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Summary: When Elrond is short a courtesan for the fifteen year exchange, what will he do? Pimp out his daughter -- that's what! On the trail, Glorfindel helps Arwen -- or he just helps himself. Take your pick: Parody, D/s, SI, slash, anal, bdsm, f/f, m/f, m/f/m, solo and general bad taste. NC-17
Introduction: Please Read First

Nine and a Half Weeks in Mirkwood
By Acharn Lend

Disclaimer: Not my garden. I just play in it and tear up the grass with my spiked shoes. We have a gardener to repair such things -- eh, Master Gamgee?

Chapter 7 - Becoming Courtesan

The mighty Balrog Slayer, Glorfindel sat bestride his golden palomino as the train made its way southward. Arwen rode beside him in her customary position of state. Already, the collar was bothering her. Some giggles from the rear of the train made the Golden Lord whip his magnificent blonde head round in annoyance.

"All right you guys, quit ogling the goods and look to your guard duties. I have no wish to become Purina Orc Chow before we make our first night's camp. Do not make me turn this horse around and come back there!"

There was much grumbling and muttering under breath as the Imladris guards briefly ceased clustering around Morie and Lalie like a swarm of flies round a pile of fresh troll leavings.

Satisfied, the Balrog Slayer returned his eyes to the front, and the guards began harassing the two ellith again. "We should make Lothlorien in a week if we keep up the pace, he said conversationally.

Arwen did not respond. Glorfindel looked over to see the Peredhel Princess oddly stiff in her saddle. "Yoo hoo . . . Arda to Arwen!" he said.

"Hmm? Yes it is nice weather we've been having, My Lord," she replied, snapping out of her reverie.

The Golden Lord narrowed his eyes and kept his gaze carefully upon his Lord's daughter as they rode along.

The ride had started out tolerably, but very soon, Arwen had begun to experience serious distress. The burn at the back of her neck had spread into a burning, itching rash wherever the collar touched her skin. She tried turning her head this way and that to scratch, but that put her into further torment. How long had Morie said? A few days? She did not think she could endure this for an hour more. The temptation was to reach up and claw at the skin of her neck with her fingernails, or to use her small waist dagger to pry at the seam of the collar to burst the fresh weld.

Tears began to prickle at the back of her eyes as she tried to remind herself that she was a noble elf maiden, the last elven descendant of the Noldorin exiles to be born in Middle-earth and the embodiment of Luthien herself, and she should be able to endure anything. But a sad voice whispered at the back of her mind, 'You aren't a Princess anymore. You're a bound slave in a collar, on your way to become a sex toy for the high lords and ladies of Mirkwood.' Although she wondered about the 'ladies' part. From tales told, there were precious few ellith in Thranduil's realm, so few that the loan of the Silvan courtesan had probably reduced the female population of Mirkwood by a significant percentage. This had given rise to the general belief that male Silvans were capable of getting pregnant themselves, or else found their elflings under cabbage leaves, which was, of course, ridiculous.

'A slave --that's all you are now,' the voice continued, clearing its throat insistently.

She told the voice to be still. She knew who she was and what she was. A complete idiot for getting talked into this preposterous scheme.

They stopped to make camp in the late afternoon. Arwen leaned unhappily against a tree, trying her best to avoid the tormenting itch in her neck and cool herself without removing her cloak and exposing her collar. 'Get off of me, you foolish slut!' rustled the tree in some annoyance.

"Lady Arwen, would you care to take a stroll in the forest with me?" said Glorfindel, with a leer in his magnificent Vanya eyes that Arwen, too focused on her discomfort, failed to note.

"Why, of course, My Lord,' she assented. Better get used to that 'assenting,' because she was going to be doing a lot of it in the upcoming years.

They had gone far enough into the forest to be out of earshot when Glorfindel came close and pointed into the distance. "I say! Is that not a tawny headed woodpecker upon yon branch? I had deemed them extinct since the Second Age."

Arwen craned her neck to look, and quick as a flash, the Balrog Slayer's had shot out to rip the concealing cloak from her body, exposing the collar and the plain linen attire. Arwen's face flamed as red as the burn on her neck and gazed away, shamed, into the forest.

"It is as I suspected!" The Golden Lord exclaimed. "This looks to be fresh; no later than this morning unless I miss my guess."

Arwen nodded and looked away again. Slave, her mind chanted. The Princess, who had been desperately hanging on, began to pitch a hissy fit. She wanted to go home to her Ada and her collection of dresses and her weekly facials. She wanted to do it NOW.

"Now, none of that, young lady," Glorfindel said. "I know not what circumstances led you to the Courtesanship -- although I am dying to know and will find out first thing upon my return to Rivendell. This has got to be good! However, it is a Valar sent opportunity for me!" He leered at her. "Tell me, does it burn or itch?"

Arwen raised her eyes to those of the legendary master of courtesans in Gondolin of old, as laid out in the Little Black Book. From the look of things, here was another ellon who found the collar to be a 'turn on.' "Both," she said miserably.

"Then I have just the thing for it!" he exclaimed brightly. "On your back, raise your skirts, and take down your knickers."

"Here, My Lord?" she said, taken aback. It was the middle of nowhere.

"We are in no other place," he said sternly. "Now get down to it, Courtesan."

Silently, Arwen complied, carefully checking the ground for anthills, poison ivy and bear reminders.

"Would you like my dress off, My Lord?" she asked, as Glorfindel dropped to kneel beside her supine form.

"Nay, this will do for now. Now, close your eyes and tell me your name."

"Why, it's Arwen Undomiel you silly goose! You've known me forever, Glorfindel!"

"Close, but no prize, my dear. Now tell me your name."

Arwen swallowed, suddenly taking his meaning. "Sarnwen. My name is Sarnwen."

"Close your eyes," Glorfindel repeated, waiting for Arwen to realize the significance of the name and obey. "Sarnwen, Courtesan of the House of Elrond at Imladris," he prompted.

"Sarnwen, Courtesan to the House of Elrond," she said softly. She startled and let out a squeak as a hand landed on her naked crotch, bearing down firmly to keep her still.

"You must learn to surrender, Sarnwen," Glorfindel said. "To me, to your new Lord, to anyone, even the entire Mirkwood guard, horses and all if he commands it." His hand began to delve, his fingers finding her pleasure spot. "I can teach you this. Tell me your name."

Horses? She doubted that could be taught, but the sensation was so pleasant she was in no mood to protest. "Sarnwen," she breathed, as the Golden Lord's finger circled. "Courtesan to the House of Elrond." She sighed, as one of his fingers slipped into the soft folds of her heated love channel.

"And what is your oath, Sarnwen, Courtesan of the House of Elrond?" the Golden Lord whispered urgently, another finger joining the first.

"To offer comfort, succor, care and compliance to the House of Elrond and to all his will commands me," Arwen managed to gasp as a third finger entered and the thumb continued to massage.

"Very good. Try it again."

"My oath?"

"Yes, your oath," said Glorfindel, stopping his massaging to force her to continue. "I'm waiting, Sarnwen."

"My oath is to offer comfort, succor, care and compliance to the House of Elrond and to all whom his will commands me," hissed Arwen desperately. Anything to get that thumb moving again.

"And to whom does his will command you, Sarnwen?"

"To the house of Oropher and its king, Thranduil of Mirkwood." The thumb began to circle again, rewarding her for her brilliance.

"Yes, to that oversexed Sinda rustic, Thranduil, "Glorfindel replied, sounding mightily envious. 'And who are you to Thranduil?"

"I am Sarnwen," Arwen said roughly, bucking against Glorfindel's hand. Her eyes began to flutter open.

"Keep them shut," said the Balrog slayer quickly, as Arwen noticed his other hand on the lacings of his breeches. "Tell me again, who are you to Thranduil."

"I am Sarnwen, his courtesan. His property." The words stuck in her throat, but having had no good orgasms for almost a week, her need was such that she would have said anything to keep the Balrog Slayer going.

"Good, and who are you to me?"

"I am Sarnwen, courtesan, someone who is about to be screwed blind by you My Lord." She could only hope.

"Yes," he breathed, moving in between her knees. "I am about to get a piece of Thranduil's toy and he'll be none the wiser. Who are you again?"

"I am Sarnwen, My Lord." Arwen felt the tears gather behind her eyes. "Your courtesan. Everybody's courtesan." The collar seared at her throat, a constant reminder.

In a sudden jarring change of POV, Glorfindel saw the young courtesan begin to shudder and rushed to free his elfhood before his golden opportunity was lost. "Who are you now, baby?"

"Sarnwen, your courtesan, My Lord"

"And what is your oath?"

"To do anything you want my Lord. Anywhere, anytime, and with anyone, even the horses. My oath is succor, care, and compliance, to you, My lord," moaned Arwen, her tears beginning to flow. She waited, breathless for the entry of the Balrog Slayer's mighty sword.

"Ahh -- Eru curse it!" she heard Glorfindel gasp. His fingers twitched within her, and in a blinding moment, princess and courtesan merged in a shattering of her personality and will, as her womanly passion juices gushed onto his hand. She opened her eyes to see his golden hair glinting in the sunset and a look of frustration on his fair face. "You see," he said. "I knew you were a born courtesan. It isn't so hard to let your inner trollop out to play."

He pulled his fingers from her with an audible pop and moved them to her neck. He ran them around the sore area beneath the collar. "There you go. Not as good as athelas, but it works in a pinch."

"Eew!" she said. "I smell like sex, and not the good kind."

"Suit yourself," he replied, reaching into the crotch of his breeches and delving around. "Here's a little of THAT too. Now you smell like the good kind."

She smelt a bit funky, but the itching of her neck was easing. Remembering her training, she said humbly, "And you, My Lord, is there any succor I might offer you now?" As she spoke, she suppressed a giggle, because it was all too plain that the mighty Golden Lord would be unable to make use of any sort of succor for the next half hour at least.

He gave her a sour look and stood up, redoing his lacings. "Tomorrow, we leave the borders of Imladris and your physical cloak must come away along with your emotional one. You had best be prepared, Sarnwen."

"Thanks for the hot tip, My Lord," said Arwen as she reached for her underclothing. "Perhaps you'll have better luck tonight with Morie. Oh, and if I may be so bold . . .?" she called after him as he hurried away. "Who was Aliass?"

He scowled. "Mandos take Aliass and his Little Black Book."

She grinned. "I'm sure Mandos will have Aliass one of these days, but he will have to keep the Little Black Book hidden carefully under his mattress lest Vaire find him perusing it and weave him into one of her tapestries."

Glorfindel grunted and stalked off, leaving Arwen to lie back on her cloak and rerun the previous half hour in her mind. She felt most degraded, but she seemed to be getting the hang of this courtesan thing.

* * *


Wasn't that lovely? The mighty Lord of the House of the Golden Flower has eased our pampered darling into the mysteries of the noble calling . . .

As usual, my thanks to --

Faithful Servant: Yes, I have my own copy of the Little Black Book, and I will tell you where I keep it hidden. It may be found in the garderobe, behind the close stool, 'neath the pile of fresh leaves kept for purposes of hygiene. The rest of you will have to wait, or buy your own copies. I hear Amazon.com might have a few available, used.
Gorthaur: If you wish to borrow a certain courtesan you will have to take the matter up with King Thranduil. I hear he's always willing to deal -- for the right price.
Double Trouble: Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
White Lady: Be patient. More hot elleth on elleth action is on the horizon.
Half Elf: We'll be meeting up with Morie again. She'll be doing her usual thing in Lorien. Why do you ask?

* * *

L.T.: Er, did we just see Lord Glorfindel take aim and let fly . . . prematurely?

T.O.: That would be what I was implying, my son.

L.T.: Lala!*

T.O. It happens to the best of us, my son, although not to me in more than an Age. You might suffer the same disgrace if your 'arrow' were aimed at so fair a target.

L.T.: Do you not fear his wrath for making such sport of him? He was able to kill a Balrog, after all.

T.O.: Nay, why should I? Every elf in this tale is so out of character that their own naneth might not recognise them, which should clue in Lord Glorfindel that he must not take my jape seriously. Why, did I not refer to King Thranduil himself as an 'oversexed Sinda rustic?'

L.T.: And that differs from the reality, how?

T.O.: Would you care to spend your weekend on spider patrol? . . . I thought not. Now hold your tongue and let me concentrate on this next chapter . . .

*(Ha-ha in Sindarin)

Chapter Eight: Lothlorien