Swelling from the Sea by annarobots  

---

Chapter 1

---

There was a stranger on the boat, and she was eating Tuor’s crewman as the Sun set a mighty fire over the western rim of the world.

Tuor did not dare move.  He had awakened only moments before, his limbs heavy, his thoughts sluggish.  He heard the sound of flesh tearing as though from a half-forgotten dream.  It was only as his mind cleared that he came to understand that this was no dream at all, but rather, a waking nightmare that he feared he might not survive, at least, not without the grace of his Lord Ulmo.

The stranger was a creature of the sea, this was clear.  But whether she was bird or beast or fish, Tuor knew not.  Never before had he laid eyes on such a monster, nor would he wish to, ever again, if he escaped alive.  She crouched over the body of his unfortunate crewman, feasting.  If she stood erect, she might be tall as an Elf, and far stranger and more fearsome. 

Wings she had, great, oily wings that folded about her torso like a shimmering gown of emerald and black feathers.  Her legs were long and muscular, but covered in iridescent scales, like the tail of a fish, and they ended in leathery feet with long talons like the claws of an eagle.  Her face was fair as a woman’s, her eyes blue as the summer sea.  As she opened her jaws to bite and tear at the meat of Tuor’s crewman, he could see many terrible rows of sharp teeth, four long fangs dripping with blood.  On either side of her feathered neck, there were gills.  Her hair was a mass of tangled kelp.  She sparkled with the light of her many jewels that caught the flame of the setting sun, and she stank. 

Tuor studied her from where he lay limp on the birchwood deck, feigning slumber.  Grimly, he considered his circumstances.  The crewman was already dead.  The creature herself stood between Tuor and his best chance of slaying her, which was the harpoon at the bow.  On his belt he had a knife, but it was meant for cleaning fish, not battle with a thinking creature.  Tuor was still strong, a tall and broad man with countless seasons of fighting for his life behind him, but many years had passed since the last time he drew a blade against any foe more dangerous than an Arvernien crab.  

And with just one knife, Tuor did not relish his chances against those talons, or those cruel teeth. 

He might wait as long as he could, while she gorged herself, he decided.  When she was stuffed full, that was when he could surprise her.  Leap upon her back, pin her to the deck with his full weight, and break her neck.  If he could seize her unawares, he could take her down.

The evening stretched on, and the Sun slipped beyond the edge of the world.  The sky in the west was bands of red and purple, and everywhere else, the rich blue of twilight.  As Tuor watched and waited, the monster slurped and swallowed and belched.  Flies buzzed about her head. 

At last, the creature slowed, and then she slowed even more, and then she stopped.  She sighed in satisfaction, glutted. 

Tuor breathed as evenly as he could.  He readied his body to spring up and seize the creature.  It would take a few strides.  He would need to be very quick.

But then, before he could take his only chance—

The creature cocked her head.  She sniffed the air.  She spread her wings, revealing the full, high breasts that had been hidden underneath.  And she smiled. 

And then she dove for Elwing.

“No!” shouted Tuor.  He leapt with the fierceness of a much younger man, and in half a moment, red-faced with rage, he had put his body between the terrible creature and the girl.

Silently, he cursed himself.  He cursed his foolish idea.

Let us go sailing, Tuor had said to a sullen Elwing, that very morning.  Just for the day.  We will fish, we will feel the breeze, we will return with our catch and make our friends smile.  We will listen to the song of the Lord of the Waters, we will listen to the great music of the Sea.  Come, it will be fun. 

Elwing had been in one of her evil moods.  This was nothing unusual.  She had always been a child of great stubbornness, passionate will, and changeable mind.  Her people loved her very much.  As the indignities of adolescence set upon her, she grew ever more intractable, raging and weeping at her body’s pains one moment, laughing at her own folly the next, staring with steely eyes at anyone who dared question her, the moment after that.  The day before, however, she had been altogether unbearable.  She had terrorized her maid, she had been rude to Idril, she had even given Eärendil the silent treatment for some perceived slight that she refused to explain.  It was not long after the early light of dawn, when she shouted at the poor dog for stealing her breakfast, the animal cowering beneath Elwing’s compact but imperious shadow, that Tuor decided enough was enough.

He had his little boat made from the birchwoods of Nimbrethil.  He had a crewman.

The sea air would do the girl’s heart some good, Tuor knew.  As it had always, Lord Ulmo be praised.  And once she had spent the day with the wind upon her face, the Sun sparkling on the waves, the roughness of a knotted rope against her palms, all her troubles would diminish, and fade, and they could return home happy, the salt on their skin.

That was, at least, the plan.

He had not known the full madness that even the shallows might hold.

The song of strange sweetness had lifted over the waves and entranced them all.  Ever had Tuor heard the call of the horns of Ulmo, and gazed west upon the waves with strange yearning in his heart.  But this was not that song.  Its sound was more winsome, and more terrible.

He had not counted on that alluring melody lulling them all to a deep and dreamless sleep: first his crewman, who lay down his body at the bow, then Elwing, who sprawled, unladylike, in the mid-ship, and last, Tuor himself, the call of slumber drowning all reason. 

He had little foresight of any kind, and none that warned him of such horrors. 

Well, it was too late for regrets, now.

“Thou art the captain,” said the creature.  Her voice was like buttercup honey.  Her feathers fluttered in the wind.  “I love captains.” 

She spoke a strange tongue, as of a creature long sundered from other speaking peoples.  It was neither the high speech of Gondolin, nor the everyday tongue of Sirion, but it was more like the former than the latter, and it rang out in harmony with the Sea, and Tuor knew in his heart that he was hearing the echo of the great horns.  And he understood her, as he understood the crashing of dark waves.

“Stay back!” 

She laughed.  The sound was like the wail of gulls among the rocks.  She hearkened not to him, and stepped closer.  Tuor shivered.  Her face was fair, but her spirit was as foul as the odor wafting from her oily wings.

A siren, came the thought unbidden to his mind.  That was what Círdan’s people, the mariners who had taught him the building of ships, would call her.  Some of the others scoffed at their tales, but Tuor would not.  He was an orphan boy who grew up in a cave and became beloved of the greatest high Elven-king the land had ever known.  Lord Ulmo had chosen him.  There was no tale too strange for Tuor to believe.

The siren’s teeth gleamed dark in the light of the early stars.

“Ulmo save us,” prayed Tuor, his arms spread wide.

“Unfortunately for thee, we are in the domain of my noble lord Ossë,” said the siren, “who hath ever been generous in his abundance, while Ulmo dwelleth apart and knoweth little of our cares.  But thy words are high indeed, captain, begging for the grace of Lord Ulmo and not my lord or even his lady Uinen.  Dost thou not know in whose tresses we drift?”

“I know the mariners love Uinen and she them,” said Tuor, “but my doom is in the hands of Ulmo.  He spoke to me as a tower of silver in the land of Nevrast, standing among the wild waves.”

The eyes of the siren widened.  “Then great must thy doom and thy worth be, fair captain.  Thou didst wake from my song uncommonly easy.  I know not what to think.  But thou art, indeed,” the siren bowed her head, “very, very blond.”

Tuor choked back wild laughter.  “I am!  And the lord Ulmo has ever been my friend and protector, and though in serving his will I have faced many horrors, I have seen many wonders, too.  The tale of my life is long and sad, full of peril and woe.  But I suppose it would not interest you.”

“Ha!  Ha-ha!”  The scream again, like a gull.  She flapped her wings, which made her breasts bob like buoys on the waves.  “I will have thy tale, sweet captain.  And then I shall have thy flesh, maybe.”

His stomach clenched.  But Tuor was a skilled teller of tales.  He had learned from the Lords of Gondolin, and he had the blessing of divine truth.  So he told the siren his life’s tale as the stars wheeled overhead: how he, first among all Men, had come to the westernmost shore, led by white birds, and gazed upon the measureless dark plains of the Sea to the end of sight.  And he told her of the Lord of Waters, his shining mail.  Throughout, the siren gazed, rapt at Tuor, and not at the vulnerable body of sleeping Elwing. 

When his tale was done: “Oh, thou dost know Lord Ulmo, thou dost, thou dost!”  She flapped in such delight, her feet rose from the ground.  “A mighty captain thou art, and worthy.  I will take thee to husband.  I love thee.”

“Oh,” said Tuor, thinking fast.  “Yes, a fine idea.  In my village, at the mouths of Sirion, we have built a great temple for the Lord of Waters.  Let us return, and we can wed properly, with his blessing.  My people are humble, but they are skilled, and they will give you many fine gifts of jewels and gold.”

“No, no, there be no need,” said the siren.  “I have all I need from the Sea, I do not care to go upon the dirt.”  She was indeed laden with jewels: thousands of pearls in many strands about her neck; crystals, aquamarines, and sapphires studding her ears, rings of gold on each cruel talon.  A wide pendant made from abalone shell dangled between her breasts, which heaved with her breath.  A belt of silver, delicate as lace, girdled her hips, and from it hung a skirt wrought from the stolen treasures of sailors less in Ulmo’s favor, chains of silver, copper, steel, and white gold, gems in every color of the rainbow, jingling as they swayed against her full, scaled thighs.

“We can wed right here.  I love thee.”  The siren licked her full lips and came still closer. 

There was a terrible sound like flesh tearing, as the siren stepped towards Tuor.  She groaned and flexed, wiggled her hips, twisted and shuddered.  The marine, fishy, salty scent of her filled Tuor’s mouth. 

“I’ve forgotten how badly that hurt,” said the siren mournfully.  “It hath been so long since I have known a man worthy.  I have been waiting for thee.”  And with her mouth, she plucked a long, black feather from her wing and offered it to Tuor, head bowed.  Drops of blood fell from her body and landed upon the deck.

The feather looked wet, it looked filthy.  Tuor could not bring himself to take it.  She bowed deeper, extending the feather closer.  Tuor cringed.

Oh, the siren could not speak around the feather between her teeth, but she could wail!  A sound of great lonesomeness and sorrow arose.  And despite himself, Tuor felt moved to pity.  He took the feather in his hand.

And in that moment, behind him, Elwing shifted and sighed.  Tuor’s heart briefly lifted to hear her stir.  But then, a sense of plummeting dread.

“Ah, I forgot all about the girl,” said the siren.  “I was so overcome by love.  Let me take care of her, first, and then we shall wed.”  She bared her teeth and lunged.

Desperate, Tuor threw his body over Elwing’s.  She seemed so slight beneath him, he could cover her twice over.  But his body would serve as little protection if the creature decided to kill him, after all.  He had to use his wits. 

“Please, leave her.  I grow impatient.  Let us wed now, and dine later.  I will take you to wife here and now!” 

It would not be the first time Tuor let his body be used for the pleasure of another. 

He unlaced his trousers and took out his cock.  He was still a man of vigor, though his blood heated more slowly than it had had in his youth, as a thrall.  He knelt up, still protecting Elwing to his side with one arm over her still form.  She slept yet.  She did not need to see him with his cock in his hand, stroking himself to make ready to fuck this lustful beast.  He shut his eyes and thought of his fair wife: her golden grace, the warmth of her embrace.  Many years had passed since their blissful wedding in the Place of the Gods, and yet she looked just as she had as when first he gazed upon her immortal face.  She remained unchanged, even as he greyed and slowed, but still she swore that she loved him as fiercely as ever.  Ah, what a Lady!  How blessed was he.  And how he loved her.

Yet even fed with such thoughts of his good and noble wife, his cock was slow to fill.  The siren stamped her foot.  “I will wed thee!  And I think thou wilt delight me.  But this is very dull.  I still hunger, and the girl smelleth so sweet, I must taste her.”  Now she crouched low, fangs out.  Her knees spread wide, Tuor’s gaze was pulled to the fresh gash between her legs.  Red and angry, it glistened with evil fluids of her lust. 

A strange jolt of arousal then came upon him, and at last he began to harden.  Still he barred the siren from Elwing’s body.  He stroked himself feverishly.  He could not fail.  He would not see the girl devoured!  What madness was the Sea—that he might have survived every calamity that had been cast upon him by fate thus far, and all for this end? 

Well.  If he was to die, at least he would die protecting his sweet girl.

“Feast on me!” he cried.  “I am large.  I will fill your belly, and gladly.” 

The siren’s shout of glee sent chills down Tuor’s spine.  Her eyes met his, bright with joy.

Oh, Lord Ulmo, if ever I served you, however little I could turn the tides of the world, let my end be quick, let it be worthwhile.  Let me be enough, let the girl escape.

Then the siren lowered her head and put her foul mouth on his cock.

It took all the strength of will Tuor had built over the course of his long, hard life, to resist flinching.  He held the shaft in his hand and did not move a muscle.  He hoped for a bite fast and clean.

And then the siren did something Tuor did not expect.  She wrapped her lips around his cockhead.  She licked the tip with her rough tongue.  Her teeth touched his skin, but they did not pierce him, she did not bite.  She did, in fact, take great care not to harm him at all.

And then—more shocking still—she began to devote herself, with great enthusiasm, if not skill, to the task of sucking his cock.

Tuor let out a sound of strangled surprise that was not unlike the squawk of gull. 

It was good, it was foul and terrible, yes, and so, so filthy, to be touched so by a beast whose teeth had ripped apart his crewman—was the man’s blood now on his cock? did that make them blood-brothers?—and Tuor screwed his eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation.  Oh, but it was good.  He could not stop himself, he thrust his hips into the creature’s foul throat as she sucked him.  Many long years had passed since last he had felt a mouth upon his member, as this was not an act that the Eldar of Gondolin condoned between husband and wife.  And Voronwë, well—

The siren spat out his cock in disgust.  She spat again onto the deck of the ship.  “Ugh!”

Tuor felt a pang of disappointed chagrin and then hated himself for it.

“Thou tastest dreadful, husband.  Thy meat is too strong.  But this one—”  The siren looked again to Elwing with renewed interest.  “She smelleth so sweet, so young and fresh.  A hatchling who hath wandered too far from mother.  I have smelled nothing so sweet nor so fair since I ate my sister.”

“You cannot!  You cannot.”  Tuor thought as fast as she could.  “She is not alone, she is with me.  She is,” he sent out a prayer for the lie he was about to tell, “my daughter.”

The creature laughed indulgently.  “Thou tellest lies very badly, husband.  You reek of Man,” she spat again, “and this sweet one could not have come from thy loins.  No, she shall be a fine dessert.”  She licked her lips.

Tuor was as desperate as he’d ever been.  His cock, still hard, bobbed before him.  What to do, what to do?

“She is mine!”  And though Tuor was no Elda and had no gift for Words of Power, he put such volume and force into his shout, the boards of the deck rattled.

The creature, to his surprise, stopped advancing.

She looked at Tuor, then down to Elwing, then back up to Tuor.

Her grin was full of sharp teeth.  “Oh, I see, I see.  Well, in that case.  Thou must have her.  She is so very pretty.  I will not claim what is thine.  Take her!”

“I—I am a man,” Tuor sputtered.  “I do not eat the flesh of speaking people!”

“I do not mean for thee to eat her flesh!”  Her eyes flashed with lust.  “I mean for thee to take her!”

Understanding was like a rope about his neck.

“No,” he choked.

The monster raised a dark eyebrow.  She put a talon on Elwing’s shoulder.  “If thou dost not claim her, then thou hast no right of refusal.  Thou art in my waters, and thou wert not invited.  I am hungry, but I am no mindless beast.  I am being completely reasonable.”

“You ate my crewman!”

“And?  All creatures must eat.  And now he hath slipped away, and the crabs shall have his bones.  My love, this is my gift: take the girl.  Lay claim where none hath ventured.  Thou art a great captain, and her deep waters await thee, unfathomed.  Lay claim!  I shall watch.”

Tuor swallowed back his swelling disgust.  He looked down at Elwing’s poor, helpless, warm body beneath him.

The creature cackled.  “Yes, yes!  My captain, my king.  Lay claim, and to thee I make solemn vow: I will never harm what is thine.”

---

She slept, yet.  A small blessing.

Tuor had known her first as a girl, barefoot on the muddy banks of the river, and ever would she remain such in his memory.  He watched her grow into tender maidenhood, he saw her astonishing beauty.  She was of the line of Lúthien, surpassing fair.  Sweet and sad was her pink mouth, and her grey eyes, clever and keen.  She was as lovely as any lady Tuor had ever known.  Save his wife.

Caught by the siren’s song, she had laid down her body upon the deck in a careless sprawl, her legs spread.  Her dress was damp with the spray of the sea.  One arm was bent beneath her at a strange angle, perhaps she had fallen badly in her swoon.  Slowly, carefully, Tuor straightened the arm.  He watched her face for signs of pain.  She let out a tiny whimper but woke not.

The night was mild, but a sharp wind blew.  He did not want her to be cold.  He left her bodice in place, and he placed his own cloak upon her breast to cover her, and the treasure round her neck. 

Then he lifted the hems of her skirts to her knees.

She yawned.  Tuor froze. 

Please, Ulmo, let her wake not.  Let her feel not this indignity, let her be spared.

The siren cleared her throat.

Forgive me, Tuor thought, and then he lifted her skirts the rest of the way, pushed apart the split in her drawers, and gazed, for the first time, upon the place between her legs.

It was pure curiosity that compelled him.  Elwing was unlike his wife.  While Idril of the Noldor was all tall, regal softness, Elwing was firm and compact.  She was so small, in fact, Tuor thought he might hold her two wrists together in one hand.  The hair upon her lovely head was dark, and her body hair darker yet, a thick, curly triangle at the joining of her legs that carpeted her delicate cleft.  The smell of her was clean sweat and saltwater.  Tuor breathed her in.

“I grow impatient,” warned the siren.  She had pulled back enough that Tuor would not see her foul face while he did the evil deed, but he could still smell her raw cunt and he could hear the sounds of soft, wet movement.

Forgive me.  He forced himself to touch the girl.  First, he spat upon his fingers.  Then he parted her outer lips.  The skin within was so smooth and so silken, such a contrast to his rough fingertips.  He did not touch her to give pleasure.  His intent was practical; it would not do to cause harm. 

Perhaps—it might not go so badly for her, if her maidenhead were already lost.  Tuor probed with his smallest finger.  Had Eärendil—?

But no, no, she was untouched.  Between her legs, her opening was far smaller than he had hoped.  Damn it.  But of course.  Eärendil was a good boy.  He would never dishonor her thus.

Tuor pressed in more firmly, intending utmost gentleness.  But so, so tight was she, he had to apply great force, and with his finger he did make a small tear in the thin layer of skin that proved her innocence.  He was struck by a sudden sense memory—the evil treatment he had suffered as a thrall, and that which he was forced to mete out to others.

He banished those thoughts to the darkness where they belonged.

Oh—

It was too much to expect, after all, that Elwing sleep all the while.  As his finger plunged into her depths, his palm meeting her soft skin, her mouth opened, and she cried out in true distress.

To Tuor’s horror, Elwing’s grey eyes flew open.

He stared in helpless despair.  Oh, that he might have the Eldarin talent for speaking without words!  He might have reassured her.

As it was, he could not risk converse—the siren watched too close.

Elwing screamed.  Her spirit was fierce!  At once she clamped her thighs about his hand.  She slapped him open-handed, forcing him to catch her by the wrists.  As she struggled against him, body writhing, Tuor felt such a powerful wave of utter despair, he feared that he may not have the stomach to do this after all.

But oh, he could still smell the evil creature behind them both.  She awaited her chance to pounce and satisfy her lusts on them both.  Were it just Tuor alone, he might fight.  He had no weapon, he was not as strong as he was in his youth, but he might stand a chance.  Yet what was a chance worth, if Elwing had none? 

No, there was but one path, evil though it may be.

Though the girl fought with heart, she was yet dazed by the creature’s song.  She moved slowly, she faltered, and she was so small, and he so large.  The blood of the House of Hador ran strong.  When she scrabbled back, he clutched her by the knees.  When she kicked, he spread her thighs and put his weight on them.  When she clawed at his face, he yanked at her injured arm so hard she screamed.  She thrashed in violent panic, cracking her head against the deck with a sound so sickening, he feared (he hoped) she had knocked herself senseless.  But no, she struggled yet.  She felt fragile beneath him, a frightened bird. 

And if her writhing confused his body and heated his blood, that was only natural instinct.

He considered putting his hands upon her throat and squeezing until her fight went out.  Not enough to kill, no, just enough to put her into dreamless sleep that would spare her this indignity.  Yet he was weak.  He could not force himself to choke her.

He remembered words from a long-distant past and said them, hating himself: “Fighting will only make this worse.”

Elwing barked out a bitter laugh, and then she looked over Tuor’s shoulder and, it seemed, saw the monster upon their boat for the first time.  She inhaled deeply, as though to scream again.

Tuor covered her mouth with a big hand.  With his eyes, Tuor begged Elwing to understand.

But it was not understanding that came upon Elwing then, only terror.  Her grey eyes so wide, tears brimming.  Her body, a shaking leaf.  Her heartbeat, as fast as a hummingbird’s.

At last, she stopped struggling.  The breath went all out of her in one long, thin exhalation.

“Oh, she is yours!”  The siren screeched in delight.  Elwing went stiff with renewed fear, hearing the creature’s terrible voice, but her eyes held no comprehension. 

Tuor felt, at that moment, like a very old, dirty man, who had led this young girl into the ugliness of the dark world before her time.

And though it sickened him, he was still hard.  The effort to subdue Elwing had awakened within him an old defense; his body knew how to take pleasure in touch, even were it not of his own will.

And though he wished he could say that he wanted this not, his body would now make him a liar!  Any fool could see his arousal, his skin flushed pink with excitement from his cheeks to his thighs.  His cock knew what to do.  It nudged against her as though of its own volition, smearing wetness as it probed, parting the folds of her softest skin in search of entry.  He nearly laughed, feeling his cockhead against her tiny body.  She whimpered.  There was simply no way to do this without hurting her.  No escape without damage.

In another life, were he her lover in truth, he would never have taken her so brutishly.  He would have eased her nerves with pleasure.  He would prepare her with his fingers, and yes, his mouth.  He might awaken a longing in the deepest parts of her, where she had yet to know what true stirring could mean.  He would spread her beneath him with reverence.  He might persuade her body open with loving care, might let her adjust to one thick finger, yes, let her grow wet and eager, until she became all pink and swollen with shy desire, stretching, begging for more, please, more.

A young girl should be taught that her body could be a source of joy, not only pain.  Until Tuor met Idril, he had never known a woman whose life allowed her the luxury of pure pleasure.  Oh, what a revelation it had been, to discover the many ways a woman could be brought to shake with ecstasy!  Yes, he could have taught Elwing thusly, and perhaps he would have, were he a different kind of man.  But he had held back.  As a father should, as a good man would.  He never, ever, touched her with lustful hands.  And if the sight of her collarbone above a gown’s open neckline, or the curve of her hips as she moved around a boat, stirred any unwanted longings, he was ever judicious with his gaze.  He never, not for a moment, enjoyed the images his mind conjured unasked-for: Elwing, batting her eyelashes, lifting her chin for a kiss, bashfully entering his bedchamber at night—where would his wife be?—and undressing.  They were only thoughts!  He would never act upon them.  He was a man of honor!  Even had Elwing thrown herself at him, unclothed, dripping with desire, even had she wrapped her lithe arms and legs around him and beseeched him to make her a woman, he would hold back!  Yes, even then!  Even if she were truly wanton, even if she got on her hands and knees and presented as an animal, he would not, he could not, he did not ever seize her hips and claim her innocence. 

No matter how prettily she might beg.

But what did honor matter now?

All his strength of will, his power of restraint, was for naught. 

The siren had forced his hand.

It was a relief to feel Elwing’s surrender.  He could do this cleanly, and, in so doing, calm the terrible creature into whose waters they had wandered.  He lay himself upon Elwing, covering her, his cock nestled along her folds.  His hips began to move almost as though of their own accord.

“Oh, thou art a beast!”  The siren was delighted.

A sense of unreality came upon him.  He felt a part of his mind lock away, his body now driven by instinct alone.

“Please,” whispered Elwing softly.  She wanted him to end this.  Her face was white with fear.  Tears glimmered beneath the pale moonlight.

“Shh.”  He touched her lips with one rough finger.

He moved his hips, shifting.  He felt his cock slide against her, in and then out of place.  He readjusted.  He took himself in hand and lined his cock up properly, placed the thick head against her opening, and began to push in. 

Oh, such intense pressure!  Such an absurdity, to try to fit himself into her small, tight hole.  It was nearly painful for Tuor; he could hardly imagine what it was to Elwing.  She squirmed beneath him, no longer resisting, but in helpless reaction, all a-tremble.  She was sweating.  He could smell the sharp musk of her fear.

Well, he could drag this out, or he could make it quick.  Either would be an act of violence, there was no pretending otherwise.  He would not comfort her by delaying the inevitable; to do so would merely prolong the violation and the pain.  A maiden would not thank him for such torment.

No, it would be kindest to let it be done, and let it be done quick.

His cock knew what to do.  His cock wanted this.

So he let his cock lead him.  Under the light of the silver moon, upon the dark Sea, witnessed by a creature of evil, Tuor breached Elwing hard and fast, driving his cock inside with one powerful thrust.

The sound Elwing made at the intrusion threatened to awaken in Tuor terrible memories, so he closed off that part of his mind, too.  Instead he perceived the piercing cry of the siren, a shriek of approval that went out over the waves.

They were all creatures of the Sea in that moment. 

His task became simple when he accepted this.  His sea-animal self thrust, withdrew, and thrust again, pushing deeper still, and deeper again, penetrating her flesh, stabbing into her unwilling body.  With each thrust, he plunged a little farther, until she loosened, she slickened, and her resistance gave way entirely.  He slipped, at last, all the way inside, his hips settling into the cradle of hers, as she wept.

Her body’s embrace was so snug around his girth, never before had he felt such tight, gasping heat, nor such bliss.  The creature behind him seemed to know he had at last penetrated her fully, for he could hear the sound of moaning, and horrible, rhythmic, wet movement.  He did not look but knew she must be touching herself in whatever way such a creature would. 

It was Elwing’s body that mattered now, her inner walls clenching and spasming around him.  She had grown wet in response to the intrusion, protecting her sensitive body and easing him inside at last.  The Lord of Waters was indeed merciful!  Now she made room, now he could thrust in and out as he pleased. 

And there was mercy, too, in the speed at which Tuor’s arousal built.  No joining of souls or twining of eternal fates, this, but flesh against flesh, the rough bestiality of copulation, raw and unconcealed.  Tuor had been named a Lord among Elves, he had ascended to the highest station a Man could ever hope to achieve—but this, in fact, was who he truly was.  Plain, animal instinct.  The brutality of domination.  He could not change his true nature. 

Fully sheathed, he knew that he would not last long.  There was no need for gentleness now.

He spared no further thought for giving the girl pleasure.  The time for such things had passed.  The muscles of his hips and his thighs flexed and contracted, pumped and worked, as he let them do as they wished.  His cock sought its release single-mindedly.  He was not young by the standards of Men, but this, to be sure, was still within his capability.  He could perform.  He would sow his seed in her fertile field.

Tuor had been shocked to learn that the Eldar considered this act holy in itself.  So bound were their souls to their bodies, they considered sex equivalent to matrimony, an inextricable winding together of the strands of lovers’ fates.  In this, Tuor was glad to be of the Secondborn.  His devotion to his noble wife could not be broken by anything so minor as an act of animal rutting.  He was certain of this.  His own innocence had been lost long before he ever laid eyes upon the fair Princess Itarillë of Gondolin.  To the Eldar, the sex act was so sacred, they believed, as children might, that to be fucked unwilling might even lead to one’s death. 

Tuor knew, intimately, that this was not true. 

Fucking Elwing was no different than those long-ago days, he told himself.  His wife need not ever know.  But if she learned, she would understand.  He was only a Man.  He had no choice.

He began to use Elwing’s body in earnest, driving into her, battering her cunt like the beast he was.  The siren’s movements kept pace with his own, her cries of self-pleasure rising in tempo with each thrust.  In contrast, Elwing lay limp, enduring.  He dropped her wrists to better brace himself to fuck her harder.  Surely she understood it was futile to fight, and far better for both if she let him take her as he willed.  Her eyes were closed, tears sliding from their corners.  Her cries had softened to a whimper with each powerful thrust of his cock.  Tuor himself spoke not, but grunted with effort, a rhythmic accompaniment to the sound of his skin slapping against hers.

A few more shuddering thrusts, and then he sensed the end was near, the movement of his hips becoming erratic.  With his wife, as he neared release, he might lift her legs, adjust her thighs, direct his thrusts so that she might reach peak with him.  She might touch herself as he fucked her, or he might stroke her soft mound with a loving hand in just the way she liked, letting her pleasure build and crest with his own. 

He had neither the wits nor the skill, now, to bring Elwing to release.  He could only chase his own.   

Suddenly there was a great rush of wind and the flapping of wings.  A weight fell upon Tuor, knocking the air from his lungs.  There were talons on his back.  He cried out and faltered. 

“Do not stop,” ordered the siren on his back, in a voice that crackled with power and lust.  Great wings flapped above him, and he had no choice but to follow their rhythm, fucking into Elwing’s body with greater force than ever.  Flap, flap, went the wings, slap, slap, went his skin against the girl’s.  The siren shifted above him, spreading her legs, feet now dangling about his hips, her horrible cunt now pressed against his ass.   

Three things then occurred in near unison.

The siren climaxed first, her cries cresting in an unearthly squawk that rang in Tuor’s ears.  She ground against him frantically, her wings beating so hard, tufts of emerald and black down floated around them in an oily cloud.

In the violence of their coupling, Tuor’s cloak had fallen from Elwing’s breast.  Now, beneath the powerful gusts of the siren’s wingbeats, Elwing’s bodice became dislodged, revealing what lay beneath: an expanse of young, supple skin, the round curves of her fine breasts, and above, about the girl’s neck—

The necklace, its jewel gleaming like a star.

Tuor reached his own release the moment the hallowed light of the Silmaril struck his eyes.  He gasped, thrust once more, and buried himself deep inside, spilling with a deep, guttural groan of satisfaction.  One pulse after another of shocking, sharp pleasure, his belly and ass contracting with each forced thrust, the siren’s wings still directing his rhythm.  He felt his seed spurting out of his cock, a flood of thick fluid that found its home in Elwing’s nubile body. 

It had to be nearly over, now.  Ulmo must have some mercy.

Tuor’s hips stuttered once more and at last came to rest.

Over the long years, in silences and in stillness, Tuor ever heard the call of the horns of Ulmo that drew him searching West, and he ached with renewed longing for that which never truly left him: the Sea, the Sea!  Yet now, as the sound of waves lapping against the hull of the boat made gentle music, Tuor’s heart was—for a moment—cleared of shadow.     

Relief was short-lived.

As awareness returned, Tuor’s heart fell heavy with shame.  He recoiled.  He slipped out of Elwing’s body, still half-hard, with a sound of wet disgrace and mortification.

Elwing lay on her back, fluids dribbling from between her legs.  She smoothed her skirts, covering herself.  The Silmaril upon her breast shone bright and holy as ever.

And then, a piercing screech of lust.

A flash of feathers and twinkling baubles.

The jewel upon Elwing’s breast was so marvelous, like a crystal of diamonds it appeared, as a glass house of inner fire, which was the blended light of the Trees of Valinor (as Tuor could see as ever in the eyes of his lady wife). 

If the siren’s lust was great before, it was insatiable now.  She dove upon Elwing, shrieking a terrible shriek.  Her cruel talons scrabbled at Elwing’s throat. 

But the moment she lay her claws upon the holy jewel, her own malice brought her doom.  No mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil might touch that jewel but it was scorched and withered.  And oh, how the siren howled!  In madness, in pain unbearable, she thrashed and flapped.  Her claws were burned black.  They smoked. 

So anguished was the creature, she did not perceive her peril.

In one swift movement, Elwing lunged up and put her hands over the siren’s streaming eyes, and with her thumbs she gouged them into utter ruin.

And it was then that Tuor snapped into action.  He grabbed the creature from behind.  She screamed yet, but could not see, nor use her talons, they pained her so.  With a wrench, he broke her wing.  Feathers fell to the deck. 

It was Elwing who cried out at the sound of hollow bones cracking.

And then Tuor, using his great strength, bore up the foul demon and heaved her overboard, and he cast her at last into the sea with a splash.

Elwing and Tuor watched closely.  The dark water turned quiet and tranquil, only soft, gentle waves upon its surface, the silver moon in watery reflection. 

The siren never again appeared.

Tuor breathed a sigh of great relief.  He felt as though he had aged twenty years in a single night.

Elwing neither spoke nor looked at him.  She gazed instead upon the glittering waves, the wide, black night beyond. 

The conches called. 

“I had no choice.”  He told, then, of the terrible threats the siren had made, the insistence that he was her beloved, the demands to lay claim lest she eat Elwing.  Her insatiable lust.  He squared his jaw.  “There is nothing I would not do, to keep you safe.”

Still, she spoke not.

In the morning light, as they reset the sails and set course towards home, Tuor refused to allow himself to question.  Elwing lived.  Her body was still whole, he had hurt her no more badly than a sunburn.  Her virginity?  A symbol only, a token that served no true purpose.  She would not have chosen to keep it at the cost of her life even had she been given the choice herself.  It would have been senseless.  She was not ruined.  What good was virtue without a beating heart?  She would not have thanked Tuor for choosing otherwise, he was certain.  He did not doubt.

He did, however, begin to see the Sea through her eyes.  In one night, it seemed it had become to her a place of great peril and sorrow only.  She looked upon the sails without affection.  She might, Tuor thought, only ever stay upon solid land, by the mouths of Sirion, and ever hate the Sea.

Well, she was ever changeful.  And it was not the vast Sea that hurt her.  Perhaps she would grow to love it once more.

“You see?  Home!  We live, we are whole and well!”  They pulled into harbor.  Though the conches would ever call, so glad was Tuor to return to safe land, he pulled the girl to his breast in a firm embrace, he kissed her fair brow.  She was utterly silent in his arms. 

Tuor gave thanks in devotion to the water.  

“Praise to Lord Ulmo, whose mercy saved us from despair and madness, without whose grace we may have fallen into darkest shadow upon the great and measureless sea.  Praise the Lord Ulmo that saved us.  He saved our very souls!”

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to feyandferal, InfiniteRiver, and onereyofstarlight for their assistance with the work, and for the L&L and LTC communities for cheering this on.

Thanks to the Rare Kink Buffet prompter. I loved your prompt and loved writing this story!

You can find me on Tumblr as AnnaRobots. If you enjoyed the story, please consider reblogging my Tumblr promo post and dropping a kudos or comment. Thank you for reading!