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The first time Anairë jerked off her eldest son in his sickbed, she did it out of concern for his hygiene. And compassion. But mostly, hygiene. A young man needed manual release.
A body-servant should have performed the task, but by that time, the ranks of household staff with unimpeachable loyalty, who could be entrusted to discharge such a sensitive duty, had grown thin. Anairë could count their number on one hand. And Findekáno had mistreated them all.
Oh, she hardly blamed Findekáno. He whose spirit yearned for freedom, for open lands and the wind on his brow, had been confined, quite by necessity, to his chamber while he recovered from grievous injury. Both hands and arms were bound, from elegant fingertip to thick bicep, in plaster casts. Findekáno whined and complained unceasingly, demanding to be let out, to be cut free, damn his healing bones, but the Maia healers had been rather insistent, and, given that Findekáno had come too close to departing his body altogether in that terrible fall from the high shoulders of the Pelóri, Anairë thought a few more weeks of confinement were not so extravagant a price to pay.
But Findekáno hated nothing more than inaction. Trapped at home, day after day, week after week, with such limited range of motion he could neither turn page of book nor write with pen. He could not wrestle, nor could he ride; he could not sprint, nor could he spar; he could neither draw bow nor wield sword nor pluck harp; he could not paint or hammer or weave or make any craft that required skill of hand. Or, well, any hand at all, really.
All through the long hours, Findekáno could do naught but sing mournful song, glare balefully upon the walls of his chamber, and shout in impotent rage at any who dared enter, even to help.
When the third maid-servant had run sobbing from his room, refusing to repeat the foul words said by cruel prince Findekáno, Anairë thought, enough is enough. Something must be done.
She raised the matter to her lord husband over dinner. They took weekly meal together, a hollow, pathetic ritual to which Nolofinwë clung, as though to prove yes, they were yet husband and wife. Little remained but the empty oath that bound them to one another until the end of days. The covenant of marriage could not be broken, no matter how brittle that thread had been pulled over the years. Had she ever felt love for Nolofinwë? Yes, she knew in her heart, she had, once. And just as her mother had warned, swiftly had passionate love cooled to companionate affection, and then to quarrelsome exasperation, but even the time of bickering had been woven with some feeling, an echo of a spark that yet lit her skin and warmed her blood at the sight of her lord husband’s fair form.
Now, Anairë looked at Nolofinwë, his dark head bent over a plate of celery greens dressed with salt and rice vinegar, and felt nothing at all.
“I fear Findekáno’s fëa flows too fierce, too fiery,” said Anairë, without preamble. “I like it not. He fares ill in this place when he cannot see the sky. A terrible shame, I think, that his dearest friend cannot be called upon. Nelyafinwë would do Findekáno well, to ease his sorrows and provide release—from isolation.”
Nolofinwë looked not up from his meal. “Nelyafinwë hath cleaved to his father, even into exile, as is right and befitting for a scion. ‘Tis the natural order. As lightning leadeth thunder, and fire leadeth smoke, so too doth a man lead his household. As will Nelyafinwë and Findekáno both, each with his own wife and family, ere long. ‘Tis the natural order,” he repeated.
“‘Tis the natural order,” echoed Anairë dutifully. So, Nolofinwë yet wished to feign ignorance of Findekáno’s predilections. ‘Twas absurd, of course; any person with eyes could see that Nelyafinwë had captured Findekáno’s heart, packed it away, carried it into exile. It was out of missing Nelyafinwë that a heartbroken Findekáno had leapt headfirst into ever more dangerous climbs, it was out of missing Nelyafinwë that a distracted Findekáno had slipped and fallen down the great peak, and it was out of missing Nelyafinwë that a disconsolate Findekáno now lay broken, frustrated, and alone.
It was well known among the Eldar that young, unmarried men suffered from a surfeit of masculine spirit, which stimulated their blood, agitated their humors, and demanded release. If a man could not discharge excess vigor through the standard method (depositing it inside a willing wife’s welcoming womb), alternative arrangements must be made. Findekáno’s choice of arrangement would not have been Anairë’s—she had rather favored his first ill-kept secret, the stable hand, a tow-headed, thewsome, tall and terribly stupid fellow—and frankly, she had been relieved when the lot of them slunk off to Formenos. With Nelyafinwë out of reach, Findekáno had reached first for the tissues—and then for the hand salve.
But then he had gone and broken every bone in his hands, wrists, and forearms. What luck.
Unlike a woman, a man had needs that must be met, and Findekáno’s fëa had grown tense in deprivation, soured like a cask of wine left too long in the cellar, turned to vinegar, and no good at all for parties.
Widely was it said among Noldor of quality that Anairë, mother of Findekáno, threw the finest parties in all of Tirion. And she knew, as lady of the house with an ever-diminishing roster of trustworthy servants, that in the management and care of the household, some responsibilities must be shouldered by the lady alone.
“I know what needs must be done for Findekáno,” she said with unusual resolve in her voice. So unusual, in fact, was such passion from a lady so typically restrained, Nolofinwë at last looked up from his lettuce.
On his sickbed, sitting atop the blue-and-gold embroidered covers, Findekáno hardly looked himself. Heavy indigo damask curtains were drawn over the stone-mullioned, plate-glass windows, letting in little Tree-light and less bliss. Findekáno wore no jewels round his neck or upon his ears. His hair, his thick, black curls, which in happier days he took great pride to style in many small braids with adornments of ribbons and gems, flowers, feathers and fine clasps, instead lay lank in one thick plait, the long, scraggly end trailing off the bed and onto the cold floor. Frizzy wisps escaped the single plait, sticking out in untidy clumps, as though no one had tended it in days. And of course, after Findekáno had alienated all the servants, surely no one had. His hair needed oiling, combing, rebraiding, as befit a prince of his rank and erstwhile beauty.
But Anairë was here for a different manner of personal care.
Not long before, she and Nolofinwë had approached Findekáno, united in concern for their eldest son.
“Son,” Nolofinwë had said. “We perceive thy frustration, and have discerned its root. Be not ashamed. Such tension, without emission, bodes poorly for thy health. Thou hast pains enough, little dost thou need a blockage in thy fëa to compound thy ills and protract thy healing. Dost thou agree?”
Findekáno’s brow had furrowed in confusion. “Blockage?”
“Thou needst not suppress thy masculine urge to spend thy seed,” Nolofinwë had clarified.
“Ah,” said Findekáno, reddening as he comprehended.
“Though,” continued Nolofinwë, “it be in vain, without proper receptacle—” (Anairë strained not to roll her eyes.) “‘Tis only natural, and for thy recovery, ‘tis indeed imperative. In such wise, we wished to offer to thee succour for thy torment. Wouldst thou accept?”
The confusion returned to Findekáno’s brow, but he nodded, slowly, hesitantly.
“So be it,” said Nolofinwë with satisfaction. “Thy mother will see to it in three turnings.” He nodded his head, took Anairë by the elbow, and spun on his heel, while Findekáno sat unmoving, thunderstruck.
“Ah, and best not speak of this matter to Arakáno,” Nolofinwë had called over his shoulder.
Now, three turnings had come and gone, and Anairë had returned to Findekáno as promised. She had asked her lady’s maid to trim her nails, and packed a clean handkerchief in a pretty pouch, but had otherwise made no preparations. She had, in fact, nearly forgotten about their engagement entirely. But a friend had paid a visit, excited to share happy news of a coming grandchild, long yearned for, and in celebration, Anairë had opened a bottle of sparkling wine. Upon popping the cork, the foaming, frothy, intoxicating white fluid had spurted from the bottle, making a mess all over her hands, and thus she had remembered—oh, yes! She must tend to Findekáno.
He stared at her as she approached, eyes wide and terrified, long eyelashes blinking rapidly. It was that look of terror, even more than the unkempt hair, the plaster casts on his arms, the angry gashes still healing upon his skin, the pain, weakness, and infirmity, that pricked at Anairë’s heart. For the first time in a very, very long time, Anairë felt compelled to soothe one of her children.
Her son was afraid. She would succour him.
“Lie back,” instructed Anairë.
Findekáno obeyed. He lay flat atop his bedspread, twitching, injured arms limp at his sides. He wore simple clothing, a loose cotton tunic the color of wheat, arms torn off to fit his casts. She could see the side of his torso through the arm-holes, the heaving rise and fall of his chest. Underneath the tunic, he wore soft buckskin trousers. They may have fitted him well, once, but as he had lain unmoving for so long after his accident, his once-thick thighs no longer filled out the trousers. Still, they felt smooth and warm beneath her hands as she stroked them in a gesture of gentle reassurance. Then she methodically, politely, deliberately untied the laces and out popped his stiff penis, sticking straight up, undaunted.
“Thou art ready?” she asked.
Findekáno nodded wordlessly, his face a turbulent blend of disbelief, excitement, uncertainty, and yes, still fear.
After a moment of hesitation, Anairë sat at Findekáno’s side. She kept her suede-slippered feet on the floor. She was neither a lover nor a playmate. She was not here to share Findekáno’s bed, but rather, to ease his suffering through his ordeal by means of analgesic touch. Her intentions originated in benevolent duty, not lust; she would take no personal pleasure in this service, no more than any healer might justifiably enjoy the sight and feel of a well-formed young man taking comfort in one’s therapeutic ministrations. Her hands were clean. She rubbed them together to ensure their warmth, and then she reached out and took Findekáno’s length in hand.
At once, Findekáno shut his eyes tight and clenched his jaw.
Out of courtesy, Anairë looked not upon his face, but instead upon the task at hand.
So engorged was his cock, the flesh flushed dark red, a pleasing contrast to the tan of his open trousers. The base was bedded in a thick patch of coarse, curly black hairs, trailing from his groin to his navel in an inviting path. She stroked him dispassionately, with a firm but gentle grip, up and down his length, a smooth, steady rhythm. The skin felt soft and hot against her hand, moving easily over the hard throbbing flesh underneath. She watched the head disappear into her palm and then re-emerge as she jerked him, his member growing slick with clear fluid that leaked from its tip.
Findekáno made a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a shout. Anairë had never heard such a noise come out of Findekáno.
Anairë halted the movement of her hand but did not let go. Findekáno pulsed under her fingers.
“Is this ill? Might I stop?” asked she.
“No,” choked Findekáno. “Do not stop. It is only—” He could not finish. He did not open his eyes. His thighs twitched and squirmed as he seemed to be effortfully resisting some primal urge.
It was unlike Findekáno to show restraint, to fight any impulse. He must be holding himself back out of consideration for her. Anairë felt a pang of affection for her son.
“It is all right,” said Anairë. She opened her pouch with free hand and pulled out the handkerchief. “See, I have cloth.”
After that, it only took three more strokes for Findekáno to spill into her hand, stifling a shout. She massaged him through it, each pulse shooting a powerful jet of seed, until her hand was covered in his essence, and finally, after several heaving shudders, he softened and drew in a gasping breath of relief.
He must have been in terrible, terrible need. Anairë was glad that she had thought to take care of him thusly.
After cleaning up as best she could, she tucked him back into his trousers and retied the lacing. He neither spoke nor opened his eyes.
A flutter of worry. “Art thou well, Findekáno?”
“I am well, Mother.”
“I am glad.”
Anairë folded the soiled handkerchief and returned it to the pouch. She stood and smoothed her skirts, which had become rumpled from her movement on the bed. Upon reaching the door, she had to pause a moment to catch her breath. Strange. Perhaps she had grown light-headed from standing too swiftly.
Before she opened the door, she turned back once more to look upon Findekáno. He had not moved, and his chest rose and fell with the evenness of imminent slumber.
“Might I return?” she asked. “To relieve thee?”
Findekáno took so long to answer, she wondered if he had indeed already fallen asleep.
“Yes,” said he, at last. “Please.”
“All right,” said she. “Tomorrow, after supper. Before sleep, I will tend to thee.”
The next evening, Findekáno made great show of stepping into the hall, yawning widely, and announcing in loud voice: “Well, I suppose it is time for sleep!”
Anairë smiled to herself. It was quite early, the golden light of Laurelin yet lingering as Telperion had only just begun to wax. Findekáno’s need was of different nature. She went to find a fresh handkerchief.
They fell into easy routine. Each evening, like clockwork, after supper, sometimes before the servants cleared away the plates, Findekáno retired to his chamber and Anairë followed.
Never had she been close with any of her children, and Findekáno, whose interests had ever lain far outside the domain of womanly arts, had long been a distant, unknown figure to her. Never before had she reached out to close the gap that had widened between them as he entered the fullness of manhood. She did not touch him with her mind, nor let him inside herself. But she needed not the closeness of mind-touch to sense the roiling need that heated his youthful body and hardened his golden glowing flesh. She could see desperation in the strain of his corded, powerful muscles, the tension in the line of his long, slender neck, the clench and release of his strong, virile thighs, the shudder of his sweet belly. He was so young. Never had he wholly contained his passionate nature within the confines of body, even at its healthiest and most manful; ever had he longed to roam far and wide. Eldamar itself seemed too small for Findekáno.
And she did not need to touch his mind to sense the relief that coursed through him when she made him spill his seed. No longer did Findekáno show hesitation, not after that first fumbling encounter. His soft strangled sobs gave way to full-throated expressions of pleasure, gasps and moans and ardent cries, his mouth open, panting, little pink tongue sticking out. He shouted as he filled her hand.
To think: never had she changed even one of his napkins when he was a babe, yet now, he accepted her touch as she cleaned seed from his softening flesh.
Romance, it was not. The worst of Findekáno’s moods seemed tempered by their nightly engagements, yet he remained angry, dark-eyed and fierce. Struck he her eye in powerful reminder of Nolofinwë in his radiant youth, ere the lies of Melkor had poisoned the Noldor, ere Nolofinwë had burdened himself with the weight of a kingdom. All of Nolofinwë’s passion had gone into self-styled kingship. No, that was not quite right. Nolofinwë wore the crown of authority willingly, but when held he court, his manner was cold. Took he no pleasure in rule. The truth of it, Anairë thought, was that Nolofinwë’s passion had, in fact, vanished with Fëanáro.
Since conceiving Arakáno, never once had they made love, and she supposed it likely that never would they share such intimacy, exchange their fluids, again. They could, wished they to. They were yet within the Time of Children, and many women continued to bear fruit well into maturity. But Anairë could not imagine it, not with Nolofinwë. She could not stomach the thought of taking him inside herself. He had become unknowable. She could not recall the last time he had looked upon her with desire. A wife could not kindle her own fire, she needed a husband to light her up.
Anairë supposed that when two men lay with each other, their fires must burn bright as the Light of the Trees. She knew what men did to one another. She wondered if Findekáno had taken the stable hand thusly, or had he been the one taken? And what of Nelyafinwë? Tall was he, yet delicate of feature, soft of hair and hand, oft had he been mistaken for woman from afar. Not like Findekáno, whose broad shoulders and narrow hips could be spied across the grandest ballroom. Did Findekáno lie back as Nelyafinwë rode him? Did he put Nelyafinwë on his hands and knees and push his way inside? Did Nelyafinwë lick him between his legs? Did Findekáno spill inside his lover?
It was a shame that Findekáno had, so early in his youth, turned so fully toward men; he had never even known the pleasure of sinking into a woman, the bodily and spiritual delight of planting seed deep inside fertile soil.
Though surely, Anairë understood Findekáno’s preference. Men were mighty. Men were potent. Men were brutal. Men like Nolofinwë, like Fëanáro, Finwë, and Nelyafinwë, like Findekáno himself. Men ruled and dominated women just as Aulë held dominion over the hidden caves and crevices within the earth, and Ulmo over the dark and dripping, slippery salt-soaked seas, and Manwë over the sighing whispering winds that inhaled and exhaled all of Arda, sucked and blew into every crevice, every hollow, penetrating every secret place within every creature that breathed. Anairë could hardly blame Findekáno for finding the superior male form so irresistible. She could hardly blame him at all, when she, herself, was weak for it.
When first Anairë mounted her son, she did not premeditate. Never before in her life had she been pulled under by desire like an ocean current, swirling around and between her thighs, stirring up such wicked wantonness. She did not recognize the rising, ravenous need within her until she was overcome, making her do a thing she had never, ever imagined. She did not realize she was going to do it until she did it, and so shocked was she by her own indecency, it was over nearly as soon as it had begun.
Knelt she at Findekáno’s side, on his bed. He wore a thin linen shift only, hem lifted to his navel. She wore a loosely draped gown of layered silks, pink and purple and white, skirts split deeply up the center for ease of movement.
She was stroking him with practiced efficiency. And then she stopped. She lifted her skirts, rose upon her knees, threw one leg over his hips, and sat upon him. His flesh slid inside her in one smooth stroke.
“Do not move. Do not come,” she instructed.
Her body on his may have pinned him at the hips, yes, but he could have resisted. His arms were still broken, yes, he was immobilized by the casts and still on occasion struck with gasping pains; he could not grab her or push her with his hands. But his mouth remained free. He could have spoken, had he wished to. He could have thrown her, bucked her off like a wild stallion with powerful hips and thighs, if he did not want this. He did no such thing. He submitted, staring up at her, wide wet mouth agape.
Anairë had tried this position only once with Nolofinwë; afterward, confessed Nolo that he took little joy in the act, for it seemed unmanning, a perversion of the natural order, woman astride man, an inversion of proper place. Never again did she ask him to debase himself suchly.
But beneath her, Findekáno looked so like the Nolofinwë once she had loved, the young man of passion and vigor. Much like Nolofinwë was Findekáno, in the stormy grey of his eyes, the formidable shape of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the heat in his heart, yet he was herself also, the glow of his skin, the softness of his pretty pink mouth, and most of all, his hair, now loose and unbraided, shining black curls spreading around him on his pillow like the waves of the darkest seas.
Anairë could feel his hot hard length inside her. She rose and lowered herself again, experimentally, feeling the slick slide. It pleased her, but what pleased her more was the sweet drag of friction, her wiry curls a perfect match to his, rubbing together as she ground against him. He had obeyed her, holding himself still as a statue. She rode him for mere moments before she felt the waves of pleasure build fast and terrible, cresting to an impossibly rapid peak, a sudden, shocking orgasm that nearly knocked her over with the force of it.
When she climbed off, his cock was so wet, she was at first certain that he too must have climaxed, but the look of tense near-panic upon his face convinced her elsewise. Nay, it was her own slick that covered him. She reached down and touched herself between the legs, drawing her hand away soaking wet, covered with clear, viscous fluid that clung to her fingers, the sap of her own lust.
She made a quick escape.
Walking in a daze back to her chambers, she felt sick, shamed, disgusted by herself. What had happened? How had it happened? The manual stimulation had been one matter, he needed release, for his health, for the peace of the entire household. No erotic desire had been upon her, when conceived she the idea. Hardly could Nolofinwë have sanctioned such a therapy, had he expected she might—
Anairë was a woman of virtue. She had only ever done what she was told, what a proper, decent, upstanding lady of quality was meant to do. What kind of beastly instincts had come upon her? Had she been possessed by foul spirits? Had a wicked spell been sung upon her? How could she explain it, otherwise?
Had she, in fact, fallen to Melkor’s poison and lies after all?
Well, there was no helping it now. What was done, was done. One could only go forward.
Perhaps there was good to be found. Perhaps, she reasoned, her own prior maternal neglect, her aristocratic, hands-off approach to mothering had ruined Findekáno’s natural affection for women. Perhaps she was to blame for his inversion. And now, perhaps, she had unique occasion to repair it. He did get hard for her, he did stay hard inside her. Perhaps he was not beyond correction.
But—she realized with dawning horror—she had left him unsatisfied. That would not do at all.
She had to remedy her error.
Anairë returned to Findekáno’s bedroom. He had managed to turn to his stomach and, facedown, was humping the bed in desperate pursuit of completion. He did not hear her approach until she was right at his bedside. When at last he marked her footsteps, he froze. Then he rolled onto his back. His eyes were wet. His cock, still hard, leaked copiously, but he had not found satisfaction.
“I left thee unfulfilled. Wouldst thou accept my help, once more?”
Findekáno closed his eyes, overcome.
Finally, he nodded, a tiny, minute affirmation.
Climbed atop him once more, did she, with greater care, the utmost gentleness. She looked upon Findekáno’s face. His eyes remained shut, tears streaming from the outer corners. His breath came very rapidly, as though he had labored long and hard. She took pity upon his need and rode him like a wild stallion, her thighs burning with effort, the slick slide stimulating her inside, until she again reached unexpected climax, more sedate than the first, cataclysmic orgasm she had seized. Once the spasms had passed, she released him: “You may move now, if you wish.”
Straightaway, Findekáno thrust up into her, making her gasp. Oh—her son was strong! Though his arms lay useless, inert at his sides, his virile body still held much power, in his legs, his thighs, his formidable hips. Within moments, he came inside her, dissolving like ash in a hard wind with a cry.
She felt satisfied and proud. Maternal affection unfolded within her like a late-blooming flower.
Bedding Findekáno was nothing like making love with Nolofinwë. Her lord husband had brought her pleasure, yes, with hand and cock, he had, but never had she snatched it for herself. The righteous woman did not seek her own climax; every orgasm was a gift from her lord husband. A wife lay on her back. A wife submitted to her husband’s desire. A wife did not demand any touch or tenderness that was not freely offered by her husband. A wife reached one climax only, and did not reach peak once and then again, again, again, clenching around slim cock and grinding upon firm abdomen. Never had Anairë known such a thing were even possible—to come more than once!
Findekáno was not Anairë’s lord husband, and she did not behave as wife.
When she sat upon Findekáno’s cock, she had the mastery of their joining. She would place her hands upon Findekáno’s breast, hold him down, and move upon him as she pleased, until she had taken her satisfaction, working herself to two, three, even four climaxes. Only when she was well sated, and nodded her consent, did he then thrust up to his own completion.
With Nolofinwë, she could not express any more than anodyne, unexceptional hunger. With Findekáno, she could be insatiable. With Nolofinwë, her desire was thin, only a shallow mirror reflecting his own; with Findekáno, her need was deep as a bottomless well. With Nolofinwë, she never complained, reached she not a climax; with Findekáno, she would not accept dissatisfaction. Each time she came, her appetite only grew fiercer, each orgasm whetting her desire for more, until she found herself, day after day, night after night, in a constant state of gnawing arousal, ever aware of the aching space between her legs, in torment when she was empty, stealing only temporary sips of relief when she could close herself inside Findekáno’s chamber and swim in the dark pool of lurid passion.
The fires of her arousal were only stoked higher by the visible evidence that Findekáno craved her body. Never before had he gazed upon her with such helpless preoccupation; ever had he desired only a broad shoulder, a square jaw, a narrow, firm ass, not the softness of a woman’s curves. But once she showed him the proper use for her form, the incomparable rapture of plunging into a pliant pussy, he became obsessed. He watched the sway of her hips as she departed a room. He stared at the graceful movement of her hands as she removed his clothing. He sniffed and grew red in face when he caught scent of the sweet feminine perfume she splashed between her thighs, a warm, creamy blend of frangipani, vanilla, and pitahaya essence. He even gaped at her when servants were present, only jerking his gaze away when she shook her head in disapproval. Yet she wished she did not have to; she grew roused even as she silently castigated him, swelling with pride and desire at the memory of the denuding intensity of his eyes. He had scorched a path of blazing lust across her flesh, from her hands to her stomach down between her legs, and no, she did not need to touch his mind to know of what he thought.
Anairë celebrated this small sign that her intervention was having the desired effect upon Findekáno’s nature. Of course she was. Ever had she felt Findekáno had been lacking in tenderness—from Nelyafinwë, who was beautiful and aloof, cold, manipulative, difficult, selfish, and lecherous, who caused Findekáno such pain and sorrow, even before he had abandoned him. Perhaps, with further congress, Findekáno might even begin to generalize his positive inclination from her to all women. It would take several encounters, she knew, and she was prepared to lie with him as many times as he needed.
Findekáno took great amazement in her pleasure, watching her face intently as she neared climax. So intense was his attention, at times she came much sooner than she meant, merely under the scrutiny of his gaze. Once, she came so powerfully, she clenched around him and raked her nails down his chest and he spent, too, much sooner than she would have liked. She stared down at him reproachfully, for she was not finished yet, removed herself from his cock, and warned him never to do such a thing again.
Came she to his chamber nearly every night, but of her own volition, never at his command. Always, remained she fully clothed, lifting her skirts only enough to mount him properly.
But the hot heart of Findekáno grew impatient and bold.
As he recovered from his injuries, slowly, and his body and spirit regained their strength, he grew more daring. One evening, she found him waiting in his chamber, not on his back, but upright in a tufted leather chair facing the fireplace.
She wore a loose, white silk halter-style gown, secured about the neck by a thick torque of shining gold, revealing all of her arms and shoulders, with many diaphanous layers billowing around her hips and thighs.
“Is aught amiss?” she asked, drawing up her skirts as she approached. So flush was she with desire, she felt herself soaking the innermost layers. She imagined that they became so wet as to turn transparent, putting on display her most secret parts.
Findekáno shook his head. “Nothing is amiss,” said he in a rough voice, “but I wish to do it like this. Here.”
It was the first time Findekáno expressed any wish at all, other than his wordless whines to be allowed to orgasm. She was touched.
She withdrew him from his trousers and sank upon him with a sigh. His face was to her breast, his hands, still bound in thick bandages, at his sides. She felt the warmth of his body, pressed against him as she was, from thigh to belly to chest, his mouth panting against her collarbones as he tried so hard not to come.
Then she had a wicked, wicked thought. Before she could convince herself otherwise, she reached up and unclasped the golden torque holding up the gathered neck of her dress, letting it untwist and fall softly about her waist. Her breasts were fully exposed.
Never had any babe sucked from Anairë’s teats; like Indis before her, Anairë had handed off her newborns to the wet nurse at the waiting. She let herself dry up, stuffing her shift with cabbage leaves, drinking peppermint tea, until she ached no more.
Findekáno was tentative, at first. He gently kissed the side of one breast, close-mouthed and soft, then the other. Only then did he dare put his lips near a nipple. He looked up at her, question in his eyes, and she nodded. Then he took the nipple in his mouth.
‘Twas a bolt of lightning straight to her core. She grabbed his head, curled her fingers into his hair, and crushed his face against herself. “Again, harder,” she demanded. Findekáno obeyed, sucking hard upon the nipple, drawing it and much of her breast inside his mouth. As he suckled, a gush of warm fluid escaped her, not from her nipple as if to nourish with the milk of life, no, but from her hot cunt, slickening her, easing their joining, enhancing her pleasure as she thrust and rubbed and bounced on him.
She came three times with Findekáno’s cock inside her and his mouth on her breast before she removed herself. He began to cry out in genuine protest, a look of betrayal upon his fair face, but then she slid to her knees on the carpet before him, leaned between his legs, and jerked his swollen red cock until he spilled, painting her breasts with hot pearly seed.
When the healers pronounced him recovered in full, his arms and hands whole and hale, Anairë thought perhaps, Findekáno might lose interest. He had now the stamina to tend to himself. The moment they unwrapped the last of the bandages, he might simply head off to the stables and ride away west, not to be seen in Tirion for many, many turnings.
Not so. He remained near her, only now, returning to himself. He began to dress again in his characteristic finery: bright, warm colors, decadent embroidered fabrics, heeled boots with jeweled buckles that caught the light as he strode. Once more was he the comeliest young man in Tirion, adorning himself provocatively with dark eye-paint and glittering lip-paint, arranging his hair into many tiny, meticulous braids, trimmed with beads that swished and tinkled as he tossed his head.
Ornate rings he wore on each finger, daring to mix gold, silver, and yes, still the copper band given to him by Nelyafinwë, damn him, and many large gems, blue sapphires and shimmering opals, green jade and diamonds pink, yellow, and white. On some men, such extravagances might have overpowered their form, might have been considered garish. But Findekáno was the beloved, charismatic prince of Tirion, and his magnificent beauty could shoulder such luxury.
As was the fashion, he returned to wearing dagger on hip, sheathed on his belt in leather inlaid with lapis, the hilt gleaming silver like dew in the light of the Trees.
He looked himself, and also frightening. Anairë’s heart skipped a beat to see him so. Perhaps now he might, at last, find himself a young girl and settle down. It would be lovely to see him well-matched. And until then—
Nolofinwë never seemed to notice a thing. Anairë wondered, did he even recall what they had agreed she would do to ease Findekáno’s suffering? Never had he mentioned it again, nor did he mark anything unusual when Anairë excused herself moments after Findekáno. Shared they not a marital bed, had not since the earliest days, thus only her handmaiden knew that she did not go straight abed herself. And her girl was loyal.
Instead of fading along with his infirmity, Findekáno’s desire for Anairë only grew fiercer, and his requests ever bolder. At first, they were simple: he asked if she might lie on her back, and he entered her from above, thrusting but a few times before he found release. She did not climax at all, that time, but so pleased was she by his recovery, the proven return of his vigor and strength, she complained not.
Then, he grew even more daring: he asked to take her in her lady’s boudoir instead of his own chamber.
“That would look ill,” said she, “for while it is well for the matron of the house to go in any room she please, a young man must not be observed breaching the lady’s own private domain. If any were to spot him, the punishment would be grave.”
She looked at him archly, eyebrow raised, hand on hip, and she thought he understood.
Several hours later, when all the palace was quiet, every window-curtain closed to the Light, each person in their bed, she waited in her boudoir, drinking sweet blush wine from a long-stemmed crystal flute. She paced the pink-wallpapered room, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet the color of eggplant, patterned with intricate golden scrolls and rosettes. To pass the time, counted she the lace doilies on the surface of the dark-stained wooden furniture, the painted porcelain figures in the glass display cabinet, and the lit lanterns with their delicate shades made from rose petals and paper, casting soft indirect light upon the room.
Anairë looked in the oval mirror that hung above her dressing-table, and thought herself lovely. If anyone stopped by for an unexpected good-night, no suspicion could be cast: the creamy, silky night-robe wrapped her from throat to wrist to ankle, all laced up, proper, modest. Her dark curls were, as was her habit for sleep, bound and covered by a cap of satin.
It was only when she untied the outer-robe and let it fall open that the translucent under-gown was revealed. Her nipples, hard and brown, the curve of her soft belly, the dark shadow of hair at the top of her sex. She had splashed on her usual perfume between her breasts and her legs, but underneath the scent, she could smell herself: thick and dripping with desire.
When Findekáno arrived, she swallowed down the rest of her wine, looked he so well to her, handsome and virile, resplendent in blue and silver. She offered him a glass but he shook his head, impatient, eager. He crossed the boudoir in three long strides and grabbed her by the waist with strong healed hands.
Findekáno threw her down upon the pink divan covered in white angora-fur blankets, and ran his hands down the length of her body, groaning at the feel of warm curves under the silky gown. He wasted no time in rucking up the skirts and spreading her wide. He pulled down the front of her gown and kissed her breasts, kneading and pinching the nipple with one hand. The other reached beneath her skirts and between her legs. Findekáno did not tease. He breached her, no preamble, with two straight, perfect fingers. Artless, but enthusiastic, was he.
Under his touch, Anairë thrust and moaned and thrashed her head from side to side. Unskilled though Findekáno was, she nevertheless drew in great gasping breaths at the feel of his fingers inside her, stretching and reaching deep within, his palm erratically rubbing just enough to grow her pleasure, not nearly enough to reach peak. She felt his hardness pressing against her leg through his trousers and reached down to unfasten him. He slapped her hand away and continued working her, one hand driving now between her legs, rhythmic and unrelenting, like a fierce storm blowing gusts of wild winds through an open doorway. There was nothing in her strong enough to resist. She did not want to resist. She just wanted to come, but he would not let her. She reached down again, this time to press her fingers to herself, to aid him only, but he grabbed her hand and drew her away, held her so tightly she could feel the fine bones in her wrist grinding against each other. She could do naught but submit, allowing him use of her as he wished.
As he kept on, fingers inside, mouth at her breast no longer kissing and sucking but rather breathing heavily with effort and desire, she began to feel as though she were blurring at the edges. Beneath Findekáno, she grew pliant, melting like wax dripping down the sides of a taper candle. She must have had more wine than she thought, for her mind was swimming, her vision was fogging, her heart was pounding and clenching around something in her chest that she could not name.
By the time he pushed his cock inside her at last, she did not know whether she had already come, or merely hung upon the precipice for hours, and indeed, she did not care.
By the time he left, her gown was in tatters. The rabbit-fur blankets were ruined.
Nolofinwë remained ever occupied by the kingdom, the authority he had claimed upon the departure of his father.
Anairë did not know what Nolofinwë might do, were he to learn he had been made cuckold by his own son. Nor did she think much on it, at least, not until the defection of a lesser lord reminded her of his capacity for rage.
“A friend, Anairë! Judged him a friend, did I, confided in him any number of secrets. And now, I learn, not even from the man himself, but from the squawking gossip-mongers—he hath run off to join Fëanáro! He hath been spy all these years. What treachery! To be so betrayed, by one so trusted!”
Treason, and fear of treason, thought Anairë.
Nolofinwë’s pride was very great. His eyes grew dark and dangerous, the stormy grey more than a cloud, now a tempest, a hurricane, a cataclysm. They stoked fear in Anairë’s heart.
“Such a man should fear to ever return, if ever he show face here again, will he have much to answer for,” said Nolofinwë, rubbing the jeweled hilt of the dagger at his hip.
The next time she took Findekáno in her boudoir, she wore her hair in a long, plain braid that hung past her hips, and she put herself on hands and knees. Nolofinwë had not visited her rooms in many years, but—what might happen, if he did, this once? What if he had learned that his place between Anairë’s legs had been taken by Findekáno, and had grown mad with rage? He might burst inside, banging the heavy oaken door against the wall in fury. He might pull Findekáno out of her, handling him roughly like a doll. Findekáno was strong, yes; he was full and ripe with the vigor of youth, yes, but Nolofinwë was yet young himself, bigger, and stronger still. ‘Twould be little contest, were he to face Findekáno in true wrath. He might throw Findekáno down with such violence, his skull would crack upon the floor.
Then would Nolofinwë seize his rightful place behind her hips, take hold of her braid like a leash—she might be wet as ever, still open from Findekáno’s taking, but Nolofinwë’s girth was greater, and so shocked would she be at the intrusion, he would have to force his way inside, parting the flesh to make space, until at last he filled her to the hilt.
Findekáno’s modest size did not trouble her. His penis was sweet and tidy, fitting neatly in the palm of her hand. She could take his length with little effort. He could enter her as roughly and forcefully as he liked, and never hurt her, never batter her insides.
No, the only time Findekáno had ever strained her flesh was from within, when his tiny head, already crowned with soft black curls, traveled the birth canal with such enthusiasm, so eager was he to escape her womb, pushed he against her womanly opening, stretched her entrance taut like a ring of holy fire as she screamed and sobbed and then finally gave way. He had split her apart, torn her in two, a hot, screaming gash that left her weeping and dripping blood, hardly able to walk, burning every time she sat upright for many weeks, long after his newborn screams had stopped echoing in her nightmares.
(Turukáno had been even worse.)
It was on holiday in Alqualondë that Anairë began to understand: this affair, this catastrophic, irresistible, rotten affair, must come to an end.
Ever had Anairë reminded Findekáno of the need for discretion, with stern looks and evading maneuvers. Findekáno knew nothing of stealth. He thought himself the height of subtlety when he hid his erection under a towel.
Anairë had come to Alqualondë with all of her children, and Turukáno’s wife and small daughter, visiting as they had often done when the children had been young. Aikanáro was absent, away at Taniquetil in pursuit of spiritual communion, but the rest of Eärwen’s brood welcomed them warmly. There had been dancing and drinking, feasting and music, games and races, singing and bells and drums. Angaráto had played a strange kind of flute while Findaráto and Amarië sang, and there on the beach they made merry through many minglings, then collapsed in exhaustion in shared cottages that looked upon the shining waters.
The trouble began upon the waxing of Laurelin. It was predictable, really. Turukáno, Angaráto, and Findaráto had left with their women, having booked couples massages, while Artanis and Irissë rode away on a pair of matching wild stallions.
Left behind: the little ones, in the care of Anairë and Eärwen. And Findekáno.
They brought out beach chairs and umbrellas, blankets, towels and sandcastle tools, and they spread out upon the sand by the shallow cerulean sea. Anairë marked nothing amiss. Distracted, was she, by the sparkle of sea-water upon Findekáno’s bare skin, by the firm lines of his muscular arms and legs, flexing in his close-fitting bathing shorts, and by his laughing play with the children. He tossed them into the air, let them climb upon his shoulders, and showed them how to blow bubbles underwater. Anairë thought the span of his broad back looked especially fine as he demonstrated diving form.
“He is a good boy,” said Anairë, when Eärwen marked her looking. “What a lucky mother am I, to have such handsome and helpful sons. They do take after their father so.”
Eärwen nodded slowly.
When Laurelin’s light was at its brightest, Arafinwë joined them beachside. “Hail, ladies!” he said, giving Eärwen a brief but deep kiss. “Hail, boys!” he called to the little ones splashing in the shallows. The children waved in reply.
“I’m not a boy!” cried Itarillë, laughing.
Findekáno said naught, at first. But he drew up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “Hail, uncle,” said he, at last.
The sand was hot beneath Anairë, even through the woven blanket; between the warm sand, the shining stars, and the indirect light of Laurelin filtered through the gap in the Pelóri, Anairë began to feel overheated. Beads of sweat gathered upon her neck, between her breasts, in the crease of her hip. She lay flat on her back and felt hot. She rolled onto her stomach and still, burned hot. She waded into the sea-water up to her thighs, but it, too, was warmer than a bath. Tall seaweed tickled her and little fish swam in figure-eights around her legs.
The children entreated her to play, splashing at her from afar, but Anairë shook her head. No, playing with children had never held much appeal. Findekáno was good at play, he was lovely with the children, laughing, fierce and shimmering. The children had gathered armfuls of pink and orange hibiscus from the shore, woven garlands, and festooned Findekáno in flowers from crown to wrist.
Best to keep her distance, no matter how much she might wish to tear the flower wreaths off him and, like the little ones, climb upon his shoulders.
The dip in the water helped nothing; she felt herself flush with heat, sweat pouring down her neck and back. She fanned herself with her hands. “I must cool myself,” she called out to Eärwen and Arafinwë where they lay cuddling on the towel, then she took the pearly path to the public fountain-house.
The fountain-house was Anairë’s favorite place in Alqualondë. She and Eärwen had spent many long languid holidays within, swimming in the great lap pools, resting and chatting in the small private baths, and letting themselves be carried along by the current of the lazy river, everywhere, waterfalls and fountains splashing upon their skin. Stone walls and mechanical fans kept the interior cool. Around every pool grew great green leafy plants, maidenhair ferns, enormous elephant’s ears, tangerine hibiscus, cherry-red bougainvillea, glossy gardenias, golden and blue birds-of-paradise. Jasmine and passionflower vines climbed the walls and over arches; white water lilies floated in the most silent, stillest pools. Along one wall, a long winding sea-glass mosaic depicted many monsters of the sea: blue whales and tentacled octopi, great toothed sharks, rays, dolphins, orcas, turtles with shells of sparkling green and blue, colossal squid, jellyfish the size of swans. They shimmered under the light of many candles set into the walls.
Anairë found herself largely alone in the great fountain-house, though she could hear the sound of women’s chatter from some of the smaller bathing-pools. Already refreshed, cooled by the gentle breeze, she breathed a sigh of relief and made her way to a vacant private alcove.
The chamber was small and luxurious, with tile floors of turquoise and onyx, gold accents, and three stone walls, one of which was covered floor-to-ceiling by silver mirror. Water splashed down through a channel in the ceiling, pooling in the depression set in the middle of the chamber floor. At its deepest, the water was waist-high, and steep steps set in one side of the pool were just wide enough for one or two to sit and enjoy the solitude (or the company). The path around the pool was narrow, and along a little shelf, glass bottles filled with scents and soap, oils and creams, were available for bathers’ use.
Anairë began making herself ready for a long, well-deserved soak. First, she took out her gold-and-pearl hairpins, curls falling one at a time, as she lined up each pin in a recession within the wall. When she had removed them all, she shook out her sweaty hair, hand-combing the locks that fell past her hips in damp dark curls. Next, she drew down her strapless bathing-garment, crusted in salt and sand, and stepped out of it.
“There you are,” said Findekáno’s voice from the corridor. Loud and defiant, as usual. “You dashed away so quickly, afeared I was. Are you unwell?”
“I am quite well,” answered Anairë, folding up her bathing-garment and placing it neatly in the recession with her hairpins. “Lower thy voice, we are in a place of peace.”
Findekáno bristled. He wore a wreath of hibiscus round his neck. His eye-paint was smeared, she knew not whether from sea-water or sweat. “I shall speak however I choose,” said he, “for I am a man grown and not a child for you to chastise! You should know this, after all, much has my manhood been an object of your interest of late.”
Anairë felt blood rush to her cheeks and she glanced about quickly. No one seemed to have heard. “You must take caution,” she hissed.
“Do not tell me what to do! You have no right. You have ignored me, these past days, left me aching and alone, while you strut around in such provocative garb—”
Anairë wore only her sheer green-and-gold robe, splashed with a tropical flower and leaf pattern, silk cord untied, hem just reaching the tops of her thighs. From her ears hung many jewels, opal-and-gold, star-sapphire-and-silver, great round pearls given to her by Eärwen, and round her neck, a long chain, looped several times over, with a heavy pear-cut diamond pendant tucked between her breasts. She felt a rush of desire, looking upon her own full breasts, skin glistening with sweat and sea-salt and the dust of diamonds.
“Come inside, thou art making thyself a fool.” She beckoned him within and drew the canvas curtain closed. “I do not know what hath gotten into thee—”
The moment the curtain was shut, Findekáno lunged for Anairë, pressing her into the wall and lowering his face into her chest. His cock pressed against her hip, and his fingers began to delve between her legs.
“Findekáno,” Anairë gasped, as he pushed aside her robe and fastened his teeth around a nipple. “No, we should not, we cannot, not here,” said she, and then she grabbed Findekáno by the strong shoulders for fear of losing her balance and falling upon the ground.
“Where, then,” whispered Findekáno, low voice vibrating against her breast.
And that was how they ended up on the step, Anairë bent over the cold side of the pool, Findekáno pushing his cock into her from behind, holding one of her legs up by the thigh as he slid slowly inside. His other hand reached around to press into the salt-encrusted curls between her thighs, fingers stretching lower, stroking her in time with each deliberate thrust. Her hair, unbound and exposed, spilled all around in careless waves, half-submerged, half-floating on the surface.
All Anairë could hear was the lapping against the sides of the pool and the gentle constant splash falling from the channel above. Findekáno was, with controlled effort, keeping himself quiet, his breaths coming in quick shallow puffs against her shoulder. She could feel him holding back moans as his chest pressed against her back.
And then she heard something else: the voices of Eärwen and Arafinwë, and footsteps in the hall.
Oh, no. Oh, mercy.
Anairë reached back and tapped Findekáno’s hip in silent warning. He must have heard the voices, too, for he froze mid-thrust. She held her breath.
They listened. Eärwen and Arafinwë called her name. Anairë closed her eyes.
There was nowhere to hide, nothing within the turquoise-and-onyx-tiled chamber that they could use for cover, no secret place within the pool that they might duck and conceal themselves. If someone pulled aside the curtain, they would be seen at once. Neither was there any time to clothe themselves; the footsteps drew ever closer and closer. Anairë could not move. If they disturbed the pool’s water, if they made a single splash, they might well be heard.
All they could do was wait and pray.
Anairë had feared discovery by Nolofinwë, whose wrath might be terrible, but she had never before imagined even the possibility of discovery by another. At least Nolofinwë, were he to learn of the affair, would be silenced by the shame of betrayal, would breathe not a word, lest he lose face among the Noldor. The consequences within their home might be dire, but they would retain their dignity.
Anairë could not fathom what might happen if Eärwen—and worse, Arafinwë—would find them.
Findekáno began to circle his fingers again, ever so slightly, brushing against her swollen clit. He kept himself otherwise perfectly still, thighs tense behind her, the arm that held up her leg flexed taut. Between her legs, surges of sensation swelled forth, and she squeezed involuntarily around his cock. She knew not for how much longer she could withstand his assault.
Eärwen called out her name.
Findekáno’s cock throbbed inside her, hot and hard and urgent. He bit the tip of her ear and stroked her faster, curling against her with his fingers, controlled, purposeful. His mastery over his body was remarkable and he was mastering hers, as well.
“Cometh she not this way?” asked Arafinwë.
Anairë held back a gasp as Findekáno brought her ever closer to climax. She put her hand over his, tapping him with urgency, wishing him to stop. She could not trust herself to remain silent, she was at the precipice, facing the plunge, she feared the catastrophic fall. She tried to grasp Findekáno’s wrist and draw him away. She could not—he was too strong. His arms had healed too well and too powerfully, like iron he could not be moved nor dissuaded from any task to which he had put his hands until the end. ‘Twas beyond her power to end this. He had shattered her resistance and her resolve. As the sound of footsteps faded and Eärwen’s and Arafinwë’s voices drew farther away, Findekáno’s will overtook her own, and with relentless pressure and skill of hand, he brought her higher and higher, waves of pleasure lapping within her insides, until they reached a crashing peak, a devastating climax, pulsing throughout her from core to toes, to the tips of her ears.
Cut down was she by overwhelming sensation, beyond pleasure, now devastation. She lost control of her arms, and collapsed forward upon the cold floor. Water lapped along the sides of the pool.
Her diamond pendant clattered against the tile as she fell.
The footsteps paused for a moment. “Hearest thou—” began Arafinwë.
“What? Nay, love. Just the fall of water. Let us return to the children,” said Eärwen.
They held their breaths as the sound of voices and footsteps faded again and it was clear that Arafinwë and Eärwen had left the fountain-house.
Then Findekáno pushed Anairë’s legs together, shoved her down, clutched her hips, and fucked into her furiously, fast and hard. Her stomach hurt where she was bent over the lip of the pool. Her jewels, caught between herself and the cold floor, pressed into her skin, pinching uncomfortably. She did not complain. She kept herself silent until Findekáno shuddered and came with a grunt, digging his fingertips into her skin and his teeth into her shoulder.
She stayed, facedown on the tile, until he left her, then slipped into the cool cleansing water and did not surface for a long, long time.
She saw not Findekáno again until supper, a great feast of steamed shellfish served round the bonfire. The young men and women had returned, and Findekáno inserted himself between Findaráto and Angaráto, never once meeting Anairë’s eyes.
Arakáno, who had swum happily all day until a jellyfish stung him, refused to eat any of the dishes that were offered, demanded mangoes only, and finally, after Arafinwë took pity on him and sent a servant to fetch the fruit from the grove that grew on the far side of the city, the boy fell asleep at Anairë’s side.
Eärwen brought her a fine platter of crab, oysters, mussels, and squid, for she could not easily move without disturbing the slumbering child. Eärwen was, truly, a dear and lovely friend.
“Thank you,” said Anairë softly. She reached for an oyster.
“He cried for mother, when he was stung,” said Eärwen. “We looked for thee.”
“I am sorry to hear it. I did not realize.”
“Yes, I know. A soak in the fountain-house can be most distracting. I hope you took deep and satisfying pleasure.”
As she spoke, Eärwen leaned forward and plucked something from the back of Anairë’s head, tangled in her hair. She showed it to her without word.
One of Findekáno’s orange hibiscus flowers. Anairë, still a bit dazed from the entire episode in the fountain-house, her cunt throbbing in memory of the orgasm, had tied up her hair in a simple bun, after, and had not realized the flower was there.
When she met her friend’s eyes, she saw knowledge in them, and understanding, and Anairë had never wished for anything so badly as she wished for a crack to open in the earth and swallow her whole, right there, on the shores of Alqualondë.
“My father hath begun to say, of late, a warped chord doth ring among the Noldor. The fruit of Indis, particularwise,” said Eärwen.
“Doth he?” asked Anairë with forced lightness, cracking a crab claw with her hands. “Clever with a turn of phrase, your father.”
“Clever he may be,” said Eärwen, “but seldom wrong. Oft doth he see what others cannot, and sayeth he what lesser men will not. Always have I aimed to follow him, to speak truth even when it be painful, even when truth may tear apart a much-beloved friendship. Yet I fear I have not the strength, now that I face such occasion. But when the rot of Melkor cometh to mine own city, such foul and twisted sin, that I could never before imagine—”
Eärwen’s steady voice broke and she halted her speech, to compose herself. She swallowed audibly.
“Speak no more,” said Anairë softly, “for I have heard thee. And never could the truth tear us apart, unless—thou wishest.”
“Never,” said Eärwen fiercely, and reached for Anairë’s hand.
They did not kiss each other on the mouth, Anairë and Findekáno, not when he was a babe, nor in his childhood, and never even as they coupled like beasts.
Until they did.
Sat Findekáno upon his leather chair like a throne, his hair shining with golden beads, lips painted the same alluring gold, naked, resplendent. Anairë sat astride him, also fully naked, pressed against him, warm skin on warm skin, as close as two bodies could be, thigh and belly and breast. Their arms clutched one another’s backs, holding each another firm, and she rocked atop him.
As she approached climax, she felt the edges of his mind give way, and his own pleasure began to spill upon her, diffuse and suffocating. The look upon his face was so needful, so desperate, his mouth open, pink tongue fluttering, lips gasping, ever so hungry. She could not bear it. She could not stand his big grey eyes staring upon her like she were something beloved, could bear neither intensity of his need nor the contact of his mind attempting to penetrate hers.
Anairë tilted her head down and pressed her mouth to his, open, panting, and their tongues met. He tasted of the too-rich, rare meat upon which they had dined, and the sweet thick wine with which he had washed the steak down. She drank of him and smothered his screams as he reached orgasm, his mind curling around hers and throbbing, pulsing, coming inside, pushing her into climax along with him, and she shook, and shook, breathing Findekáno’s breath.
As she drew back and their mouths parted, a line of saliva yet connected them, and then it stretched thin, and then it snapped.
Anairë had known, deep inside, before Nolofinwë had ever planted his seed in her, that she was not a woman who was made for nurturing. She had tried it on, now, for a time. Moved by womanly compassion at Findekáno’s infirmity, a flight of fancy had overcome her, an idea of a different self, one who might care for her child with her own two hands. ‘Twas her own fault, that Findekáno had grown too fond. She had let this go too far. Perhaps another mother might have been able to meet all of Findekáno’s needs, body and heart, but Anairë simply could not give him all that he craved. She was a lady, not a nurse.
She put away the frangipani perfume.
She began wearing a mantle indoors, a thick, opaque cloak that buttoned up to her chin.
When Findekáno tried to catch her eye, she turned away. When Findekáno tried to come to her boudoir, always did she have her maid answer the door. When Findekáno, desperate, sobbing, demanded that she speak to him, how could she disregard him so, she pretended that she did not hear.
Eventually, he stopped crying.
