Lord of the Rings
It was a feeling unlike anything he’d experienced before, a lessening of his troubles and a freeing of his inhibitions. It wasn’t that he forgot his responsibilities, just that they seemed far less important than the warm mouths – and yes, there was definitely more than one mouth – suckling his neck, his nipples, his cock; than the bodies – again, it was surely more than one body – thrusting into him, fucking him in every position until he felt boneless and yet so triumphant that he climbed to the uppermost platform in their tree and bellowed out what he thought everyone should know.
*****
When Boromir awoke the next (unnecessarily bright) morning, his tongue felt like it’d been scraped with sandpaper. (He ignored the the hobbits’ stubbled chins and their resemblance to sandpaper.) Strider, he was pleased to note, looked just as rough. “It was the mead,” he muttered darkly.
A serene voice interrupted them. “I’m afraid it was the pods of the Mallorn trees. Their pollen has an… acute effect on men and hobbits. I am deeply sorry.
“However,” Galadriel paused, smiling slyly, “I understand that a tragedy has befallen Gondor. Please share with me, Boromir, what has happened to your pants?”