Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 02

She was also keenly aware of the roiling tension in her loins at his no-doubt deliberate emphasis of the words "position" and "breeding." Against this she struggled, but her body had other ideas. The very notion of growing aroused in his presence was unthinkable, and yet....

Concentrate. You have to concentrate!

She felt unable to speak.

"You are beset by convention, and chafe against it every hour of every day. You wish to be like any other Rider, though you are of noble blood and bearing and you know your abilities surpass those of a simple horsemaster. You fear becoming someone's property, though you possess strength capable of dominating any companion. You rage at being ignored and dismissed because you're a woman, but it's your very womanhood that lights the path to your escape and eventual victory. Éowyn, the greatest warriors of history utilize their skills to conquer that which they desire. And yet...." He paused, gauging whether his moment had arrived. I think so. "And yet you hold your desires at bay, or release them alone in secrecy and shame." Her face is flushed. I'm so very close. "You must certainly understand that, should you ever wish to act on those desires, there's no man in the Mark or elsewhere who could resist."

Twinned points of hardness pressed into her sheltering arm. Her nipples were erect, extended far beyond their earlier rigidity. From her sex flowed a trickle of satiny excitement, and she could feel it pooling on the chair between her legs. Her breath quickened, and her body was aglow with perspiration. What's he doing to me? How can I possibly be reacting this way? He disgusts me. He's repellent. He cannot convince me of anything. He shouldn't be able to, nor should I even let him try. And yet....

"There is a key to your cage. You hold it in your hand...and elsewhere...though you may not realize that you do. But you don't yet know how to use it."

He paused again. Her protective arm slipped slightly downward, revealing just a bit more of the elegant curve of her breasts. He couldn't remember ever being harder. She was clearly boiling with desire she didn't understand, and every instinct demanded that he simply stride forward and take her. But it was too soon, and if he did he'd ruin everything. It wasn't enough to overwhelm her senses in a moment of weakness. He needed her to submit to him...not just physically, but emotionally. And then to teach her to crave that submission so much that she'd ignore her hatred and come to him of her own volition.

"I can help you to find and use that key. As I know the King's will, sometimes even before he does, I know the secret paths of many minds, and I know what lies hidden inside all hearts. Just as I know yours, Éowyn. Do I not? Have I not spoken of all that you desire, even that which you will not admit to yourself?"

She's almost there. Her arm dropped to her side, her hand clutching and clawing at a thigh as it gently rotated against the other. He knew what she was doing, even if she didn't yet realize it. The beautiful outline of her breast was very nearly in full view. If I move just the tiniest bit to my left, her nipple....

No. I dare not move. This is a delicate moment. If I force her now, too quickly, I'll retain no more than a shallow advance. I need to stake a deeper claim.

"You think you can't fight that which is imposed upon you. By the King, by your lineage, by tradition, and by your sex." The word seemed to roll through the air between them and then pass straight through her body, echoing from her head down to the center of her arousal. "But you can break free of your own cage. You can be everything you wish. You can take what you want. What you need. Who you need. To do this, all you must do is need yourself, Éowyn. Accept your desires. That's where your key lies. Submission to your desires is the key to unlocking your power."

She was panting now. Her eyes, though still fierce, were glazed and unfocused by the battle raging inside her. A battle that was nearly lost.

"Take hold of that power. Reach out and claim your desire. Give in to what you need. What you must have, right now. Touch it, Éowyn. You are the key. Touch it. Grasp it. Take it. Take it now!"

With a helpless cry, she bent nearly double, turning back to face the window. Her beauty was again obscured to his eyes, save the golden-white hair now sweat-matted against the arch of her back, but it didn't matter. He'd won this round. Now all that remained was to watch her lose.

Éowyn was wracked with uncontrollable lust. She was beyond caring if he saw her, beyond caring if he watched what she was about to do. She had to come. She had no other goal in the world, no other need. Her pussy was an ocean of arousal, her clit was on fire. With one hand she grasped her breast, squeezing it beyond her usual threshold of pleasure. Spreading her legs wide, she moved to plunge a finger into her wet depths. But even before she could, she quivered, gasped, and then crashed into a wrenching climax. It was the sharpest she'd ever experienced, so violent that she nearly slipped from the increasingly frictionless chair. Her body jerked and shuddered as liquid pumped from her undulating tunnel. She shrieked, wailed in a moment of ecstasy and agony melded, then trailed off into a soft moan.

She'd never even touched her sex.

Suddenly, she remembered his presence, and her eyes snapped open. Gríma was standing before her, silhouetted by bright light streaming through the open window. He wasn't close enough to touch her, yet she could feel him all the same. He no longer leered, nor even smiled. His expression was intense, radiating hunger and an unexpected vulnerability.

She couldn't move her limbs to cover herself. She knew she should, knew she in fact had to, but she lacked both the coordination and the will. Her body still trembled with aftershocks, and she panted, covered in sweat. He could, she was sure, see most of her revealed flesh, though the hand with which she'd intended to touch herself sheltered the swollen volcano between her legs. However, her snowy breasts were completely bared to his sight, stiff nipples and wrinkled areolæ darkened by the onrush of post-orgasmic blood. He greatly desired to reach out and see just how wet she actually was, though he could most certainly smell her musky scent and see that which, in her writhing, had dripped to the floor. In her eyes was the fear of a once-proud predator, cornered and trapped by a superior adversary, knowing that it had already lost the fight and wondering how, or when, the end would come.

If this is the path to my power, I don't feel it. Instead, she felt overwhelmed, humiliated, and more bewildered than ever, whence was born escalating shame. Everything is so much worse than it was. Where before he had only words, now he truly knows secrets I've revealed to no other. The weapons at his disposal only increase, while my dissolve away.

Gríma, for his part, no longer doubted his power. He felt it coursing through mind and tongue, driving the throbbing need in his cock. Éowyn looked spent, delirious, and frightened.

But now there was something else: resentment. The self-will he'd spent so much energy breaking down was slowly reasserting itself. I could attempt to arrest it, but I can't control her like a puppet. Not directly. Not yet. I don't have enough power in reserve, not when the majority of my efforts are, of necessity, directed at the King's ear. He knew the triumph of this moment was already passing away. No matter. There will be others.

"Éowyn, my love, never forget your key. And don't forget who first taught you how to use it."

Her breath slowed as she straightened by stages, adjusting her limbs to deny him further access to her flushed charms. His words retained power in their unwanted yet persistent correctness, but she was once again able to perceive the slithering coercion in them. Her disgust — with him, and most of all with herself — grew apace, but she pushed that aside. For now.

"Never call me that again, Gríma. You know nothing about me. You are no counselor. You are a trickster and a defiler of words. I don't know by what devilry you claim to see hearts and minds, but I see all too well how you manipulate both. From your mouth, thoughts emerge twisted and irreparably bent, finding their targets but accomplishing only evil. I hate them, though not as much as I hate you. 'Gríma' you are no longer. I've chosen a different name."

His eyebrows lifted with amusement, and a low red fire glowed within his inquisitive stare. "My dear Lady Éowyn, I'm flattered that you should wish to grant me a secret name for our time together. By what term of endearment shall I henceforth be known?"

Her eyes flashed and her fists gripped and clenched, in anger at him and his audacity, but in greater fury at herself for her inexplicable weakness. "Endearment? Nay! You are vile and far beneath me, you and your words naught but loathsome serpents writhing in the foulest mud. And so I dub thee Wormtongue."

His mouth twisted, but for only a moment, stretching into a leer as dangerous as she'd ever seen. Suddenly, she felt even more disturbed than in the immediate aftermath of her crushing orgasm.

"Éowyn...of that, I promise, you will soon be assured." With this he bowed, turned, and strode from the chamber, closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a quiet thump, abandoning her to sputtering indignation.

A tiny wisp of cloth, freed of the doorframe's clutches and finally at the whim of the currents, swirled in his wake, then settled to the floor. Sullied. Torn. Forgotten.