FLASHBACK Faramir is indeed no virgin. He recalls the (sordid) incestuous sex he experienced at a very young age.
Chapter 8: Memories of a darker time
this page added by Liz (elisabeth_larsen2@yahoo.com)
*Flashback to when Faramir was fifteen*
Warning: Incest, rape, erm, discretion advised. R.
A/N: yes, I know it’s incredibly long. Apologies.
It had been a strange day, for Denethor’s silence was not something that Faramir was used to. He and his sparring partner had been training with swords all morning and the Steward had come to watch his youngest son. This in itself was not unusual, since Faramir’s father put immense pressure on his youngest to succeed in his swordsmanship. Something Faramir was apparently not doing to his father’s satisfaction, which prompted Lord Denethor to give him some added ‘incentive’ to do better by supervising personally.
The change from Denethor’s usual disparaging comments was a welcome one for the young man, but he could not help but notice that his father had not stopped staring at him for the past hour. He looked down at his bare chest, and then to his sparring partner who was still resting after a long bout. Nothing was out of the ordinary, yet it was still odd.
“Are you ready for another round, Faramir?” Anborn asked him from the other side of the sparring circle. Faramir nodded and went to get ready before a cold voice stopped him in his tracks.
“No Master Anborn, I believe that will be enough for today. Faramir get your things, and wait in my chambers.”
Turning around, he stared at his father who was now standing and collecting his things. Thoughts of disappointment and future punishment raced through his mind before he nodded shrugged into his shirt and scrambled to follow his father. “Thank you for assisting me with my lessons today, Master Anborn.” Faramir stammered out before his sparring partner nodded and turned away.
Faramir climbed up the staircase, and then softly rapped on his father’s door. An abrupt ‘come in’ was his answer and he slowly opened the door. His father stared back at him from across the room.
“Sir?” Faramir asked hesitantly. Surely his swordsmanship wasn’t so bad that he was to be punished physically. Anborn had told him that he was improving, albeit slowly.
Denethor did not respond and continued staring at him, which raised the hair on the back of his son’s neck. This was new; and new things were never good when paired with his father.
“Take off your shirt, Faramir.” Denethor said softly, no expression on his face.
Faramir stared for a moment, almost not comprehending what his father said. “My shirt, sir?”
Denethor’s eyes narrowed slightly but enough that one as attuned to the Steward as Faramir was aware of it. He quickly removed his shirt and folded it; kneeling to place it on the floor.
“Stay where you are, Faramir.” Denethor demanded quietly.
Faramir, now certain that something was very wrong, stayed kneeling on the floor. He slowly put the shirt down and clenched his hands, waiting for his father’s next order.
There was none; nothing but Faramir’s soft breathing and the soft whishing sound of his father’s cloak brushing against the floor as Denethor walked over to him. His father stopped directly behind him, and the young man dared not turn his head. Whatever punishment was about to occur, was severe enough that any disrespect would increase it.
A touch; or at least Faramir thought it to be a touch, of his father’s hand on his hair. He bit back a question and sat still, waiting for the wrench of his head back or a shove forward.
The hand moved downwards to his neck where it rested for several moments before squeezing hard enough that Faramir almost cried out in pain. Then he felt his father’s hands cup his shoulders, before one of them rose upwards to trace the skin of the back of his neck.
Faramir reacted almost instinctually and began to raise his hand before it was swiftly pinned to the floor by a booted foot. “I did not tell you to move, boy.” His father said coldly. There was no passion in his voice, merely a soft, distant tone that spoke of detachment. Yet the pressure put on his hand was not comfortable, and it was only when Faramir nodded his understanding that the boot was removed.
“From now on keep your arms straight, your hands flat on the floor. Is that clear?” Denethor snapped, pulling his son’s head back by the hand wrapped in Faramir’s hair. “Is it, Faramir?”
Nodding was difficult, but somehow the young man managed it. His hair was released and Faramir bent his head to alleviate some of the residual pain. He no longer had any idea what was going on, and he was very confused. Whatever his father wanted from him, he wished that the Steward would just take it and let him be.
“Close your eyes.” Was his father’s next request, and as Faramir obeyed his world was now consigned to darkness and a pair of hands on his body.
The hands were taken off and the young man on the floor sensed movement that ceased right in front of him. His father’s hands returned, tilting his chin upwards. “Do not move unless I tell you to.” Faramir heard, before his mouth was covered with another’s mouth.
Faramir’s eyes snapped open but seeing his father’s gaze so close to his own they closed again by their own volition. His father’s mouth on his. Their lips were touching, his head held still by a pair of hands. Darkness; he couldn’t see, could only feel and was bound by his father’s commands not to move.
Faramir sucked air in through his nose, and tried to separate the many sensations, but there were so many to count. The smell of his father’s cologne made him feel light-headed and for a moment the young man felt a desperate need to lie down. A soft sound came unbidden from his throat as he felt his father’s tongue inside his mouth.
Faramir had been kissed before. Had stolen kisses from serving maids and when he was fourteen he had tested the waters of manhood with his brother, who had been tolerant of Faramir practicing on him. But those kisses were chaste, or in Boromir’s case just a lazy exploratory gesture on his part. These kisses now were nothing but a gesture of complete possession. No part of Faramir’s mouth went untasted, no part of his face untouched by his father’s hands.
“Good boy,” Denethor whispered into his ear. The kiss had left Faramir panting for air, and very dizzy. His stomach was hurting now, and he wished he was back in his room with Boromir who would let Faramir rest his head on the elder brother’s lap and rest.
“Stretch your legs out, Faramir.” His father whispered, and the young man felt a tug on his right food. “Keep your hands on the floor. Don’t make a fuss.”
Faramir was beyond being able to make a fuss; he felt very sluggish and disconnected from his body. Obeying his father, he pushed his legs out behind him and arched his back. His shoulders would ache tomorrow, he thought distantly to himself. His eyes still shut, he held that position silently.
His father’s hands made themselves known by stroking his hips, a feeling which made Faramir even fuzzier headed. He wasn’t sure why it was so hard to think now, but he had a reasonable idea of where this was going. A small voice in his mind was screaming at him to get up and run out the door but his father’s firm voice and hard orders overruled it. There were no contradicting orders from the Steward of Gondor.
Faramir felt his body manipulated slightly until it was apparently where his father liked it. “Raise your hips, boy.” The man whispered into his son’s ear and slowly, almost imperceptibly Faramir’s hips began to rise. It was difficult in the present position, so Faramir leaned forward and rested his forearms on the carpet.
He could not stop himself from crying out when he felt his breeches being drawn off and a wet finger entering him. A sharp slap to his buttocks silenced him, but it seemed now Faramir couldn’t breathe and started gasping for air. “Shhh Faramir.” His father said behind him, yet the young man couldn’t stop himself. He struggled and a sigh was heard before three sharp slaps to his ass cracked through the silence of the room.
“And you were doing so well until now,” The Steward mused, as Faramir pressed his forehead to the carpet to drive out the pain in his abdomen. His stomach roiled and he felt so light-headed that he was afraid he might faint. “Be a good son and obey your father, Faramir. Don’t move, do not make a fuss. Is that understood?”
A whimper from the young man beneath Denethor, and then Faramir made a small nod. Obedience; he was very good at that. He would be a good and loyal son to his father. But… “Hurts,” Faramir whispered.
There was a gentle kiss on the back of his neck as a response, and the simple concept of his father being gentle to him made Faramir lie still.
He lay still as his father licked at his opening, using tongue and fingers to open up the virgin tightness, and also lay still when his thighs were nudged further apart.
Faramir felt the burning, the way his body was rubbed against the carpet with each of his father’s thrusts. The tight pinch of teeth against the back of his neck and the slippery wetness on his thighs. “You’re such a good boy when you want to be, Faramir.” He heard, as he watched his father dress through a curtain of hair.
It was only later, after he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling that his mind started to accept what had happened; and what would begin to happen each time he was back from patrol or when Boromir left for his turn in the army.
- End Flashback.*
Theodred was finishing now, Faramir could tell by the speed and rhythm of the thrusts. The Steward’s son blinked, back in the present and breathed deeply.
“You were wonderful, Faramir.” Theodred said before smiling and licking his neck.
“Get off of me,” Faramir whispered.
Theodred frowned and sat back. “What?”
Faramir didn’t waste time and just threw the naked prince of Rohan off of him before staggering away to vomit in the bushes.
What happens next?