AelKennyr Rhiano
He reached up, above his head, and his hand once more rubbed the polished stone abdomen of the statue of Lloth, the Lady of Spiders, the Mother of Lusts. His forest green eyes watched the faint reflections of the muted torches play across the dark marble surface, picking up flecks of gold within the stone as his hand continued to travel across the underside of the abdomen. Then, with the grace given to elves, he pivoted around on a heel, reaching up with his other hand even as that one dropped by his side, and slowly ran his hand over the leg closest to him, feeling where the stone mason had perfectly replicated each groove, each curve, and bump. He had counted, and found that each leg had seven segments, as well it should, and each leg had three small claws at the tip. Below the pedicel, the waist, she was truly spider, but above, she was every male’s desire; hips that cried out to be grasped, full round breasts, and shapely arms that beckon a lover into her embrace. Every night, when she came to him, gave her body to him and aroused and took his passion, it was the ruby eyes of Lloth he saw. It was the Goddess of the Underdark, he surrendered his desire to. He burned within. He drowned in the flames of his lust and need for the Drow Matron, took and was taken, but never was sated. Never was the desire sated. So he coupled with her until exhausted dropped into dark sleep filled with dreams of Lloth, and woke again with a need in his loins.
That night, in her throne room, with so many drow packed that their dark skins made it look like the walls of the cavernous room had some alive. What few torches there were produced a smoky, barely discernible light, yet the young Teleri had lifted his chin as he was marched up the center of the pressing bodies, which cleared the path for him, muttering in their own harsh tongue, the words too guttural for him to clearly understand, nor had he a large vocabulary…just a smattering of phrases and words he picked up from the sword-master during the course of his training. As he moved closer to her throne, hot words of defiance rose to his mind, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the male drow. As their eyes met, the old swordsman gave a brisk shake of his head, as though he knew what Nimros planned, and so the young Teleri bit back his words, and at another small prompting from the drow, he bent kneel to her.
But here, here was the one to whom he gave himself, his essence, his desire, his needs. His hand continued to caress the leg of the statute, a faraway, unfocused look in his eyes. There was a sudden noise outside the temple, in the corridor, and Nimros froze, catching his breath and waiting. It would not do for him to be caught here like this. She still thought he did not know his way around this large, multi-layer complex called the Underdark, and for the most part, it was true. But he pleaded with the Old drow who taught him the sword and how to fight, and the swordsman had shown him the way here from his bedchamber down a little used and discarded set of corridors. The male had seen the naked lust in Nimros’ green eyes.
The sound outside grew faint, and gradually died away. With one last loving stroke of his hand, Nimros gave a heavy breath and crossed the expanse of the room, treading lightly. He paused at the doorway, opened the heavy door once he was sure no one would be in the corridor and made his way back to his room to wait for the drow Matron. She would come tonight, he knew. She always comes to him after she and a group of the warriors went to the surface. With a mad gleam in her eyes, she always came to him, and the passion was wild, and ruthless, and he would wake bruised and scratched and bitten.
And always, always, longing for the day it would be she who was left bruised and battered, and, what was most pleasing of all to him, utter subjugated to his every whim.
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That night, in her throne room, with so many drow packed that their dark skins made it look like the walls of the cavernous room had some alive. What few torches there were produced a smoky, barely discernible light, yet the young Teleri had lifted his chin as he was marched up the center of the pressing bodies, which cleared the path for him, muttering in their own harsh tongue, the words too guttural for him to clearly understand, nor had he a large vocabulary…just a smattering of phrases and words he picked up from the sword-master during the course of his training. As he moved closer to her throne, hot words of defiance rose to his mind, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the male drow. As their eyes met, the old swordsman gave a brisk shake of his head, as though he knew what Nimros planned, and so the young Teleri bit back his words, and at another small prompting from the drow, he bent kneel to her.
But here, here was the one to whom he gave himself, his essence, his desire, his needs. His hand continued to caress the leg of the statute, a faraway, unfocused look in his eyes. There was a sudden noise outside the temple, in the corridor, and Nimros froze, catching his breath and waiting. It would not do for him to be caught here like this. She still thought he did not know his way around this large, multi-layer complex called the Underdark, and for the most part, it was true. But he pleaded with the Old drow who taught him the sword and how to fight, and the swordsman had shown him the way here from his bedchamber down a little used and discarded set of corridors. The male had seen the naked lust in Nimros’ green eyes.
The sound outside grew faint, and gradually died away. With one last loving stroke of his hand, Nimros gave a heavy breath and crossed the expanse of the room, treading lightly. He paused at the doorway, opened the heavy door once he was sure no one would be in the corridor and made his way back to his room to wait for the drow Matron. She would come tonight, he knew. She always comes to him after she and a group of the warriors went to the surface. With a mad gleam in her eyes, she always came to him, and the passion was wild, and ruthless, and he would wake bruised and scratched and bitten.
And always, always, longing for the day it would be she who was left bruised and battered, and, what was most pleasing of all to him, utter subjugated to his every whim.
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