Chapter 14
Title: The Price
Author: Anemone Frost
Email: Weepingwillow987@aol.com
Pairing: M/P; P/OC
Rating: R
Summary: 14/? Pippin arrives at Marroc’s home.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Warnings: Rape
Archive: Ask first.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Tolkien.
A/N: Sorry, but Merry won’t be making an appearance for a bit yet.
Pippin squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle. He was laying sideways in Marroc’s lap, and the older hobbit was snaking his hand under the cloak, fondling the lad until he grew hard. A weak whine came from Pippin as pleasure shot through his body. He attempted to swat Marroc’s hand away, but he was too tired and the older hobbit was far stronger. The other three hobbits were snickering cruelly at the sight of the growing bulge under the cloak. The lad was mortified. It seemed like Marroc was always molesting him.
“Why do you always do this to me?” Pippin wept, sniffling. “Why do you always have to humiliate me?”
“I’m sorry my jewel, but I can’t resist touching you,” Marroc murmured, leaning down to nuzzle Pippin’s cheek. “You make the sweetest noises as I pleasure you and you have the most beautiful face when you climax. I just can’t resist. You’re just—so beautiful— so breathtaking—I want to touch you and make you come every minute.” He tugged hard on the pulsing flesh, making Pippin hiss through clenched teeth. “You must want me. Why else would your body react to my caresses?”
“I don’t want you touching me,” Pippin whined. “I find no pleasure in this, only shame and disgust. I can’t help how my body reacts, and I most certainly do not want a wretched hobbit such as yourself. I only love one hobbit; Merry. All I will ever feel for you is hatred.”
Marroc frowned and released Pippin’s member, slipping his fingers under the young hobbit’s buttocks. “Well, whether you like it or not you are stuck with me for life. I’m never going to let you go.” His digit slipped into Pippin’s tight passage, causing Pippin to wince. He was still sore. “One day you will learn to love me; you have no choice. Why keep such foolish love for a hobbit who is dead? Forget about him. He was worthless. I can give you so much more: love, wealth, whatever your heart desires. All can be yours if you would just submit to me. I can make you so happy, Pippin.”
“What I want—you can’t give me,” Pippin whimpered, sobs rising in his chest.
“Yes, I can,” Marroc eagerly answered. “Tell me, what do you desire? What can I give you?”
“You can’t raise the dead,” Pippin growled, “and I doubt you would give me my freedom.”
Marroc remained silent and griped the reins hard in his hand while a frown emerged on his lips.
Pippin’s eyes squeezed shut as tears trickled down. Before he had been submissive with Marroc, ready to give in to his will but anger had now swelled in him. He spat at Marroc’s face. “Never. I will never love you, and I will never submit to you no matter what you may do to me. I despise you.”
Marroc’s eyebrow cocked and a sly grin formed as he wiped the saliva from his face and lapped it off his hand. “Is that a challenge sweet one? I may just have to take you up on that.”
The young hobbit shivered in revulsion and unwanted bliss as Marroc’s finger brushed over his sweet spot. It wasn’t long before Pippin gave off a muffled groan as his seed spurted out, creating a noticeable stain on the cape. Marroc grinned sadistically and continued to pump his finger into Pippin’s entrance, adding another, waiting for the young hobbit to become aroused again.
An hour or so passed, and the small group of hobbits reached the hobbit hole. Marroc dismounted and carried Pippin through the door, yelling at the passing servants to hurry up with their tasks and ordering the three guards to return to their posts. He took Pippin into a new room, lavished with another four post bed, a dresser, a fireplace, and a private bathing area. Pippin could see a male servant scrambling in the room, running water into the tub and gathering soaps and oils.
Gently, he lowered Pippin to the bed and rummaged through the dresser, pulling out a plain white shirt, a waistcoat, and a pair of trousers, setting them on the bed near Pippin. The young hobbit gazed at them in awe.
“Where did you get those?” Pippin asked.
“Your father was kind enough to drop them off,” Marroc replied. “Your entire wardrobe is here. I expect you cleaned and dressed by six sharp. I’m having guests over tonight, and I want to present you to them. I also expect for you to be on your best behavior. Do not embarrass me Pippin, less you want a repeat of what happened this morning, only this time it will be performed in front of the guests.”
Pippin curtly nodded and watched as Marroc began to walk out the door. “You’re not going to lock me in?”
“There is no need for that,” Marroc answered. “I have guards and servants roaming the entire household day and night. If you tried to escape, you wouldn’t get very far. I’ll leave you time for a little peace. I’ll be back around six.”
The door clicked shut, and Pippin slumped on the bed, weeping bitterly. A soft, gentle hand touched his shoulder, making him give off a startled cry as he scrambled up the bed, clutching the cape tightly around his form. It was the servant who had been drawing the bath. He appeared no older than Pippin’s age, had light brown hair, chocolate eyes, and a pink scar running down his left cheek. He wore ragged brown trousers held up by suspenders and a blue shirt. The lad instantly backed away from Pippin, bowing his head.
“Forgive me, sir, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the lad muttered. “Master Marroc wishes for you to take a bath, and I am to aid you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking my own bath,” Pippin replied curtly, standing off the bed. He winced as sharp pain coursed through his rear. “Well, perhaps you can help me in, though I won’t take the cloak off until you leave the room.”
“As you wish, sir,” the lad replied, placing his hand on Pippin’s shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Pippin asked.
“James,” the lad answered.
“Mine is Pippin,” the young hobbit stated. “You may call me that instead of sir.”
Slowly, the lad eased Pippin into the tub by hauling him in by the arms. A shudder ran through Pippin’s body as the warm water touched his feet. He motioned for James to leave the room, and the servant did so, closing the wooden door. The young hobbit threw the cloak to the floor and sat in the water, his shoulders sagging forward as the tears returned. For a while he remained motionless in the tub, staring down blankly at the rippling water until his vision became blurry. The room echoed with sobs, and James reappeared, taking the washcloth and smothering it with soap. Pippin allowed the servant to bathe him. All his strength had been sapped for the moment. Once finished, James led Pippin back into the bedroom, dried his hair, and helped him get dress.
“It’s five hours until the party,” James sighed. “I suggest you get some sleep while you still can. You’re going to need all the strength you can get. Marroc and his chums can become quite rambunctious. See this scar?” Pippin nodded weakly. “I got it from Carl Bracegirdle. He’s a mean one. Be certain to keep clear of him. Just stay at Marroc’s side, and you’ll be fine. He’s very smitten with you. He protects the things he loves.”
Pippin snorted. “Thank you for the warning.”
James nodded and ventured out of the room to resume other household tasks. Sighing, Pippin settled on the plush bed, curling up into a ball. He couldn’t stop thinking about Merry and the expression on his face as the life was choked out of him. It made him feel sick to his stomach, and the young hobbit fell into a restless sleep.
To be continued.
Chapter 13
Chapter 15
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