Freaky Friday by annarobots  

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Freaky Friday

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I don’t know how she did it. 

One night, I went to bed just like always, dreaming of running wild in the woods.

The next morning, I woke up in my mother’s bedroom.  And even stranger: I woke up in my mother’s body.

“Stars above,” I whispered to myself as I ran my hands across this body.  I knew instinctively that it was, in fact, hers—I hadn’t just sprouted a full set of boobs overnight.  I had my mother’s soft belly, my mother’s long legs.  Her bed was three times as large as my own, hung with thick velvet canopies, and her purple sheets felt wonderful, silky-soft and luxurious against my skin.  And, when I looked into the oval mirror above her dressing-table, sure enough: my mother’s beautiful, aristocratic face looked back at me. 

Well, I might as well have a little fun.  She never let me play with her makeup anymore. 

“There you are!” boomed my father’s voice, a little while later.  He strode into the room with his usual entitled arrogance, like he owned the place.  He came up behind me where I still sat at the vanity and put his big hands on my shoulders. 

“My, that’s quite a look for daytime.  Have you forgotten our plans?”

I had lined my eyes and lashes with black kohl, painted my lips gold, and applied to my cheeks and brow a shimmering pearly-pink powder made from crushed shells of abalone.  My hair was still put up for sleep in a cream satin scarf, but several dark curls had fallen loose and framed my face enticingly. I had splashed my wrists and ears with her favorite perfume, vanilla and frangipani.  Best of all, I’d raided my mother’s nicest jewelry drawer.  Diamonds and sapphires cascaded from my ears and I wore a long strand of round pearls wound thrice about my neck, a lavalier of crystal and gold-set opal dripping into my impressive décolletage.   

“Of course I remember,” I answered, doing my best impression of Mother.  I couldn’t precisely explain why, but something told me I shouldn’t tell Father what had happened.  He had old-fashioned ideas about proper behavior for ladies, and I didn’t think his list of acceptable pastimes would include body-swap magic.  “I just wished to look my best for… our plans.”

What was he talking about, anyway?  I didn’t recall Mother saying anything about any appointments for today.  The last thing she had told me the night before was that I was a silly, spoiled girl, and that it was well past time I learned a lesson about the responsibilities of a Lady of the Noldor.

“Well, then.”  His hands on my shoulders began to wander.

Oh, gross.

“Say,” I said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go downstairs.  I’d kill for a salmon croquette.”  It occurred to me that I could order the kitchen-servants to make anything I wanted.  Everyone was awfully frightened of Mother.

Father laughed.  “We can break fast after,” he said in a low voice I’d never heard come out of his mouth before, heavy with a strange urgency. “First, there’s something else I’d rather eat.”  He swooped down and placed a kiss upon my neck just below my ear that turned into a teasing bite, and then another, and another.  His open mouth was hot and wet.

Disgusting.  “Water!  I’m so thirsty.”  I got up and went over to Mother’s rosewood washstand.  I really was thirsty—a sudden warmth had come upon me, heating my face and other parts.  I was glad I had put on Mother’s robe over the filmy, cherry-blossom-pink nightgown in which she slept, for it gave me a measure of modesty, but I had begun to sweat. 

However, I soon discovered that the white ceramic pitcher on the washstand was filled not with clear refreshing water, but with the sweet blush wine Mother favored.  Nice, Mom, I thought to myself.  But oh, what the hell.  I filled the little drinking-cup and knocked it back in three long swallows, then I remembered my manners. 

“Would you like any?” I turned back to Father.  “Oh, yikes!”

Father had removed his tunic and was sitting half-naked on my—on Mother’s—bed, his warm golden skin a sharp contrast against the purple brocade bedspread.  I could see the dark hair of his chest and the pink of his nipples. He leaned back on his elbows, a teasing grin on his face.  He now wore only a snug pair of soft grey leggings. 

I couldn’t help but notice the impressive bulge between his thick thighs.

“I should clean my teeth,” I said, casting about my gaze for something, anything else that could serve as an excuse or distraction.  “The maid has forgotten to bring me water.  Maid?  Maid!”

“I’ve sent her away for the day,” said Father, a look of slight confusion on his face.  “Do you really not recall?  It has been two weeks, my darling.”

Two weeks?  Two weeks since what?

“It’s just the two of us, here in the residential apartments.  We need no others.  The servants know not to disturb us during our private time, and the boys have taken Irissë to visit Makalaurë’s menagerie as a special treat.  I hear he has acquired a tiger on loan from Yavanna.”

A tiger?  I had been begging to go to the menagerie for weeks. Knowing Turukáno, he would pick a fight with Makalaurë and the whole family would be uninvited for years.  It would be ages before I’d get another chance to see the tiger.

And who exactly had they taken to the menagerie, anyway?  I guessed that while I was inside my mother’s body, she got to run around in mine. 

It was so unfair.

“They’re such dears,” I said, putting on my best Mother voice.  “What good boys.”  Ugh. “But you know, sweetheart, it might be nice to make it a family trip.  Why don’t we get dressed, saddle the horses, and catch up?  I’m sure they can’t have gotten very far.”

Father raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so you’d like to see the tiger?” He lifted himself from the bed, and began to stride toward me. 

I nodded eagerly.  My heart had begun to beat faster at the very idea, just imagining that great orange-and-black beast who could swat down any Elda with a single swipe of its mighty paw.  “Oh, yes!”

He bared his teeth and formed his hands into claws.  “I can be a tiger.  Grr.” 

“Very funny.”

Then he pounced.

My father was very strong and very fast.  In two strides, he was upon me.  He wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me with ease, burying his face into my breast and inhaling deeply.  “I’m going to chomp you up.”

I gasped and pounded my hands against his chest.  He let me wriggle free and I skittered away.  I dashed to the other side of the room, breathing hard.

His smile had teeth.  “You can run, but you’ll never be free, little fawn. Rawr.”  He began to stalk me once more, though I moved as well, keeping the high-backed pink divan between us.  We circled the sitting-area as predator and prey.  I could be fast, too, light on my mother’s feet.  I could stay out of reach.

But I did not expect him to leap over the mahogany coffee-table and divan in one fluid, feline movement that brought his body within inches of mine.  I shrieked.  There was no escape—he was upon me too fast, he was too powerful.  He knocked me over, pushed me facedown into the plush eggplant carpet, and pinned me.  “Now, vixen,” he growled into my ear, “will you be still and let me feast upon your flesh? Or do you wish to engage in a fight you know you have no hope to win?”

His weight was heavy and warm.

I was not stupid.  I had not fully understood, not at first, what was happening, but as my father rubbed his groin over my backside, only a few thin layers of material keeping our skin from touching, I had begun to grasp what this game of chase was truly about.  Our private time, he had said.  It has been two weeks, my darling. 

It’s just the two of us.

For the first time since I had woken up this morning in this bizarre, impossible scenario, inside my mother’s body, I felt a jolt of true fear pass through me from my head to my core. My father would never harm my mother, I was certain.  But of course, he would not consider ravishing her body a harm.  It was his to do with as he wished, after all; as everyone knew, a husband and wife were bound together in immutable unity, one flesh, one soul, two notes forever entwined in perfect harmony, all part of the great Music. A man’s pleasure was his wife’s. Her body thrummed in response to his plucking. 

And he didn’t know I wasn’t her.  He didn’t know I’d never felt the intimate touch of any but my own clumsy, fumbling fingers, that I was just a stupid, impatient, willful girl who was sick of being told what to do and who thought—the fool!—she was all ready to grow up.

Well, I had to be smart about this.  He was so strong, he was so fast.  My only hope was to catch him off-guard and unaware.  So naturally, I played dead.  Like a prey animal conserving her energy, I went limp. 

“Ah, good girl.”  I felt my father rubbing himself against me harder, his breath on my back, his weight pushing my body into the floor.  His hard length was like a hot arrow against my bottom.  He pulled back for a moment, just enough to draw up the skirts of my robe and gown. The windows were open, and a warm breeze brushed across my skin.  Then—

His hands were on the bare skin of my backside, kneading, fingers digging into the plump skin of each cheek, thumbs delving into the cleft between, and I heard him groan softly to himself with pleasure at the sight.  He knew this body inside and out.  And his expert touch lit its skin—my skin—on fire.   

I shuddered.  It was not the time to protest, nor to move, not yet. I had to wait for the right moment. I would likely only get one chance.

“Shh, it will be all right,” murmured my father with tenderness.  “I won’t torment you.  I’ll make it quick.  But first, I must have a little nibble.  I cannot resist the taste of your honey.”  And he shifted, lifted my hips, and the next thing I knew, something wet and warm swiped across my most private parts.

Though I was trying to be still and quiet as a statue, I cried out in shock.  I couldn’t help myself.  The feel of—was that his tongue—sliding over my lower lips?  And then—oh, it was so filthy, nasty—was he slipping his tongue inside my secret hole? 

It felt like nothing I had ever felt before, nothing at all like my own fingers, or the pile of plush pillows I liked to stack upon my bed and ride.

No, the tongue of my father was both thick and supple, first flat and wide here, then pointed and flicking there, and he licked and tickled and stroked my parts with far greater skill than I could have ever managed with my own awkward methods.  I could not hold back the sounds of my astonished pleasure, which built swiftly, each swipe of my father’s tongue stoking my fires higher. I couldn’t believe he was really doing this!  My perfect father, so steadfast and proper.  He groaned and sighed between each lewd lap, as though he were eating a delicious ripe mango.  His fingers on my hips pressed in deeper.  I couldn’t think, I could hardly breathe.  I feared losing all control of myself, the pressure in my center had become so great, a wild urge growing within me, swelling in intensity and hot, dirty desire.

Just as the sensation began to grow unbearable, and I was altogether desperate and near sobbing, he relented and withdrew.  He let go of my hips, and I collapsed to the ground.  But my relief was short-lived, because soon he grabbed me and rolled me roughly onto my back.

I blinked in the light, swallowed, and tried to regain my senses.

It was difficult, because my father had unlaced his trousers and removed his hard cock.  There it was before me, thick, flushed, and eager. 

I whimpered.

“There, shh, be not afraid,” said he.  His mouth and jaw glistened, and burning shame surged through me as I realized it was my body’s wetness that glazed his face.  “You’re doing so well.”  He adjusted himself, his eyes upon the throbbing, empty place between my legs. He reached for my thighs, spread them wide, pulled me towards him.  His cock was so thick I could not perceive how it was meant to fit in such a tiny hole. How could a woman possibly take it? I was terrified.  Every muscle in my body had pulled taut as a drawn bow, as though ready to let loose a piercing arrow.  My blood ran hot in my veins, and time itself seemed to slow down. 

He ran a hand over my breast, cupped it, and stroked a peaked nipple through the thin fabric of the nightgown.  A bolt of utter panic stabbed from my nipple to my core.

“Please, stop it,” I said in a rush.  “You can’t do this.  You’re my father!”

He paused.  His brow furrowed. 

I could see the wheels turning in his head. 

“Is that the game, now? You’re no frightened deer after all, are you?  All right, I’m Father.  Should I punish you for trying to get away?  Or are you going to be a good girl and obey your father?”  He pinched my nipples, one in each hand, hard and sudden, at once promise and threat.

I nearly wept.  He did not understand at all.  It was so typical.  He never listened to anybody, least of all me, and apparently, not even his loyal wife.  I waited as he re-adjusted himself, took his cock in hand, and began to press it against my folds.

It was time.  I had to act now.

“I will not obey!” I screeched, and slapped him across the face, fierce like a cornered beast.  Then I kneed him in the stomach as hard as I could. When he released his hold and sat back, gasping, I took the chance to leap up and dash for the door.

But—

My gown was tangled all around my legs—

My legs, wobbly with fear and arousal—

I stumbled, graceless, just a split second, then I regained my balance and bolted. 

I had only faltered for a brief moment.  If I had gotten even a bit more of a head start, I’m sure I would have reached the door. 

Or—had anyone been near enough, perhaps they would have come to rescue me, when they heard my cry of dismay.

But as it was—

He caught me.  Of course he caught me.  Maybe there was never any true hope of escaping.  Maybe I was doomed from the moment I awoke.

“You go too far,” he said sternly, and cast me down upon the bed, climbing on top of me.  “I would never strike you, even in play.”  Then he lifted my skirts, wrenched my knees apart, and shoved himself inside me.

I screamed.  I couldn’t believe he’d actually done it—penetrated me.  Then again, he hadn’t really hurt me.  My body parted for him, spreading easily like it wanted him there, just as it must have done hundreds of times before.  It swelled and throbbed and opened for his cock, exactly as it was meant to. 

Yes—he belonged inside me.

Why else would it have felt so good, so right and true?

My father snapped his hips and struck deep inside, a pounding, punishing rhythm that soon had me sobbing with overwhelm.  When he withdrew, I felt empty, when he thrust back inside and filled me up, I shouted in delight.  Never before had I felt such powerful pleasure, a rising tide of sensation.  I quivered and writhed, I howled like a beast.  He shifted, adjusted himself so that he could lower his body completely onto mine, pressing me into the bed, his cock thick inside and his belly and chest warm and firm against my own.  He buried his face into the crook of my neck and kissed me there, open-mouthed, moaning.  The pleasure rose and rose and then it rose some more, higher than I had ever flown by myself.  I threw my head from side to side, I was dying, I was lost.  The pressure between my legs grew into a sense of perfect fullness that was nearly bursting my seams.  I didn’t know how much more of this I could take, but it was not for me to decide.  I was completely at my father’s mercy.  He would use me until he had enough. 

I didn’t know when that might be.    

My father’s movement grew more erratic, his rhythm hastening.  I could feel his breath against my collarbone and his heartbeat everywhere his skin touched mine. 

“Are you close?”

Close?  Close to what?  I didn’t answer; not only did I not understand the question, but I was too overcome to speak.  I had been pulled under by the undertow of desire.  I was drowned.

“I grow close, Anye,” he groaned.  “Anye, are you close?”  He used his love-name for her, a name he spoke with great tenderness and love.

It struck my ears bitterly.

I was suddenly filled with total rage. 

“No,” I shouted, “I am not!” I threw my arms around my father, driving my long, polished fingernails into the skin of his back, and then I did something that I had not done in a long, long time, not since I was a very small child and had little sense of what was proper between a man and a girl, a father and a daughter.  Well, what did that matter, now?

I threw open my mind and directed my thoughts into my father, hurling myself at the cracks of his mind’s walls, the boundary between his inner self and the world outside.  I found an open window, and through it I flung myself.  My spirit spilled into his, messy, wild, difficult. 

See?  I said in thought.  I am your daughter, I am Irissë, just look!  See me!

I felt his shock and recognition, and then the flood of his crushing horror.  But also I felt his pleasure, keen and sharp, a mirror and a multiplier of my own.  As our spirits unraveled and wound around one another, he cried aloud again, his hips stuttering, once, twice, then pulsing as deep inside as he could possibly go.

He broke apart.  I gasped with no breath.  Then I broke, as well.  My body seized with convulsions that began between my legs, the throbbing, terrible pressure finally bursting into something even more terrible and yet wonderful. Great, heaving rolls of pure ecstasy sprang from the place where my father spasmed inside me but then they spread across my entire body, so much more colossal, more powerful than one man’s mere cock.  I felt it in my nipples, I felt it in my toes.  I shook.  I shattered. Pieces of me were scattered about everywhere and I lay breathless on the bed, utterly spent.

When the world returned, my father rolled onto his back, breathing hard.  He did not look at me.  His cock was soft.  His mind was shut tight. 

I reached down and touched between my legs in wonder.  I was so wet and swollen, and I could feel my heartbeat under my fingers.  Though my flesh was nearly too sensitive to touch, it seemed almost as though I might again—

“Stop that,” said my father, still without looking at me.  “It’s unbecoming.”

I wanted to slap him once more, but I restrained myself, with all the composure of a true Lady of the Noldor.

We lay there a while, the mingled gold and silver Light streaming in through the open windows, the scent of orchids and honeysuckle from the garden wafting on the breeze.

“Well,” said my father at last.  “Do you still want to go to the zoo?”

I pulled down my mother’s nightgown.  “Sure, that sounds great.  Let’s go, Daddy.”

Hope and excitement filled my heart.  As it turned out, I might just get to see a tiger, after all.

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Chapter End Notes

As usual, a lot of my Anairë & Nolofinwë in Tirion ideas are directly derived from Emily’s excellent work on the subject.  I'm linking to her tumblr here while AO3 is down, but I highly recommend her Anairë/Fingolfin works when they're available again!  Thank you to Corvid for reading the draft of the story.