Once again I was in my forge, marveling over my greatest work.
I had made the Silmarils in honor of my brothers, the light of the forbidden love we shared. It was a way to comfort myself with a tangible reminder of them through our necessarily long absences.
I was so pent up, missing them, that now just even looking at the Silmarils was getting me horny. I found myself running my thumb over them, like a caress... I could almost feel them throbbing in response, and it made my dick even harder.
Then one of them twinkled like it was winking at me.
"Holy shit," I said out loud, not able to believe what I was seeing. Was my mind playing tricks on me, or was one of the Silmarils coming onto me?
I was just about to put down my crown, thinking I'd had enough and maybe I should get out of the forge and get some air for awhile, when suddenly a voice came from the crown. "Hey, Fëanor."
I froze. OK, I was definitely hallucinating. Or was I? Now they were all glittering at me.
"Uh," was all I could say in response.
"Howdy, buckaroo," one of the Silmarils said. "You want us to help you relieve some of that tension?"
It was weirder than Manwë in a tutu, but I was too horny to care. I nodded enthusiastically and then the Silmarils rose up from their fittings on the crown and before I could ask how they did that, I felt myself being slammed down, bent over the anvil, my breeches yanked down to my ankles. The Silmarils floated over to my work bench, got the bottle of oil I use for quenching, and came back over.
After my asshole was all oiled up, the Silmarils began to push inside it, one by one. They were so thick, I felt ready to explode. Then they slid out. With each one sliding out of my hole, it rubbed against my prostate, teasing it. Teasing again as they pushed inside, one at a time, one, two, three strokes. In and out, in and out, pushing and pulling, slipping and sliding, rubbing so good, until I was rocking my hips, panting like a dog in heat.
"Fuck that ass! Pound that butt!" I cried out. "Give it to me!"
"Fuck yeah!" one of the Silmarils yelled. "Yeah, baby!" growled another. "Yippie ki-yay, buckaroo!" another hollered.
The Silmarils pounded me in the butt for what seemed like forever, harder and faster. I couldn't get enough, begging for more, gripping the edge of the anvil white-knuckled. As I got closer they began spinning as they plunged in and out of my hole, drilling that hole, the sensation so intense that I screamed. I'd never known pleasure like it. Finally, I came, shooting my load all over the anvil. The Silmarils made chiming noises like bells, I think they were coming also.
Spent, I staggered over to the workbench and flopped down, gasping for breath. The Silmarils floated to me and twined themselves in my hair and pet my face and chest. "That was fun, buckaroo," one of them said. "We'll have to do that again sometime."
"Fuck yeah," I said, smiling. Then I had a filthy idea. "Maybe next time my brothers come to visit, you can pound their butts too."
The Silmarils bounced up and down excitedly.
"I think I'm in love," I said, holding out my hands to scoop them up, pulling them close to my heart.