Boromir sneaks into Arwen’s Bedchamber to rape the beautiful Elven Princess of Rivendell.
In the quiet, moonlit corridor of Rivendell, the echoes of distant laughter and the crackling of a dying fireplace whispered through the cold stone walls.
Boromir, son of Denethor, stood in the shadows, his eyes fixed upon the distant door that shielded the chamber of Arwen, the ethereal beauty of the elven kind.
His thoughts were as tumultuous as the river that carved the valley outside, a mix of desire and doubt.
The night air had the scent of herbs and candles, and Boromir took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. He knew that his actions were not honorable, that the path he was about to tread was one of darkness and most cruel deceit.
Yet, his body ached for the touch of the elf maiden, and his pride whispered that he could take what he desired.
He approached the door with the quiet grace of a cat, the heavy wood yielding to his strong, calloused hands.
Inside, the chamber was dimly lit by candles flickering on the dresser and the soft glow of moonlight spilling through the open window.
The bed, large and inviting, was the centerpiece of the room, with fur-covered blankets and silk pillows that seemed to whisper of warmth and comfort.
Arwen lay there, her alabaster skin stark against the dark sheets, her chest rising and falling rhythmically with the breath of sleep. Boromir felt a pang of guilt at the sight of her peaceful slumber,
but his hunger was too great to be swayed by the voice of his conscience.
He crept closer, the floorboards groaning softly under his weight, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.
As he reached the bedside, he allowed his gaze to roam over her slender form, the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts beneath the fabric of her nightgown.
His breath grew ragged with desire, and he knew that he could not hold back any longer. With a swift movement, he pulled the covers away, exposing her to the chilly air.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with shock and fear.
"Boromir?" she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper.
He placed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "Shh," he murmured, his voice low and thick with lust. "I've come to claim what is rightfully mine."
Arwen's eyes searched his, desperately seeking an ounce of mercy or sanity in the storm that raged there. But she found only determination, a hunger that sent a shiver down her spine.
She knew that she could not fight him; she was no match for the strength that pulsed through his muscular frame. Instead, she tried to reason with him, her voice trembling.
"This is not the way. Please, leave me be."
Ignoring her pleas, Boromir leaned in, his breath hot on her neck as he began to undo the delicate buttons of her nightgown. The fabric fell away, revealing the soft mounds of her breasts, the rosy peaks of her nipples standing at attention from the chill.
Arwen felt a rush of vulnerability, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to shrink away from him. But his hand was like an iron vise, pinning her down as he feasted his eyes upon her nakedness.
With a rough hand, he cupped one of her breasts, his thumb brushing over her nipple, eliciting a gasp from her lips. His other hand found its way to her thigh, inching higher and higher until it rested between her legs.
He felt the wetness that had gathered there, a silent testament to the effect he had on her, even in fear.
He smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. "You want this as much as I do," he growled, his voice a dark promise in the quiet room.
Arwen's eyes filled with tears as she felt the first probing touch of his fingers. Her body betrayed her, responding despite her horror and revulsion.
Boromir took it as an invitation, his hand becoming more insistent as he spread her legs wider. His thumb circled her clit, and she bit back a moan, the sensation both terrifying and exhilarating.
She knew she could not fight him physically, but she could refuse to give him the satisfaction of her pleasure.
He leaned over her, his weight pressing her into the bed, and claimed her mouth in a brutal kiss, his tongue forcing its way past her teeth.
The taste of him was alien and unwelcome, but she found herself responding, her own tongue moving against his in a silent protest that turned into something else.
Her body was a traitor to her mind, arching towards him even as she wished to push him away.
Boromir took this as the signal he needed and tugged at her nightgown until it was pooled around her waist. He pulled away from the kiss and took in the sight of her, his eyes devouring every inch of her trembling flesh.
His hand moved to the apex of her thighs, and she felt the roughness of his calloused skin against her slick folds. Despite herself, she was wet with fear and anticipation, her body readying itself for the violation.
With a grunt, he tore away the fabric that barred his entry, exposing her fully to the cold night air. The candles cast a flickering light over them, painting their bodies in stark contrasts of shadow and light.
He positioned himself between her legs, his own desire evident in the thick, heavy length of his manhood that jerked with each ragged breath he took.
Arwen felt a tear slip down her cheek as she stared up at the man who was about to take from her something she had hoped to give willingly to another.
He didn't bother with gentleness or sweet words, driven by his own primal need. He pushed into her, the pain tearing through her like a white-hot blade.
She screamed, her nails digging into the soft fur beneath her. The sound was muffled, lost in the thick silence of the chamber, but Boromir reveled in it, his eyes gleaming with triumph. He felt her tightness clench around him, the sweet resistance of her maidenhood giving way to his brutal claiming.
The pain was unbearable, yet it seemed to fuel his passion. He pounded into her with a ferocity that made the bed shake, the headboard thudding against the wall in a rhythm that echoed through the halls of Rivendell.
Arwen's eyes squeezed shut, her body rigid with agony, her mind a tumult of fear and disbelief. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not her first time, not with him.
Her silent sobs grew louder with each thrust, her body writhing beneath his, trying to find a way to escape the pain, the humiliation. Yet, amidst the horror, she felt odd. Her muscles tightening around his intrusion, betraying the pleasure that began to bloom within her. Boromir noticed, his grin widening, his strokes becoming more forceful, more demanding.
He whispered vile words into her ear, his hot breath a taunt against her skin, as he claimed her in the most intimate of ways.
The room spun around her, a blur of shadows and candlelight, as she felt him fill her completely, stretching her beyond what she thought she could endure.
Each stroke was a battle, a war between her will to resist and the undeniable physical need that his rough handling stirred within her. She hated him for it, for reducing her to this trembling mess of pleasure and pain, for taking from her what she had hoped to give freely.
And then, in a desperate bid to find solace amidst the horror, her thoughts turned to Aragorn. His gentle touch, his kind eyes, his love for her that burned with the purity of a star. It was his name she whispered, his image that filled her mind as she felt the first wave of unwanted pleasure crash over her.
Her body tightened around Boromir, her inner walls clenching as she imagined it was Aragorn's cock that filled her instead.
The human warrior grunted in response, mistaking her involuntary reaction for passion. He quickened his pace, driving into her with a ferocity that made stars dance before her closed eyes.
Arwen's thoughts raced, her mind trying to escape the reality of her violation. She focused on the love she knew was waiting for her, the promise of a future where she was cherished and desired, not taken and used.
Boromir's hand reached up to grasp her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Say my name," he demanded, his eyes blazing with a need to dominate. Arwen's jaw clenched.
Through gritted teeth, she whispered, "Aragorn," her voice a soft rebellion against the horror that was unfolding. His eyes narrowed in anger, and with a snarl, he rolled her onto stomach, pushing her face into pillow.
The change in position only intensified the sensations, the roughness of the fabric against her skin heightening the feeling of her body being invaded.
His hips slammed into her, the slap of flesh on flesh a grim counterpoint to the tender whispers of their names that she sent to the wind. Arwen's cries grew muffled, lost in the softness of the fur as she tried to hold onto the shreds of her dignity.
Boromir's grip on her hips was unyielding, his fingers digging into her flesh as he drove into her from behind.
Her buttocks quivered and bounced with every thrust, a visual testament to his brutal claiming of her body. The pain was a living entity now, a beast that clawed at her insides, demanding to be acknowledged.
Yet, she found a strange comfort in the solidity of the bed beneath her, the scent of the fur in the pillow she clutched. It grounded her, reminded her that she was still here, still alive, still fighting.
As he pounded into her, Boromir reached around, his hands claiming her breasts with a possessiveness that sent a fresh wave of revulsion through her.
His thumbs flicked at her nipples, a rough caress that sent sparks of pain-laced pleasure shooting through her body. The sensation was unwelcome, a traitorous response to the horror she was enduring.
She tried to ignore it, to focus on the love she felt for Aragorn, to keep her thoughts pure. But the heat of his palms, the strength of his grip, was a constant reminder of the man who currently owned her body.
The room was a cocoon of darkness and pain, the only light the flickering candles that painted the scene in a macabre dance of shadow.
Arwen felt like a ragdoll in Boromir's hands, manipulated and used for his own pleasure. Yet, she found a strange comfort in the predictability of his movements, the rhythm of his thrusts.
It was something to cling to, a pattern that allowed her to retreat into her own thoughts, to imagine a different life where this was not her fate.
Suddenly, the dam of her composure broke. With a strangled cry, she arched her back and screamed into the pillow, her body convulsing around Boromir's cock. The sound was muffled but no less potent, a silent scream of rage and despair that resonated through the chamber.
Her muscles tightened around him, a desperate bid for control in a world that had been stolen from her.
Boromir took the sound as a sign of passion and grunted in response, his strokes growing even more powerful.
The candles cast a frenetic pattern of light and shadow across the walls, their flames dancing in time with the violent motion of their bodies. Arwen's screams grew louder, filling the space, a symphony of agony that seemed to echo through the very stones of Rivendell.
Boromir's breath grew ragged, his grip on her hips tightening until it was almost painful. "You're mine," he grunted, his voice thick with desire and possession. "Mine to take, mine to use." His words were like acid in her ears, a reminder of the power he held over her in this moment.
Her body shuddered out as a second orgasm crashed over her, her muscles clenching around him in a silent scream.
Boromir's movements grew erratic, his own heated release now approaching with the same ferocity that had claimed her. He pulled out of her pussy, his seed spilling onto the fur-covered bed.
The sight of his pleasure was too much for Arwen to bear. His face was a mask of ecstasy, his eyes rolled back in his head as Boromir roared out his climax.
The sound was almost animalistic, a grunt that seemed to echo through the chamber. It was the sound of a beast claiming its prey, and it filled her with a deep sense of shame. Her cheeks burned with it, a blush of humiliation that painted her face crimson.
Boromir held his spent cock in hand, still thick, oozing in cum and engorged, a testament to the monstrous passion he had wrung from her unwilling body. He scooted quick!
Boromir reached for her, pulling her up to face him, his eyes hard and demanding. "Now, you must clean me," he ordered, his voice still thick with lust. He pushed his cock towards her face, the tip resting against her closed lips.
Arwen's stomach churned, but she knew better than to refuse. With trembling hands, she took him in her mouth, her tongue moving tentatively as she tried to clean him off. The taste of herself on him was bitter, a reminder of the violation she had just endured. She swallowed sperm.
Boromir watched her with a mix of great satisfaction and contempt, his eyes never leaving hers. He stroked her fine black hair as she worked, his grip tight and all possessive.
When he was clean, he pulled her away from him, his hand leaving a trail of coldness on her cheek. He stood, pulling on his pants with hasty, jerky movements.
"I must go," he murmured, his voice low and urgent.
"Before Aragorn returns and finds us here." The mention of Aragorn's name was a knife twisting in her heart. He knew, he had to have known, that this was a betrayal not just of her body, but of her love.
Arwen remained on the bed, her nightgown still tangled around her waist, her legs shaking with the aftermath of both pain and pleasure.
Boromir's eyes raked over her one last time before he turned and left, the door closing with a soft click that seemed to echo through the chamber. The candles flickered, the only witnesses to the dark deed that had been done here.
In the quiet of the night, the sounds of their encounter still echoed in Arwen's ears. She could feel the sticky warmth of Boromir's seed on her thighs, a disgusting reminder of the violation she had just endured.
Her body was a battleground of pain and unwanted pleasure, and she felt soiled, used. Her eyes searched the room, desperate for something to ground her, to remind her that she was still herself.
Her hand found the soft fur of the pillow she had clutched so tightly, and she brought it to her face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of her own arousal and the faint metallic tang of blood filled her nose, a stark contrast to the sweet scent of the herbs that had filled the room earlier.
Her stomach lurched, and she felt the bile rise in her throat. Gently, she pushed herself off the bed, her legs wobbly with the aftershocks of her two forced climaxes.
Her eyes fell upon the candles, their flames flickering in the silence, and she felt a strange urge to extinguish them. As if by doing so, she could somehow erase the evidence of what had happened here.
With trembling hands, she reached for the nearest one, the heat of the wax searing her fingertips as she snuffed it out.