself it was fair, it was just, it was what his master wanted and therefore it was what he wanted as well.
It was a lie, but lies had their uses. Mairon knew this intimately, just as well as he knew not to dwell on what his master said or did in his moments of cruelty.
It did not take long for Melkor to reach his own peak, slamming hard up inside of him and keeping him still. Where he belonged.
Mairon shivered as his master’s seed spurted deep inside of him, a strange thrill he could not quite name.
He had always treasured the silence that came afterwards; it felt like a blanket of snow covered the entire world, perfect, imperturbable. Melkor slipped out from between his thighs, gentle and careful now that his plan had reached its end. He began to release Mairon from his bonds, unclipping the weights from him, removing the blindfold and the collar, and Mairon was content to remain pliant and silent. His body ached as if he had just returned from a gruelling battle; his thoughts were distant, fuzzy at the edges, lacking in the urgency he was so accustomed to. He waited patiently as Melkor walked off towards the crank set into the wall. The chain holding him suspended slowly dropped down, and soon enough he found himself resting upon the floor. An instant later Melkor was back at his side, unfastening the ropes, running his fingers over the reddened grooves chafed into his skin.
Once Mairon was free, Melkor crouched down, grabbing him unobtrusively about the shoulders to help him up into a kneeling position.
“I can do this on my own,” Mairon mumbled. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”
“I know,” Melkor smiled, helping him up all the same.
For a brief moment, his attention slipped from Mairon as he rummaged in an inner pocket of his robes, and Mairon did not notice, not until he saw the glint of metal in his master’s hand. He watched in bemusement as with a word of power Melkor undid the piercing at his tip, catching the small bead which linked the ends of the ring as it popped out. His master then fitted a chastity cage over his length and through the gap in the piercing, replacing the bead with another word of power and padlocking the cage to the ring at his base. There was no way for Mairon to free himself, not without ripping the piercing out of his own skin.
“I am heading north tomorrow morning,” Mairon said slowly, biting his lip to stop himself from groaning as the metal pressed cold and constricting into him. “I won’t have much use for this on my travels.”
“On the contrary.” Melkor threw him a brilliant, devious grin. “It will serve as a reminder so you can think of me while you are away.”
Mairon rolled his eyes, but he met Melkor’s grin with a fond smile of his own. “I always think of you, my lord.”
Melkor made a soft sound in his throat. He brushed Mairon’s hair out of his face with a gentle hand. “Can you stand?”
“Of course I can stand.”
But Mairon did not, not yet. He simply knelt there, finding that the weight of the cage around his length was not at all unpleasant. His head dropped upon Melkor’s shoulder, and Melkor moved to hold him, slipping his arms around his back: lord and lieutenant entangled together as the shadows grew long.
