No poet sang of this

Faramir sniggered. Had he been a maid this would had been called a giggle but his dangly bits reclassified the sounds he was making as "manly chuckles". He laughed softly trying not bellow out guffaws of laughter. In the excitable gland stage of his youth he had sought out erotic literature to help along with his self pleasuring explorations. With all such erotica being in Quenya he mastered the language at three and ten years of age. Yet no poet had ever written of what had just befallen him.

Eowyn and he had slipped from the feast some two or three hours ago. And had been enjoying a "night of passion" from the moment they were back at their chambers. They had "sought out one another" – to use another term from aforementioned erotica. By now they had "found their release" twice. Naturally each had "momentarily lost all capacity for coherent thought" at different moments, as "reaching their peak at the same time" was as common as tax cuts. And barely a few minutes ago Eowyn, cheeks aflush from "having seen the stars" – not to mention sloshed from the two pitchers of mead she had chugged at the feast - had dragged him on top of her, spread herself, dug her heels in his buttocks and seductively rasped "do me!".

So at this precise moment he was "buried to the hilt" in his wife. But no poem had prepared him for what he was hearing from her. At this stage of their marriage Faramir had long buried all notions of Eowyn "screaming his name" when he "pushed her over the edge". He was more than happy to hear animalistic grunts and groans, or – on a good day - a muttered "oh fuck!". The grunting and moaning told him that "he was doing something right". Not that he ever screamed her name either. Her snoring initially startled him and then made him snigger.

He smooched Eowyn's lips and smiled – he could claim that he had "worn her out" and "left her limp and boneless". Her snores could be creatively passed on as "his ministrations made her gasp for air" he decided. Faramir quickly terminated the "plunging of her depths" as experiencing "the tight fit of her honeyed walls" of an unresponsive female was no fun, even less satisfying than the caress of "The Five Handmaidens". He slid out of her just as Eowyn's snores had escalated from "soft" to explosive snorts and gargles the likes of which he was accustomed to hear from rooting swine.

While gently rearranging her limbs "for his greater pleasure", in this case moving her limbs from "spread eagle" to "foetal" position as to be able to spoon up behind her, he heard a ripping sound from Eowyn's "secret womanly core". He warmly smiled again – fanny farts were never, ever mentioned in poems. Neither were "half open pearl pink lips" dribbling saliva over the pillows. Faramir reached out and gathered the spittle from the corner of Eowyn's mouth and wiped his finger clean against his chest. He snuggled behind her ignoring the discomfort of this being his time to lie in the wet patch – the puddle of "love juices" being yet another lovemaking related phenomena glossed over in the erotic poems of his youth. By morning the "leavenings of their passion", the mixture of his "dark seed" and Eowyn being "wet beyond reason" would be dry and cover his thigh with a stiff crust. Part of it would be dry and flake off on its own, or if he scratched at it, but he would have to soak and scrub off the rest, especially the still moist goo sticking to his leg and bum hair.

Faramir caressed the soft bulge of Eowyn's tummy and then delicately extracted a droopy breast from under her chest. Cupping said breast he nuzzled his impressive nose in her hair - "drinking in her scent" - and kissed her behind the ear. That made her jerk and emit a particularly impressive snort. He drew her soft warmth against his chest and drifted into sleep. His last thought was "the sunshine of my life" ...