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“Dear, you look a fright,” said Turukáno’s mother. Then she turned her attention back to the baby. “Oh, you’re my little angel! Yes, you are. What a sweetheart. I could just chomp your legs. Kiss, kiss!”
Turukáno tried to smile. But his whole face was too tired. He laid his head on the table and closed his eyes.
“Your tea’s getting cold,” said Anairë.
“Oh, haven’t I suffered enough?” Turukáno moaned. “I put her down, she screams. I pick her up, she screams. I rock her, I sing to her, I swaddle her—it’s no use. I can’t take it.”
“Yes, newborns can be fussy. Aren’t you, precious girl?”
“Well, someone should warn people! There should be a pamphlet,” said Turukáno with a yawn. “Sorry, Mother. I don’t mean to be rude.”
Anairë waved it off, bouncing little Itarillë in her arms. “It’s all very normal. It’ll pass. How’s Elenwë?”
Turukáno didn’t speak for a moment. Anairë wondered if he had perhaps fallen asleep right there in the breakfast nook, next to the sausage and eggs.
“Can’t you take her for a few days?” he finally asked in a small voice.
“Oh, heavens, no,” said Anairë. “We’re getting the powder room redone, you know. And with your grandfather’s Adamant Jubilee—there’s simply too much—it’s impossible, darling.”
When she handed the baby back to Turukáno, it was hard to tell who was closer to tears.
“But you do need help, I can see,” said Anairë, who was not heartless. The gears in her mind began to turn.
Turukáno, shush-patting the baby on his chest, was in no position to turn down any suggestions. “I’ll take whatever I can get.”
When Irissë first arrived, Turukáno almost didn’t recognize her.
She stood in the threshold, leaves in her hair, an overstuffed bag slung over one shoulder, bow over the other. But when she saw Turukáno, she broke into a grin, dropped her belongings, and hurled herself at him like a wolf-pup reuniting with a long-lost littermate.
For a moment, he thought she might lick him.
After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Turukáno wrapped his arms around his sister, holding her close. He was so very relieved to see her. And yes, though she had grown taller, older, she was still the disastrous adolescent he remembered, in a too-short, rumpled tunic, her unruly curls sticking out every which way—hadn’t Mother taught her how to do her braids? She needed a bath, smelling of sweat and road, and something richer, an essence more animal than Elf.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Turukáno murmured into the top of her head. Then: “OW!”
Someone—or something—had dug their sharp little claws into his neck.
“Oh, there you are!” Irissë pulled back.
The creature that had taken up residence inside Turukáno’s collar chittered, sniffed, and did not let go.
“What. What the hell is that?”
“This is Trashmouse,” Irissë crooned, stroking the rodent where it perched. “He’s a sugar glider. He loves tall men. He won’t bite, unless he smells snacks on you.” She leaned in, nose to Turukáno’s armpit, and sniffed. “No, you’re safe. You just smell like Turno.”
Turukáno was disgusted and bewildered all at once. Luckily, at that moment, his wife appeared, screaming infant in tow. “Hello, Irissë,” said Elenwë, weary.
Irissë stepped forward and gathered the baby into her arms.
Immediately, the world shifted. Turukáno felt it in his bones. Itarillë, at last, stopped crying. But more than that: Irissë herself transformed from careless to careful, from whirlwind of unpredictability to mountain of stability. She held the infant close, hummed low and soft, and rocked, and rocked, with a grace that was both Elven and yet primal, flipping over something inside Turukáno’s heart.
His wife exhaled. “Oh, you’re a miracle.”
“Oh, no,” said Irissë, nuzzling Itarillë. “She just needed a warm place to tuck her worries. I don’t mind.”
Turukáno didn’t speak. Partly because he was feeling genuinely moved by the scene before him. Mostly because he did not wish to disturb Trashmouse.
“You two look like shit,” Irissë said. “Go get some rest. I’ve got her.”
Well, they weren’t about to argue. As Turukáno collapsed into his marital bed with his wife, narrowly remembering to take off his slippers first, he kept replaying the image of Irissë with the baby, swaying, singing sweetly, lulling the entire house into a cozy languor.
And he felt a knot of tension unravel itself, deep inside, the exhalation of a breath he must have been holding for weeks.
Also, Trashmouse was a decent nap buddy. Once he removed his claws.
Irissë made herself comfortable in no time. She took a tiny room, hardly a closet, as her sleeping-chamber, but scarcely used it, preferring to roam the house and gardens, Itarillë wrapped to her breast. She left a trail: unidentifiable crumbs, long strands of curly hair, drool-marks on the sofa, where she napped. She drank milk straight from the jug, throat working in long, satisfied swallows. When Turukáno prepared meals, she appeared at his elbow, stealing the choicest bits of meat from the cutting board and eating them raw, or worse, distracting Turukáno with silly gossip, while the rodent took his share.
“Haven’t you spoken to Findaráto? Well, I’ll let him tell you, but Curufinwë said…. Yes, Mother and Father wouldn’t let me go to the show, can you believe it? I hear it was quite scandalizing…. No, I don’t miss the palace. Do you? In your newly-wedded bliss?... Turno, don’t let him eat that! He can’t have garlic!”
Turukáno inhaled through his nose, slowly, and counted to five. It didn’t help.
He even caught her at the table, trimming feathers for arrows, fluff everywhere—with his best chef’s knife. Before he could say anything, she looked up and smiled with sharp teeth.
“Oh, did you need this?”
She used her wrap-front tunic to wipe the blade clean, the movement tugging the deep vee wide open, giving Turukáno an eyeful.
Turukáno answered, strained. “No, you can keep that one. I’ve got others.”
Later, recounting the knife tale to his wife, Turukáno thought he might get some sympathy. But Elenwë was closed to complaints.
“She’s such a blessing. Itarillë adores her. So, you better be nice.”
She rolled over and fell immediately asleep.
Turukáno was awake a while longer. That was his fucking knife.
The house filled with her smell: warm skin, girlish sweat, crushed grass, a metallic tang that Turukáno thought might be moon-blood, then promptly recoiled and resolved never to think about it again. It was disgusting. He was disgusted every time Irissë wandered by, barefoot, smelling like a wild animal in the heat of summer. Why couldn’t she wash?
Even Trashmouse didn’t radiate his scent quite so rudely.
They settled into a routine. Elenwë napped, Turukáno took care of the household, and Irissë saw to the baby. She loved taking her (and Trashmouse) out to play in the garden. He could hear his sister through the open window, singing wordless songs in the language of growing things. By the time Turukáno called them in for dinner, they were all three filthy.
“Wash up before you touch anything,” said Turukáno.
“Oh, you’re so fussy,” said Irissë. She reached up—and wiped both palms across Turukáno’s chest, slow and deliberate. Her warm hands pressed against his shirt, leaving muddy streaks, and stunned silence, in their wake.
Turukáno’s breath caught. He backed away so quickly, he almost tripped on the carpet.
That was the first time he heard Itarillë laugh.
Later, he passed by the bathing-room, the door ajar, the sound of singing within. Irissë must have heard him hovering in the hall and called to him. “I’m just in here giving the baby a bath!”
He poked his head in, and then he wished he hadn’t.
When Irissë said “giving the baby a bath,” what she really meant was, stripping down and getting in the great big tub herself. There she was, wet and soapy, messy curls all tied up in a knot, as she poured gentle cupfuls over Itarillë’s head, her bare breasts floating.
Thank the Valar, at least the rest of her was safely hidden beneath the surface! And Turukáno did not wonder, no, he did not, for even a moment, what might be under there. No, he did not think about whether her belly was still flat like a girl’s, or if it had rounded and softened, like Elenwë’s had when she was ripe with his seed; nor did he wonder if the hair between her legs was soft and downy, or if it had grown into a thick bush of dark, heavy curls. Was it a pelt to match her underarms?—whose pungent smell Turukáno could not help but breathe in, deeply, each time she wandered past. Inexplicably, he felt a pang of regret that Irissë must have scrubbed away her sharp scent in the bath, and now, her armpits would smell of nothing but the bland pink soap that Elenwë and Turukáno shared: polite, adult, restrained. Appropriate, of course, for a young lady of Irissë’s standing. Far moreso than her usual musk, the scent that filled Turukáno’s nostrils and made confusing suggestions to his body, as though he were hunting under the stars, absurd, blood rushing every which way, filling his veins with heat and an urge to do something reckless and fierce, anything at all, just to make sure he was still alive and pulsing with the Light of the Trees.
“Well, are you coming in? Or are you just going to stand there like an idiot?”
Turukáno flushed and stammered an apology, then he went to his study. He’d long neglected his paperwork. Surely there were important ledgers in need of attention.
Turukáno learned to shield his eyes when turning any corner, not just entering the bathing-room.
He walked into the parlor only to find her sprawled across the back of the couch like a cat, belly-down, wearing a tunic with nothing at all underneath, arms and legs all stretched out as she dozed. Trashmouse perched on a bare thigh like a lookout, cheeks stuffed full with stolen sweets.
“Irissë!” Turukáno’s voice cracked like an adolescent’s. “Where are your panties?”
She stirred and groaned. Without otherwise moving, she tugged down the hem of her tunic. “It’s too hot. I need a cool breeze across my nethers, or I can’t sleep.”
“Well! Huh!” Turukáno spluttered. “If you need—come on, sister, you—you’re indecent!”
“Oh, am I?” she asked innocently, cracking one eye open. Then she sat up, swinging her legs over the back of the couch. She met Turukáno’s gaze, and, when she was certain she had his attention, spread her thighs apart.
“I mean! Well!” Words failed.
It was time to take charge. Enough was enough. Turukáno was a patient man, but too long had he stayed silent while being disrespected so brazenly—in his own house!
He strode forward, grabbed each of his sister’s knees, and shoved them together, a desperate bid to restore order. Irissë huffed in disbelief, but she didn’t shy away from his stern touch.
“You’re indecent as—as—as a tavern-wench!” he said. “And it’s time you learned, when you’re under my roof, you will behave and outfit yourself with—decorum! You’re a princess of the Noldor, not some back-alley—bad—girl!”
Irissë tilted her head like a lapdog who sensed a game. “I’ll tell you what, Turno,” she said, in a voice as conspiratorial and sweet as a stolen cinnamon roll, “I’ll dress more modestly—once you start.”
“What! You—” Turukáno followed her gaze downward.
Then he wished he hadn’t.
She was eyeballing the unmistakable bulge in his gray lounge-leggings, the thick shape of him already straining the seams, and only growing more prominent under scrutiny. Embarrassment crawled up his neck. He felt his pulse everywhere, from toes to ear-tips. He said nothing out loud, not trusting his voice. Instead, he folded his arms and tried to look imperious.
He lasted a few moments before his will failed, and then he fled.
Behind him, Irissë’s laughter pealed like temple bells.
He would find his wife. Now.
He paused in the doorway to their bedchamber, watching Elenwë doze with the child. She was as beautiful as ever, though paler, thinner than before the baby. Fragile. The light of Laurelin caught her golden hair in a halo, as she lay curled on her side, one arm holding Itarillë as they faced the window. Embers glowed low in the fireplace, but the room was yet warm enough to sleep without covers, just a soft nightie. The line of her hip visible under the white fabric gave him a thrill.
Turukáno approached, slid into bed behind his wife, and nuzzled up close, seeking her warmth. He caressed his wife’s arm with his fingertips, teasing in the way he knew she liked. Used to like.
Elenwë made a soft noise, but she didn’t push him away. Emboldened, he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. He moved his fingertips from her arm to her breast, lightly tracing its ample fullness. His cock jumped, and he pressed his hips forward, as though saying hello, wife, with his dick.
The feel of her swelled his arousal, all blood rushing out of his brain. He groaned and thrust again; he grasped her entire breast in his big hand and squeezed, enjoying the sensation of the nipple against his palm through her gown.
“Ow,” said his wife.
“Sorry,” he whispered, and lightened his touch. He kissed her neck, he nibbled her ear, he whispered her name, his voice engorged with desire. Though she had always liked kisses and caresses, his own fierce need was what truly excited her. She would mirror his fire, reflecting back her own, blazing, irrepressible. He wanted back that passionate girl, who had climaxed so easily under his tongue, who had demanded he pleasure her in the orchard, on the terrace, under the stars, uncaring who might see. He missed the girl who couldn’t wait until their wedding night, so impatient was she to take his cock within her.
But today, in their marital bed, when he drew up her nightie and tried to delve between her thighs, she slapped his hand away.
Turukáno pulled back. The slap stung, but his pride stung worse.
“I’m so tired,” said his wife. “Please….”
He waited for her to finish speaking, but only silence fell between them, thick and impenetrable.
Turukáno rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. Frustration twisted through him, alongside thwarted desire.
Wasn’t it a wife’s duty to see to her husband’s needs? Hadn’t he been terribly patient? Through the long months of pregnancy, the brief but terrifying birth, and the blurry, hard-to-remember weeks after—hadn’t he been the most ideal of husbands, the picture of Noldorin masculinity and strength? Hadn’t he built his wife a home, furnished it simply and beautifully, cooked her favorite dishes, and watched over their sweet girl’s every heartrending breath, bringing her to Mama for feedings only, so she could recover in peace?
What else could he do?
And Irissë! Irissë, who was meant to be a help, blustering through their happy home like a summer storm, no Noldorin princess, she, but a wild forest creature, tracking in dirt and blood—why, she was only making things worse! With her smell! And her bathing! And those short tunics! And the way she had looked him right in the eye as she opened her legs, almost as though she were trying to—
Well, nobody in this house was behaving properly.
Nobody but Turukáno.
Turukáno closed his eyes and made a resolution. He would be steadfast. He would be beyond reproach. Through his example, those in his charge would thus be inspired to be their best selves.
He was, after all, the man of the household.
He heard her bang open the front door before he saw her. The baby stiffened against his chest, her little body—just calmed, at last—going rigid with the telltale inhale that preceded a wail.
The sound of Irissë’s boots on the tile was heavy, wet. When she appeared in the archway, the soft lamplight framed her like a painting. She was covered in mud up to the thigh; dried blood and gore encrusted her hands and forearms; her hair, always unruly, was worse than ever, tangled through with twigs.
Turukáno blinked and tried to smile. Her absence these few days had only proven how badly they needed her. It was good to see her home.
But she didn’t seem to think so. “Back,” she said simply, her voice hoarse, as though she’d been shrieking with her fellows the entire time. Her eyes were distant. She shrugged off her pack, letting it hit the floor with a thud. Then she kicked off her boots. One hit the wall, the other toppled onto the woven rug.
Turukáno felt his thin thread of sanity fraying.
And Itarillë began to fuss, her little fists punching at him, straining towards her auntie, who she loved best (no, not Turukáno himself, the last few days had confirmed that!). He bounced her harder.
And that was when Trashmouse launched himself right at Turukáno, chattering excitedly, claws out.
He startled, quickly twisting to protect the baby, so that Trashmouse alighted on his upper bicep and scrabbled for purchase, digging into his flesh.
“HEY,” he shouted, and shook the animal off violently.
Not really. Not with intent to harm. But enough to send him flying. He landed on the tile with a squeak that pierced the room.
Irissë cried out and dashed to the creature. She knelt on the floor and glared at Turukáno. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but don’t take it out on him. He didn’t do anything wrong!”
Her tone was even. Turukáno watched her stroke and comfort the animal and felt a petulant, jealous rage.
“Nothing’s wrong with me!” he barked back. “The nasty little beast got his claws in me. What if he’d landed on the baby? He could have taken her eyes out!”
“Don’t be stupid. He’d never hurt Itarillë.”
Turukáno’s anger rose and roiled. Words tangled as reason escaped him, and he didn’t know what he might say until he said it:
“Look at you!” he snapped. “You just come back and track your filth everywhere—blood and gore! Mud and trash! The fucking boots! You’re the trashmouse, with your foul, stinky self. First, you leave me all alone—”
“Not alone,” Irissë said quietly. “Elenwë—”
“Elenwë is asleep!” he shouted. “She’s always asleep! I’ve done everything, yes, all by myself, I’ve been cooking, I’ve been cleaning, I’ve changed every diaper, given every bath, sung every lullaby, burped her after every feeding. Do you think I’ve gotten a moment to feed myself? While you’ve been off with your loathsome friends—well! I hope you had a good time!”
“I did. I killed a wild boar.”
“You WHAT?” Turukáno heard his voice go high and womanish. “Irissë, that’s so dangerous for a girl. I’m telling Father! You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed!”
Itarillë began to cry.
Irissë didn’t shout back. She stood, an unreadable expression on her face. She tucked Trashmouse, who was still shivering, into the folds of her dirty tunic. He poked his head out and glared.
“It’s not fair,” said Turukáno. “You went out to have fun without me, while I’m stuck in this stupid house with this dumb—” He caught himself, just in time.
Irissë took a step towards him, arms open. “Let me,” she said. “You’re making her upset.”
Turukáno jerked back, clutching Itarillë, which made her cry harder.
“No,” he snapped. “Not in that state! I won’t have my daughter thinking that’s how a princess of the Noldor behaves! I’m making her upset? Look at you! You’re disgusting.”
Irissë didn’t say anything.
Turukáno pressed on. “Clean yourself up, for heavens’ sake. Why do I have to keep reminding you? Are you a fool, or do you take pleasure in tormenting me? You’re a beast! A sickening beast!”
Irissë’s mouth hung open, then she shut it, along with all warmth in her eyes.
“Right, then,” she said. “I’ll wash, I suppose. If it means so much to you.”
She turned, paused. Without looking back: “I brought the boar belly for dinner. It’s in my pack. Cook it however you like, I don’t care.”
Turukáno stood in the aftermath of the moment, heart pounding, Itarillë wailing. As shame bloomed inside him, he wondered how he had lost control so completely, so quickly. From inside Irissë’s pack, boar’s blood seeped onto the floor, staining the tile sticky, iron-smelling red.
Turukáno put the baby down for a nap, once she finally settled, then went to pace in his study.
Every time the memory replayed—the sharpness of his voice, the blankness of Irissë’s face—his stomach tightened. Yes, she’d made a mess, yes, she needed a firm hand, and yes, she chafed at every expectation. As though it were unreasonable to ask a young lady to behave like an Elf and not an animal!
But Turukáno knew that a real man did not lie, even to himself. And the truth was much simpler. He’d yelled because he was overwhelmed, and because he had missed his sister terribly.
He hadn’t given the thought words, even in his mind, until now. Without Irissë, the house had fallen cold, sleepy, and far too quiet. Itarillë had needed her. Turukáno had needed her, and she wasn’t there. And so he punished her.
Turukáno stopped pacing. Enough. He had to apologize, and properly.
He found Irissë on the pallet in the baby’s room. She had washed, her damp hair spilling loose and wild, but clean, all around. Curled around the baby, on her side, in a plain hemp robe, his sister looked smaller. More fragile. Nothing of the fierce, bloodied hunter—except for the sound of the woods in her voice.
She was singing, a simple lullaby Turukáno recognized from somewhere deep in his memory, though the words, he was certain, were Irissë’s own:
Sleep, my love,
You are safe in my arms,
No fox will take you,
No beasts in the dark,
and when they try to snatch you,
I’ll rip out their hearts.
Turukáno could not bear to interrupt. He hovered beyond the doorway, out of view. She sang another few verses, dropping into a soft whisper, then fading out altogether.
“It was a great Hunt,” Irissë murmured to the sleeping child. “The stars are so bright in the woods, did you know? The deeper you go, the farther from the Trees. You’ll be stalking your quarry through the forest, and then you come upon a clearing, and the whole bowl of the sky opens up. You’ve never seen the stars, have you, little one?”
Something caught in Turukáno’s throat.
“I’ll show you, when you’re older. You’ll love it. The trees and the wind, they’ll tell you everything you need, if you listen. And then the chase—oh, that’s best of all,” said Irissë, her voice dreamy. “I could just run forever. They’d never let me go if they knew I wouldn’t return. You know what they’d say. They’d catch me and put me back in braids and chains, lock me up and throw away the key. Well. Maybe they’d try! But you and I, we could find a way out again, can’t we? My sweet girl.”
Turukáno swallowed around the lump in his throat. He felt like an intruder. Perhaps the apology could wait.
But when he turned to creep away, the floorboards creaked. Damn his great big feet.
Irissë shifted, rolling onto her back, to look toward the noise. For a heartbeat, after she saw him, she blinked, as if just waking. And then she smiled. It wasn’t teasing, or feral, but something warm and sparkling, like the beaches of Alqualondë. She was lit up from the inside. Turukáno felt bathed in her glow.
“Look who’s here,” she whispered to the baby, voice fond, holding his gaze. “It’s Daddy.”
Well, a man could only take so much.
Turukáno had nodded in acknowledgement, then backed away quiet as a mouse, down the hall, back to his study, which, thankfully, he had equipped with a thick door, keeping in all sorts of suspicious moans or sighs, and which, with great foresight, he had outfitted with a very reliable lock.
Two strides into the room was all Turukáno could bear before he shoved his hand inside his pants. He was going mad. This wasn’t, to be clear, a regular habit of his. Self-abuse was no great sin, his father had assured him—without meeting his eyes—after one unfortunate interruption in Turukáno’s blundering adolescence, but it was an inferior satisfaction compared to the love of a wife.
“Better to concentrate on improving oneself, body and mind,” said his father, clapping him on the back, “and you’ll be sure to find a suitable girl. When the time is right, you’ll know.”
When Findekáno heard what had happened, he had laughed until he cried. Then he had reached into his night table and handed Turukáno a jar of something creamy and sweet-smelling.
“What’s this?” Turukáno had asked.
Findekáno had made a rude gesture. “It’s so you don’t chafe. You know, a little lubrication can be a wonderful thing! It’s even good for—”
“Thanks, I get the idea,” Turukáno had interrupted, disgusted.
Now, Turukáno would admit that Findekáno’s gift had come in handy on a few desperate occasions. But he had taken his father’s advice to heart, applied himself to self-improvement, and—look at the results! Here was Turukáno, happily married to the love of his life, and poor Findekáno, his elder brother, settling into what seemed likely to become a lifelong bachelorhood.
Turukáno pitied him.
Only—well.
Here was Turukáno, married, with a baby, in his house, in the study he had designed and built by his own hand, the hand that, in fact, was now rushing to unlace his leggings, so that his great, hard cock could spring free.
His groan of relief would have shaken the mightiest oak in the forest.
At first, so overwhelmed was he, by the feel of his own hand, he thought of nothing at all, just the slide and tug, up and down, slow and rhythmic, ceaseless as the lope of a patient hunter who knows that, with patience, they will outlast their prey.
He paused to kick off his leggings, to lean against the wall, bracing himself as he grew more and more frantic. He sighed and grunted, the pleasure building to a fast-approaching peak Turukáno recognized and wanted to summit. He closed his eyes—
And he was struck by a shocking image in his mind: Irissë, there with him, smiling and bright-eyed. His sister. His cock throbbed, and he would have come right then, had he not the self-discipline to remove his hand.
“Fuck,” said he, flustered by his imagination’s depravity. He tried to clear his mind, but the imaginary Irissë only laughed at him. All right, well, he could replace the image with his wife, Elenwë, his dear and loving wife, couldn’t he?
He tentatively closed his hand around his cock again and resumed.
He tried to think of his wife, whose soft breasts he knew so well, who had carried his child, whose warm wet pussy had borne the baby into the world—
Well, no, wait, that wouldn’t work. His cock didn’t really like that.
He closed his eyes tightly, and thought of light, a great white blankness, the blinding rush that he knew would precede orgasm, if he could only get there without—
Irissë, again, his sister, in his mind’s eye, kneeling before him, in supplication or apology, perhaps, her wet hair dripping onto her firm breasts, with brown nipples that she might touch with one hand, the other stimulating herself between her legs, her warm wet mouth open, waiting for his great cock to shove inside and choke her, yes, like she had always wanted, hadn’t she? He might ask her, teasing her lips with the tip, jerking off right in her face, demanding she answer truly, yes, yes, brother, I’ve always wanted it, I need you, I need you inside me right now, and then he would give in and give it to her—
“Stop,” he growled, and withdrew his hand at the last possible moment. He gasped and panted, shocked by the wetness on his palm, the sheer terrible pleasure of the disgusting image that his mind had dreamed up all by itself.
He pressed his palm against himself, in a futile effort to defeat his arousal. That was a fool’s hope, he soon realized, he was too far gone already, and as the first Elves to reach the Pelóri had said to each other: the only way out is through.
He cupped his poor balls. They would simply burst if he didn’t give them what they wanted. Just a little, just this one time, he reasoned.
He gritted his teeth, gripped himself, and re-entered the fantasy with conscious intent.
The sitting room. The couch. Irissë, her too-short tunic showing her thighs. Her teasing smile. She smelled ripe and unwashed, waves of sweaty maiden-scent radiating off her as though calling him, come and lay claim.
“You’re indecent,” Turukáno muttered out loud, thrusting into his fist, using his wetness to ease the way.
He remembered what she had said. Oh, am I? And she had opened her legs toward him.
In memory, Turukáno had shoved her knees together.
In his mind, now, Turukáno strode forward and wrenched his sister’s knees further apart, pushed his sister down, and covered his sister with his body, letting his full weight press her into the sofa. She let out a shriek, but it was shriek of delight, Turukáno knew.
It’s about time you learned how to behave, Turukáno told his sister in his mind. She would make a disbelieving noise, but then wrap her thighs around him, revealing her true nature. He would be able to smell her cunt, the lush wetness of her desire. She would be so ready, he could slip right inside—
No, no, wait. The animal in him wanted her a different way. His pulse quickened when he thought of it, and he had to squeeze the base of his cock to keep from spilling, the idea was so searing—
In his mind, he returned to the moment when she opened her legs and smirked at him. The vixen! She thought she could flirt and tease with no consequences, provoke him, again and again, smelling like hot pursuit and pussy, showing him what he couldn’t have—and surely, she would be safe, wouldn’t she, because he would never take the bait, no, he would never turn predator and chase her down, no matter much he might want to, no matter how she tempted him! Good old Turno. She trusted him to be in control always, to be the dull, obedient, rule-following, buttoned-up boring brother, the stalwart, the steadfast, the true. The one who stays back, the one who holds strong, who keeps everything running smoothly while everyone else chases glory—wasn’t that what a second son of a second son was for? And why would anyone expect any different from Turukáno? He had always done his duty, he had always been the very picture of Noldorin virtue, and no matter how badly she was asking for it, he would never, ever ravish his own sister.
In his mind, he strode forward, grabbed his sister by the hips, picked her up, and flipped her onto her stomach. He placed one hand between her shoulders and bent her, hard and forceful, over the back of the couch.
In his mind, his sister screamed. Pressed into the couch cushions, held down by his hands and his hips, she would be at his mercy—under his control—the smaller, the weaker, not the fierce fearless huntress after all, but this time, the prey.
Please, she would whimper, pretending that her desire wasn’t what it was. Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—
You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean, he would say, lining himself up, or the wrong person might get the wrong idea. She would gasp—she would moan—when she felt the head of his cock nudging at her folds, which, yes, would be wet and hot, aching for him to claim her—
You can’t—I’ve never—she would protest, scrabbling at the couch cushions, kicking at him helplessly, unable to escape, now that he had her trapped. There was no use fighting someone so much bigger, so much stronger, and she knew it.
The only hope she ever had was in Turukáno’s own restraint.
And he had lost it.
I’m going to teach you a lesson, he would say. And then he thrust inside, breaking past her resistance in one clean, sharp movement.
And oh—
Turukáno rubbed himself fast and hard, knowing he wasn’t going to last—
The thought of burying himself inside his feral sister, who would be tight yet wet, inexperienced yet instinctual, desperate for him, moaning, no, screaming, as she was fucked for the first time. She would clutch at the couch cushions, she would clench around him. Would she struggle, once he breached her? No, she would be too insensate with pleasure, from being filled by him as she had always wanted, deep down. In fact, she would reach climax nearly at once, wouldn’t she, from the delicious agony of him piercing her, spearing her with his great lance, impaling her like a cornered beast, and then she would climax again, arching and bucking, again and again, as he rutted her, ruining her for any other cock, not to mention any kind of future with a decent Noldorin fellow—
This time, Turukáno could no more stop himself than he could stop breathing. He stroked himself violently, the look and feel of his sister’s pinned body pushing him over the edge faster than ever. He shuddered, his release coming at last in powerful waves, each pulse nearly as strong as the one before, shooting out thick, white arcs of pleasure, until he was spent, and blissfully without thought, for a few perfect moments.
He caught his breath.
And then, the vicious stab of dark shame.
And when Turukáno regained his senses, only then, did he realize he had a visitor perched on his desk: judgmental, indolent, nasty little Trashmouse.
He chittered at Turukáno with disapproval.
At least his seed hadn’t struck the sugar glider head-on. It had, instead, found its home on the desk’s open ledger.
Turukáno would need to redo the entire week’s work. He tucked himself back into his leggings, retied the laces, and resolved to never think of his sister in such a demeaning, disgusting, or degrading manner, ever again.
He was a man of his word.