Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 03

This time he didn't resist the invitation. His right hand slid upward, fingers cradling her tender lips, and her mouth opened in a silent scream as his middle finger pressed directly between her swollen folds. A moan coalesced in her lungs as it continued its inward journey, retreating slightly and curling upward to press against her slick interior wall as it exited. Her moan blossomed a tangible, rising note, released as the one of the fingers of his left hand brushed against the hard bud of her clitoris. The moan became a cry. Again he pushed a finger into her hot core, at first mimicking the first's inward path, but this time it didn't retreat. Deep inside it pressed, paused...and then her cry broke into a wail as it started moving in and out.

Every inward plunge was accompanied by a confident stroke across her clit. She was so wet that only her virginal tightness kept his passage from being entirely frictionless, yet the sensations racing through her loins were far beyond anything she'd conjured by solo dalliances. To be touched by another, at long last, was an ecstasy beyond anything for which she could have hoped, and even as her mind reeled she wondered why she'd ever denied herself this pleasure. Climax was already imminent, yet through some skill or instinctive attunement with the hidden rhythms of her body he was able to draw out the moment, holding back her release.

Then he pressed a second finger inside her sex.

Thicker, longer, rougher, and so much more insistent than her own, she was impaled by and entirely under the command of his squelching fingers. The sheets beneath her were soaked, and as he gradually increased the pace, the wet slap of each passage was a delicious obscenity to her ears. Her hips bucked, her panting breaths gave way to a ragged cry, and as his lips and teeth grazed the side of her neck, she came.

Her pussy clamped so tightly around his fingers at their moment of deepest penetration that, for a moment, he couldn't move. Yet her hips thrust forward with every convulsive shock, driving them even deeper only to trap them once again. The cries wrenched from her throat echoed from the walls, for she was beyond caring if all Meduseld walked in to witness her throes.

Finally her convulsions slowed and her internal muscles released their death-grip on his fingers, which drew forth a river of liquid as they slipped from her drenched channel. She collapsed backward onto the bed, panting and twitching, legs still splayed wide, one hand idly clutching a breast reddened by the fierce grip of her own fingers. It no longer mattered where she was, nor why she was here, and the restoration of full consciousness seemed as remote and unwanted as her increasingly endangered virginity.

But he had other plans.

Hovering over her supine form, gently smoothing her tangled hair, caressing her flushed face, stroking her heaving chest, sliding his hands down her sides and the full length of her legs, he explored her unresisting body until she started to twitch and squirm. She hadn't felt him move from his position on the bed, but she was beyond questioning anything that was happening. She only knew that she yearned, and that she was not yet fully satisfied.

A wet finger pressed against her mouth, dripping with the liquid that continued to seep from her sex. The scent was unmistakable. Tantalizingly, outrageously, he drew it all around her lips, spreading the heady nectar and waiting to see what she'd do. Momentarily paralyzed between unwillingness and curiosity, her passionate delirium won the day and she grabbed his hand, bringing his finger to her outstretched tongue, lapping her cream from his probing digit and then salaciously licking the rest from her lips. She could scarcely believe her inexplicably wanton behavior, but the lust gaining purchase within her no longer cared.

His fingers trailed down her chest, teasing her swollen nipples, then pressed into her thighs, pushing them towards her head until her feet rested flat on the bed. Open and vulnerable, she felt his fingertip graze the protruding bud of her clitoris and nearly levitated from the bed, one leg involuntarily lashing out and grazing his shoulder. Grabbing her ankles, he pushed them back into position and then spread her legs even wider, displaying her dripping sex to his hungry gaze. Releasing his hold on her, he drove two fingers back into her sex, pumping her slowly and insistently for a few moments, then pulling free and spreading her nether lips apart. His breath teased her throbbing flesh while she writhed, uncertain of what she wanted, knowing only that she would submit to his whims until she was spent.

A delicate stroke along the edge of her engorged lips sent her spiraling back into ecstasy, and though she tried to restrain her convulsions she didn't quite succeed. The contact moved around her sex, more delicate than before, the formerly insistent abrasion now light, enticing, and seductive. Circling her entrance a second time, and then a third, he finally worked its way between her lips, spreading them and then pushing just inside her greedy sex. But rather than penetrating deeper, it retreated to circle yet again, then fluttered against her clit until she squealed.

Suddenly, amidst her abandon, she understood. It wasn't his finger that was touching and probing her. It was his tongue.

The mental image alone — she was too overwhelmed to open her eyes in witness — drew forth incoherent bursts of meaningless words interspersed with throaty yowls. As if energized by her reaction, his tongue gradually worked her into a frenzy; massaging her delicate folds, plunging deep inside her channel, drinking her ever-flowing wetness, and swirling around her overwhelmed clitoris. Every time he tongued her throbbing bud she exploded with an uncontrollable shriek of pleasure, and she could no longer tell if she was orgasming or simply being held on the precipice of unimaginable pleasure, only that her exhortations were coming with greater frequency.

She'd thought him masterful before, but his oral skill surpassed anything she'd ever imagined. His fingers were powerful instruments, but his tongue made her his instrument. She was ready to do anything he might ask — anything at all, no matter how unfamiliar or unwise — as long as she could keep experiencing this overwhelming pleasure.

Her arousal was akin to an agony, demolishing all limits or restraints, and yet it still climbed higher. Nothing existed in her world save the searing lust between her legs and his magical, dancing, inexorable tongue.

For magic it indeed seemed. His light, feathery strokes around the edges of her sex never ceased, and the aggressive vibration against the raw nerve endings of her clit kept increasing...but at the same time, the full thickness of his tongue relentlessly penetrated her yearning channel. Is he using his fingers again? No he's mauling my breasts at the same time. How is he achieving this? The probe in her cunt expanded, filling and stretching her flesh as it wormed its way ever deeper, pulsing and throbbing in sympathetic counterpoint to her contractions, sliding in and out in mimicry of the penetration she was not only sure was yet to come, but that she would welcome with open legs. Delirium overcame her, and she instinctively raised and lowered her hips, skewering her sex on his wiggling prod. The relentless vibration against her clitoris escalated, reducing her to wracking sobs of ecstasy, yet it still felt like more than one mouth was buried between her thighs. How can I be feeling so many things at the same time? Is it only because all of this is so new to me?

During one particularly aggressive thrust of her hips his hands left her aching chest and slipped underneath her, his fingers digging into her flexing ass. Lifted and spread even wider than before, her emissions flowed into the seam between her cheek while what felt like yet another extension of his impossibly agile tongue followed the liquid trail of her arousal. His assault on her cunt paused for a moment, and in the midst of this tense stillness his first delicate circuit of her most forbidden hole quickly consumed her attention. She wanted to believe this to be wrong, to be unpleasant and uncomfortable, to be against some fundamental las of nature...but dark, previously unimagined desires took control of her body, and she groaned with abandoned pleasure as his tongue probed her dark entrance. I can't want this. I don't want this. Do I? She searched deep inside her obliterated will, desperately trying to summon the words to object, but raw, animalistic need betrayed her.

And so, she gave in.

Her sex exploded with pent-up energy, spraying fluid everywhere, and she could just barely hear the decadent sound of him swallowing her emissions over her uncontrolled gasps. Her hips thrust and jerked as she came, nails clawing the bedding, as she again surrendered to lust.

But the tongue at her anus was a tease rather than an aggressor, and while it nestled time and time again against her rear passage, it didn't pass within. His hands left her buttocks — her wild convulsions made it impossible for him to continue to hold her aloft — and returned to her breasts, squeezing and pinching with an aggression from which she would have recoiled not long ago. The tongue inside her felt even larger, the tip probing and squirming at some remote, previously inaccessible depth. Her lower lips were splayed and stretched open by his mouth, her clit nestled in a cocoon of vibration from which it could not escape. Tugging sharply upward on her nipples, he stretched her breasts to the breaking point, well beyond her usual threshold of pain. And still she yelped in ecstasy, every sensation in her body coalescing as one.

Just as an eardrum-rending scream rushed from her lungs, he finally penetrated her ass. Smooth and shallow, but firm, his tongue explored past her tightly clenched ring. In an instant her long-building orgasm was transformed into a flailing, uncontrollable, violently primal explosion. Her legs clamped around his head, hands gripping his tousled hair, trying to keep him inside her everywhere and forever. She no longer cared who might hear, or why, or what they might see should they burst in. Incoherent screams filled the room, every one of them emanating from her. Again her body heaved into orgasm, this one so crushing that it dwarfed all others in her experience. Her breasts snapped free of his grip, his tongue was wrenched from her anus, her clitoris was released from bondage, and she convulsed and jerked with such violence that contact between them ended nearly everywhere, save the tongue that still lapped at her tender clit, savoring her delicious nectar while she rolled through at least a half-dozen aftershocks.

Spent at last, she sank into the bed. She couldn't remember ever feeling hotter, tangled in sheets drenched with her sweat (and more lascivious fluids), but alongside the still-electric tingle in her loins she felt a nagging doubt. How could I have enjoyed that last part? Not only was it impossibly filthy, but it shouldn't even have been possible. No one can do what I felt him doing. The physical impossibility slowly pulled her from her post-orgasmic haze, and puzzlement gradually brought her down from her sexual high.

And then, in a rush the illusion fell completely away and the reality of her situation crashed down upon her. I'm still in Wormtongue's room, I've made a mess of his bed, and I'm naked. This can't be! She needed to think quickly, for the last thing she wanted was a repeat of yesterday's inexplicable sexual disadvantage. But her legs remained tightly locked around Boromir's head, and his tongue was still wiggling against her sensitive folds.

Wait...Boromir...no, but he can't be here! Who...who...?

Flinging her legs open, she raised her sweat-slicked body from the bed....

...and looked into his eyes. Eyes heavily lidded and ripe with lust. Eyes swollen with triumph. Face was smeared with her juices. Lips bruised but smirking in victory.

"Wormtongue!"

He chuckled, wiping wet fingers across her suddenly clammy thigh. "I did promise you'd find it an apt name."

Shame, disgust, and anger flowed through her like a torrent. He again bent his head towards her sex, tongue extended.

Overcome with self-loathing and reeling with horror, she reared back and kicked with the full force of her fury. Caught entirely by surprise, Gríma practically flew through the air, crashing into a table piled with leather-bound volumes that now rained onto his prone body. One iron-cornered tome struck him in the temple, and after a moment's struggle he lost consciousness and crumpled onto the floor.

That he was still fully dressed only deepened her humiliation. Leaping from the bed in a desperate panic to be anywhere else, she yanked her skirt and tunic over her still-weak body, fastening them in the most haphazard of ways, for her only thought was of flight. Her clothes and weapons were piled on a nearby table. Did he ever really leave the room, or was that my imagination as well? She flung the former around her body as carelessly and quickly as possible. took up her weapons — still sheathed and apparently unmolested — and paused for a moment to study her tormentor. Is he dead? In the midst of her revulsion, she felt a dangerous urge to ensure that he was.

But as she stepped towards his his crumpled form, he groaned. She stopped, wisdom mastering her fevered emotions. This I cannot do. The consequences would be terrible. Waves of nausea hit her. I need to escape. Out the door she fled, practically sprinting to her rooms. If anyone she passed in the halls noted the sodden tangle of her hair, the unkempt fit of her clothing, or the wild but exhausted look in her eyes, they kept it to themselves.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

She slammed her door, locking and bolting it. Dropping her weapons, she collapsed to the floor like a beast suddenly pierced by a hail of arrows. Sobs wracked her body; terrible heaves that paralleled her convulsive orgasmic writhing only minutes ago.

What did he do to me? Again! How could I let him? Again!

Her teeth chattered with misery and anger.

Never again!