Pottymouth: 6. 6

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6. 6



Well, that’s just fucking great. Just what I bloody needed, some spotty-faced, fat-arsed, post-adolescent manky minger checking out my ronson. I could, I suppose, jump up to shut the door, but then the said spotty-faced et cetera et cetera would be checking out my plonker instead.

Not a viable alternative.

Éowyn’s pulled part of the duvet over us in an attempt to cover up the detritus of our fucklesticks, though really the only part of her not covered by yours fucking truly is the side of her torso; it’s my back and bum that’ll get the attention here, from what I can hear from the foyer – squeaky, oh-my-god voices that’ll bloody well shark my starkers arse the moment they see it legged over the landlady here.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.


Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Here comes Dorcas and her giggly, tee-hee mob about to crash my private party. Figures they’d come in after I’ve fucked a delectable piece of ass like Legolas and not some balding, paunchy accountant like Harry, who they’ve been hooking me up with for months. Like I couldn’t do any better than Harry Head-Up-His-Ass McMonahan, with his comb-over and starched Ralph Lauren shirts. Insulting, really, considering I’m over ten millennia old and at one time had half the Babylonian Empire lusting after me.

Shit, shit, shit.

I can feel him clench, tense and ready to fly off at the slightest movement; how many times did I see him like this, eyes dilated black, muscles bunched, fingers compressed, right before he leapt from wherever he happened to be sitting, arms outstretched, hands wrapped around cold sharp steel, eyes hard and present; faster than I could mark him he would be upon an enemy, and in an instant whoever happened to be threatening us – an australopithecine, a Roman centurion, a rogue bandit – would be goggle-eyed, twitching, sporting a glistening red bib beneath a gaping slit in his throat. Gimli would always fuss at him: “Couldn’t you leave me even one foe to slay, Legolas?” – and he would twist his long lean body, eyes gleaming ferally, hands drenched in blood: “No, good Gimli! You know I am ever selfish.” And Aragorn would laugh as Legolas wiped the blood upon the clothes of the aggressor, callous, jaded to death. It was that very reaction that spurred Faramir’s rejection of the whole lot of them. “We are above that,” he’d tell me. “We do not care for such cavalier acts of antagonism. We have progressed beyond that.” But have we? Here we are, ten thousand years and more beyond that day I first saw Legolas slit someone’s throat, and I’m ready to cheer him on as he tackles my roommate’s repulsive friends before they ogle his manhood. Hell, I’m perfectly prepared to admit I’d like to see him hold a blade to my ex’s throat – not to kill him, mind – not that he could anyway – just to see his eyes bug out, maybe let him wet himself. Yeah, that’d be pretty satisfying.


Hold hard, hold hard, Leggsie, not a matter of fucking life and death, just a flat mate, just the rent-girl. You’re not even holding a bloody knife. Not that you need it, mind.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What a cock-up. Nothing makes knobbing look quite so bloody base as a walk-in. At least we’re not getting off at Clapham Junction; I’d be even more brassed than I already am.

Brassed? More like fucking embarrassed. Not so much for me – I’m only some grotty oik, after all – but for Éowyn. Probably been looked up to as some oofy flash, and now I make her seem a right slag.



“Dorcas!” I call, hoping to forestall the horror. “Wait – don’t come in – “

Too late. Shit. She and her dingie friend Cyndi-With-An-I sweep in the doorway, painted faces frozen into expressions of horrified astonishment. That in itself is kind of insulting. I mean, I know I’m no twenty-year-old party girl, but I’m hardly embalmed and buried YET. And after about a half second I realize their eyes are fixed on MY OWN PROPERTY, namely Legolas’ Elven Ass, which is curving tantalizingly over my body into the cusp of my thighs.

MY ass. NOT theirs, dammit.


Fucking hell, they’re checking out my arse.


“Winnie – “ Dorcas doesn’t seem to be able to speak clearly; even my name has come out as a squeak – appropriate, really, considering its phonetics.

“D’yer mind?” demands Legolas. He sounds really irritated – not that I can really blame him under the circumstances – but what male wouldn’t want to have his ass scoped by a couple of twenty-somethings? This male, apparently, but then he shouldn’t be showcasing it in tight black leather, now, should he? “We’re tryin’ to have a moment here.”

“Sorry!” they squeal, and my door slams shut, making the whole house shake. Shit! If they’ve broken the door jamb again . . .

Oh, wait. I don’t have to care anymore.

Hey . . .



Bloody hell, is she LAUGHING?


I DON’T HAVE TO CARE! I DON’T HAVE TO CARE! Legolas and I can jump on the back of his motorcycle and ride off into the sunset for the next fifty thousand years and IT DOESN’T MATTER! Property taxes? So what! Propriety? Bull shit! Food and shelter? Big deal! This stupid pink house’s door jambs not being nailed in properly? Who cares! Not me! I have Elven Ass, baby! I’m FREE FREE FREE!!! I can jump on the bed and break the box spring if I want to! Swing from the massive ugly chandelier in the dining room! Walk all over the kitchen countertops! Paint the walls chartreuse! Run around the neighborhood buck-naked with my fingers up my nose singing Robin is to the Greenwood Gone! And it DOESN’T MATTER! Because in a hundred years they’ll all be dead and the house will be relegated to either a demolition team or the historical society and we’ll be somewhere – anywhere – else! And





She IS laughing. Fuckin’ A, what the hell happened?


I have this overwhelming urge to start singing, “Ding dong, the witch is dead.” I’ve officially lost it.


Well, I guess it wasn’t so bloody bad after all. At least Éowyn’s not brassed. Guess from her perspective it’s sort of a fucking accolade, especially from some young git’s standpoint. “The old divorcée gets a little,” you know.

“I’m sorry, Legolas, I’m so sorry,” she’s saying, still gasping with laughter. Oh hell, what the fuck do I care? It’s not like no one’s ever seen my bloody arse before. I start to laugh too. I can hear the two little mankers in the living room, still squealing and laughing and saying to each other, “Can you believe it? Can you believe it? Ohmygod we have to call Dawn!” Ah, fuck it; what does it bloody matter? Let ‘em bring over all their little fucking friends and watch me next time. Make ‘em see what they’ve been missing all their pathetic little lives. Make ‘em see Éowyn from a different point of view, anyway.

“Fuck,” I say, dropping my face into her shoulder. Damn damn damn she still smells so fucking good; I could just take a bite out of her right now. She’s shaking with laughter, her arms tight around me.

“At least they didn’t come in five minutes ago,” she adds, still giggling. This makes me smile.


Woah, now there’s a predatory look on his face. I sincerely hope I haven’t given him any kinky ideas or anything.

“You smell good, acushla,” he says suddenly, wriggling his hips into mine. Shit! Is he ever satisfied? But the grin he gives me says he’s only playing around. “But we should probably play good host, eh?”

I give an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, I suppose,” I say, rolling my eyes. He laughs again and sits up on his knees, looking down at me. He’s gorgeous, oh shit, he’s gorgeous; look at him in all his rumple-haired, flush-faced, six-pack-abbed, long-muscular-armed, brilliant-blue-eyed glory. Suddenly I don’t want him to get dressed. There’s something so decadent about him; he should be wearing nothing but a leather studded collar and a nipple ring.

Holy shit. Did I just think that? There’s a news bulletin for you: fucking Elves makes me kinky.

This is going to be very interesting.

He picks up his lollipop and puts it back into his mouth. Didn’t know he had such a sweet tooth. He rolls it around, tucking it in his cheek and grinning at me around the stick. “Shall we, acushla?” he says, and taking my hand pulls me upright.


Acushla, you have no fucking idea how hard it is not knobbing you again right NOW. Because I want to, oh bloody hell do I want to; want to pull you up on my lap and do you upright, your legs around my back, my hands on your arse. But oh fuck, my stomach just growled again; and oh fuck there are two soppy gits having the screaming abdabs in the lounge, and they’ll probably nobble the prawns if we don’t fucking do something NOW.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t still want to knob you again. So I back off the bed and pull you onto your feet.

She’s smiling, still giggling, grey eyes twinkling through that mop of golden curls. Oh my sainted aunt she’s lovely; that wide smiling mouth, perfectly oval cheeks flushed pink, pert little chin and long white throat like a column of marble . . .

Fuck, fuck, fuck, have I got it bad.


There he goes again, his eyes going all weird and cloudy. I swear they start glowing sometimes. It’d be freaky if I didn’t know how earthy and musky he really is. It’s hard being freaked out by something ethereal when you know the flip side is incredibly intense sex. Makes it all worthwhile, somehow.

And anyway, his creepy eye-glowy thing is just part of what he is. If I don’t accept it that means I don’t accept HIM, which is unthinkable. He’s as good as promised me he’ll be mine forever, and if he can accept me how I am – human, female, flawed, irrational – then I can certainly accept the marks of the Eldar on him.

Kind of a turn-on, really, that this perfect, eerie, other-worldy being wants to spend all eternity with me. That my humanity doesn’t bother him, that it might even excite him.


Oh fuck, why the fuck did those two bloody shites have to come home NOW? I want her I want her I bloody want her, I hate being polite at times like this but it wouldn’t be right to leave it so . . .

Off we go. Be nice, Legs. You’ve just given the little mankers a gobsmacking, now it’s time to bloody put things right.


I really, REALLY don’t want to bother with Dorcas and her giggling mob right now, but what choice do I have? Just because I’m immortal doesn’t give me the right to be rude. And it WOULD be kinda rude to let them walk in on us buck-naked, and just keep going at it while they’re in the house. She does pay rent, after all. What was it Gandalf said – our highest goal was to be peace, both on a global and an individual scale. He even got quoted: “As far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”* That includes Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I, unfortunately. AND their dorky boyfriends. Damn.

Where the hell are my panties?

Oh, shit. I think they’re still on the kitchen floor.


Knickers, knickers, where the fuck are her knickers? Oh bugger, left ‘em in the kitchen. And where are my trousers? Wasn’t I wearing them when we came in here? Oh fuck fuck fuck, that’s right, I forgot; I shed ‘em in the hallway. Shit.

Hm. Need a rug or something here, wrap it round my waist so I can go fetch ‘em. Though the thought of pulling those fucking stiff and tight leather trousers up my sticky plonker isn’t exactly endearing. Should’ve fetched my things from the fucking saddlebags, could’ve put on a pair of shorts or something.

Oh, well.

Hm. Don’t mind looking at that. Nice arse she’s got, my little acushla, white and round and pert sitting atop those long lovely legs. In fact I think I’ll just sit my damn ronson down right here right now and admire it for a bit.

Ah. She’s turned around. An even nicer view. Oh yes.


“You look smug.”

He smiles, the bastard; he’s not even PRETENDING to look at my face as he talks. “Just admirin’ the view, acushla,” he says innocently.

I give him a grimace and pull a pair of panties out of the drawer. Had to think a minute there – no tighty-whities for him; I’ll indulge with these really pretty blue ones, with all the straps on them. Now his eyes are on them, contemplative, speculative.


“Just watchin’. Go on, now.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting dressed too? Or are you going out there in the rude nude?”

He grins; his eyes sparkle seductively. “Wouldn’t the little fucks like that, then! No, need to get me trousers; they’re out in the hallway.”

“Oh!” I laugh. Just the thought of what Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I would say if he did . . . no, I’d better not think of it. But I can’t help grinning as I pull on my panties and adjust the satin straps.


Mmm. Nice. Love the way her tits swing when she bends over. And oh fuck how I love the sound of those straps snapping on her hips. Like to give the bloody little things a snap myself.

Woah. Down, boy! Where the fuck’s that rug? No need to let her see how excited I’m getting – fuck, I’m a pathetic little sod, aren’t I?

She’s rooting round in the drawer, picking out a brassiere. Now, there’s no real need for that, is there, mate? One of the most fucking erotic things I can think of right now is the swing and jiggle of those tits under a shirt.


White, tan, pink, white, white, pink . . . why did I buy these panties if I don’t have a bra to match?

Oh yeah – I couldn’t afford it. Thirty six damn dollars, geez louise, like I can just blow that kind of money. White, maybe . . .

Suddenly he standing beside me, his hands on mine. Bra straps tangle around our fingers and he tugs them away from me, shoves them back in the drawer. He’s still naked, and good grief, is he half-hard already? Elven stamina indeed!

“Don’t need that, acushla,” he says, his eyes glimmering. “Just a shirt. No need to hide what you have – too pretty for that.”

“So you want me bouncing all over the place with my nipples sticking out; is that it?” I ask archly. I can’t believe I’m saying this – I’m not usually so forward! – but I guess he brings out the worst in me.

Or best. Whatever.

Now his blue eyes are glowing again, that hot lusty flame that lights them up. And now his fingers are on my breasts, touching oh so lightly, stroking down to my nipples, making them harden. I can’t help it – I want to be dispassionate and get out of this bedroom but oh holy shit that feels good – and when he lightly pinches and rolls them –

Oh holy shit, oh dammit dammit dammit, how does he DO that


How I love watching those silver eyes glaze over


When did my eyes close? Oh damn here I go again, there’s that moan –

He’s swallowed it with his mouth, those soft tender lips over mine, sliding, pulling, oh so gentle and warm; but before we can deepen into something that qualifies for the Point of No Return (sexually speaking anyhow) he’s got my breasts cupped in his hands, feeling the weight of them against his palms and running his thumbs over my nipples.


Open your eyes, acushla. That’s right. I know what you like, oh yes indeed, but fuck it now I’ll show you what I like.

I whisper against her lips, she’s flicking her tongue out to touch mine. Oh bugger, we need to leave this bedroom before we fucking forget those two manky mingers in the lounge. “I want to watch them move under your shirt,” I say. Her tongue outlines my lower lip, her eyes close. Oh bugger, oh fuck, oh she tastes so good. “Sexy – very sexy.”

“Mmm?” She gives my mouth one last lick and smiles, those gorgeous eyes half closed. “Think it’s sexy for me to go around braless?”

“Fuck yeah,” I say, and kiss her again. Oh fuck my plonker’s up and at ‘em already and OH FUCKING HELL she just wrapped her hand around it and OH SHIT OH FUCK OH NO NO NO


Woah, THAT got his attention! He straightened up so fast I could hear his spine snap. Nice to know Elven vertebrae do that too. He drops his head back, eyes closed, lets out a little hiss behind his teeth. And his hands have tightened on my boobs – gotta love that, makes them so so so happy – I’ll just lean right on in here for another of those juicy yummy kisses he gives me and slide my hand down a little . . .


FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK stop it stop it stop it oh god oh god oh god


and up . . .




and down . . .




getting a nice little rhythm going here, aren’t we?


yes yes yes yes oh god oh god don’t stop don’t stop


This is very interesting; he’s actually pulsing up into my hand. I look down at it. That big fat mushroom-shaped head is popping in and out of the circle of my fist, and it’s got a drop of clear liquid pearling up at the tip. I run an experimental thumb over it and he lurches and gives a loud groan.


don't stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop


“Like that, don’t you?” I say. Oh shit, I’m PURRING! How did that noise manage to make its way up my throat?

“Oh fuck, Éowyn – “ His voice is all raspy and he’s panting, his eyebrows puckered over his closed eyes. Suddenly I feel powerful, knowledgeable. I know I can bring him off in record time. Up, down, up, down, up, down . . .


oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god


brush the tip with my thumb


FUCK oh holy shit oh fucking A oh fuck oh god


He’s hanging on to my boobs like they’re his lifeline or something; his body’s stiff and trembling, head thrown back, face screwed up into a grimace of what I know is absolute and undiluted pleasure. How nice to be able to give back a little – gives me that warm, selfless feeling of providing gratification for its own sake.

Oh, and the sense of power. That’s nice too.

I’m going pretty fast now; he’s got his pretty face stretched into a grimace, that long lean lovely body taut and quivering, the breath coming out of his mouth is loud and raspy and mingled with groans that I’m POSITIVE Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I can hear – but I don’t care; I’m getting my Elf off and that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

Up down up down up down up down up down


oh yes oh yes oh yes oh yes oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck


Hm, yes, seems to like that pretty well, judging from his reaction . . . getting close now, I can tell; his eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth stretched and contorted . . . breathing faster, more ragged and frayed –


it's too much too much oh god oh god oh god I can’t I can’t don’t don’t don’t


Let’s give those balls a little squeeze, shall we?




Whoa, bet they heard THAT!


oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck . . . oh, oh, oh, oh.


He sinks to his knees; I go down with him, still squeezing a little. He’s come all over my hand but I don’t care – it was worth it to hear that groan, to see his body spasm like that. His head’s dropped down onto my shoulder; his hands are gripping my ribcage like a drowning man holds onto a lifesaver. His breaths are tattered, hitching in his chest, which is heaving like mad.

I did this. I, Éowyn daughter of Éomund, did this to him. I did this to one of the Eldar, to a Sindarin Elf. I did this to the Prince of Mirkwood, to a heartbreakingly lovely creature, all white translucent skin and whipcord muscle and satiny platinum hair. I drove all thought out of his mind and turned his legs to water. And all I did was jerk him off.

Ah – power! I’d forgotten how good it felt. Yes yes yes. I could get to like this.


Wait – how’d I end up on my bloody knees?

Oh wait, oh fuck – oh, bugger, oh bloody hell. How did she DO that?

Open your eyes, you manky gobshite. Open open open. What’s that – blue panties – oh yeah – that’s what started it all, the damn sexy things. Oh shit, oh fuck, oh bugger.

She unwraps her hand, it’s all covered with spunk – better wipe that off – can’t fix tea with it all crusty – oh fuck, look at her, the little bit; she’s licking it off, oh fuck fuck fuck fuck, breathe breathe breathe . . .


Mmmm . . . Elven semen tastes like . . . like a sweet and salty and buttery pastry cream filling. Yum.

Look at him – mouth open, gasping for breath, eyes clouded and half closed, limbs still shaking. Gotta love that.


She’s smiling – shit-eating grin, that’s what it is. She knows. She knows what she just did to me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh my sainted aunt. Fuck.

I’m made of rubber, my bones have dissolved. I think my fucking brain’s dissolved too. Nothing in my head but jelly. I can’t do anything, not a fucking thing. Bloody hell. I’m staring at her, she’s smiling at me, no, grinning the little bit is grinning at me. She knows.

Oh hell. Did I get in deep.


“Better?” I ask brightly. I’m pumped, I’m not sure why. Was it because I just reduced him to the same gibbering, incoherent state I was in only ten minutes ago? He smiles, still panting, still trying to catch his breath.

“You – “ He shakes his head, trying to clear it I guess. His arms go around me and I’m dragged to the floor with him on top of me, hot sticky sweaty Elf limbs all around me.

There are worse things.

“You little cow,” he mutters into my hair. “Thought we were supposed to be gettin' dressed.”

“Not my fault you left your pants in the hallway,” I say. His hair smells good – warm, piney, sharp. Just for fun I run my fingers through it. The damp skin catches on the silky strands and pulls a little, enough to make him notice but not enough to hurt him.

“And where are your clothes, eh?” He draws back and smiles down at me. I can only smile back, my hands tangled in the long soft hair, his naked body on mine.

Then I remember. My panties and panty hose are still in the kitchen, and Dorcas and Cyndi –

“Shit!” I exclaim, and roll out from underneath him. Now he’s laughing, a rich tenor laugh that echoes around the house, fills up the corners and drives out my demons. Not only did I make him groan, I made him laugh.


Oh fuck, I need a cigarette.

Where the hell is my lolly?

And my trousers – fuck. Still in the hallway.

Oh well. They know what we were doing in here by now . . . though that’s the bloody quickest I’ve gotten my knob off in . . . hmm . . . let’s see now . . . Japan, Antarctica, China, let’s see . . .

Well, how interesting. To my recollection, and it’s pretty damn good, never. Hah. One up to my little acushla. Knew she was a good investment. Fuck.

She’s pulling on clothes, white tee shirt over her naked tits and blue jeans, faded and tattered and tight tight tight. Fucking A, you can practically see the lines of the straps on her knickers through them. Like those, yes indeed I do.

“I’ll throw your pants in,” she says, opens the door.

I look up at her, inverted, from my resting place on the floor. Fuck it, even upside-down she’s a bit of all right. My acushla. Mine.

“Take yer time,” I say, and I grin at her. She grins back. My acushla.

“No way I’m letting Dorcas get a load of that,” she says, pointing to my plonker. That just makes me laugh harder.

She’s jealous. I like that, mate.

*Romans 12:18 (St. Paul)

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Le Rouret

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: Other

Genre: Humor

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 09/30/04

Original Post: 04/19/04

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