Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 05

The implications horrified her.

Eventually, she calmed her tears, searching for some sort of cold rationality to salve her trauma. Despite my fantasies, despite everything, he is my only actual sexual partner. She retched at the sickening thought. Surely the touch one knows surpasses the vibrancy of the touch that one imagines, no matter how unwanted. And what other actual experience of sex do I have, aside from masturbation? Whispers and rumors? Watching horses breed?

Still, it has to end. If I must somehow cling to the memory of his abhorrence to slake my needs, then I shall endure it until a better experience takes its place. But memory alone it shall be, and the sooner forgotten the better. Anything is better than letting him touch me again.

Though it was an incredibly upsetting thought, she knew that every hour that passed before she exposed his treachery increased the chance of him finding yet another way to molest her traitorous flesh. Maybe if I satisfy myself beyond the limits of response, he'll find it impossible to gain advantage by plying his foul tricks.

After all, through all her tangled anxieties, her fingers had never left her pussy, and despite her determination to resist him she was unable to resist herself. Still curled in a tight ball, gently weeping at her lack of self-control and her apparently unquenchable arousal, she started pumping her fingers in and out....

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

Gríma crept into her room via its secret door. He was fatigued, having ridden long and hard for a clandestine rendezvous with Saruman under the ancient eaves of Fangorn. How I hate that oppressive forest! He had new instructions, for pieces long-withheld were finally being set in motion. The endgame approached.

As for his personal concerns: though Saruman wore an increasingly sour and disapproving expression as Gríma described what he wanted, it was apparently possible. Or so the Wizard claimed, though Gríma suspected his evasive anger when pressed meant he didn't know how to achieve it by himself. Telling me that the Elves have that power does me no good unless he can locate one that still trusts him. That insufferable Witch in the Golden Wood certainly doesn't.

His fatigue dissipated in an instant as he breathed the heavily scented air of her chamber. It reeks of sex. Has she...has the harlot invited another man to...? No. It's impossible. She's unlikely to pursue someone on her own, and I've made sure any potential suitors fear the King's extreme displeasure should one of them dare approach her. I've systematically isolated her from family and the company of other men in preparation for this very moment.

Adjusting the shutter, he illuminated the room in pale moonlight. She was indeed alone, limbs akimbo atop crumpled sheets, her hair glowing silver-white under the moon's cold rays, the curve of her breasts cast in sharp relief between highlight and shadow. Between her thighs glistened a few lingering remnants of her earlier arousal, and more was evident on her fingers.

Ahhh, the slut's been horny! Dreaming of me, I hope.

He quickly stripped off his clothes, glanced at the items inside his satchel, then abruptly set it aside. I wager that neither restraint nor trickery will be necessary this night. It's time to take the risk.

With feather-light touches, he stroked her neck. Her arm. The soft curve of her breast (though he avoided her nipples, fearing to wake her before she was too engaged to resist). Her invitingly flawless buttocks, which deserved more dedicated attention than he'd thus far given them. Her muscular but elegant thighs. Her sinewy calves.

He roamed until he memorized, like a blind man, the shape of her exquisite body. Not that I haven't already dreamed about it on a near-daily basis. Though she sighed at certain touches, she didn't stir. Holding his breath, he exerted a gentle outward pressure on her leg. It resisted at first, yielding only in flesh (and little enough in that regard; virtually all her actual softness was restricted to her breasts), but finally parted from its companion and moved to the side, revealing her vulnerable center to his lusty gaze. Though she was still asleep, Éowyn instinctively rolled all the way onto her back, the leg he held to the side now flat against the bed. The residual evidence of her earlier self-pleasure was plain to see, her lips still swollen and shining with lubrication. It must have been quite a private session. Alas that I couldn't arrive earlier to witness it.

Carefully mounting the bed, he separated her thighs until she was completely open to him, then even more cautiously spread her labia with his thumbs. Her folds came apart with a wet smack, and he held himself rigidly still, looking for any sign of consciousness. But there was none.

Bending his head, he began tonguing her sex. Gentle, enticing licks...feather-light touches to her clitoris...back and forth, up and down, gently coaxing forth a slow-building arousal that wouldn't wake her until it was in full bloom. After a few minutes of effort he paused to admire the result: her lips had swollen and parted of their own accord, and the rounded bud of her clitoris stretched outward, seeking its own pleasure. He increased his pressure just a bit, knowing she'd wake sooner rather than later, but wanting her to be on the verge of climax when she did so.

Éowyn shifted, her breath coming in short staccato cadences, yet she still didn't wake.

The flower of her sex was as open as it was ever going to be, and he pushed his tongue through its folds; at first a shallow penetration, then deeper, and deeper still. While he explored the wellspring of her sweet nectar, his thumb gently circled her clit. With each plunge into her moist depths this became more difficult, and eventually he was forced to remove his hand as he sealed his lips around hers to savor the muskiness deep inside her cunt.

As his tongue increased the speed of its thrusts, occasionally pulling out to lap at her distended clitoris, his hands stealthily crept around her thighs and up to her breasts. He could feel the rapid pace of her breath beneath their swells, and her erect nipples cried out for contact. Lubricating two fingers with her juices, he gently stroked the hard buds, caressing and squeezing the flesh they crowned with the palms of his hands.

In, out, in. Stroke, caress, squeeze. Deeper, harder, faster. Gríma lost himself in his rhythm, in the sweet flavor of her passion, in the extremity of his lust. He was caught entirely by surprise when fiercely strong hands suddenly gripped the sides of his head. He tensed and froze, sure of imminent violence; Instead they crushed his face into her folds, urging him onward.

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

Éowyn didn't come to all at once. She'd been reveling in an extremely erotic dream encounter with a mysterious, virile stranger. His hair was long, his visage stern, his musculature expansively developed and scarred by a lifetime of battles. But her attention was compelled elsewhere, for he was prodigiously, frighteningly endowed. Any instinct to recoil at his size was quickly overwhelmed by her curiosity, whence was born an escalating, all-consuming desire. Tentatively, she reached for him, but instead he immobilized her wrist. "Wait...."

Sweeping up the grey, weather-beaten cloak that lay on the floor beside them, he flung it over a bright emerald gem, glittering in the candlelight.

"Now we can be alone."

She was consumed by fire, and it didn't occur to her to wonder what he meant. The details of their mutual seduction...the touches, the kisses, the caresses...faded together, indistinct. But as he knelt between her eagerly widening thighs and feasted on her cunt with his practiced and talented tongue, she marveled that she'd at last found someone with oral skills to match her hated adversary. As her excitement built upon itself, however, she found his technique increasingly and disturbingly familiar. And then, as she rose up through layers of sleep, the rich tapestry of her fantasy gave way to a cold nighttime reality.

Yet she was anything but cold. She was fatigued in body, mind, and heart, she was in the throes of a lust she could no longer deny, and she was too far gone to fight. I want this. Regret and recrimination can come later. She reached between her legs, finding Wormtongue's head and forcing him deeper into her throbbing sex, lifting her hips to meet and capture his thrusting tongue.

After a moment's hesitation at her eager acquiescence, he fulfilled her bluntly expressed wish. His manipulation of her nipples turned aggressive, his impalement of her succulent channel relentless. Mere moments later she climaxed, constellations of stars lighting up the night behind her tightly shut eyelids. She thrust and ground against him as he slowed his ministrations, hissing with the unbound force of her orgasm. And then she relaxed her hold on his head and pushed him away. First with her hands, and then...when they proved insufficient to counter his persistence...her legs. It wasn't a violent motion, nor even an angry one, but it brought a decisive end to their contact.

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

Gríma sat at the end of the bed, watching. Waiting. Éowyn's breath slowed. Perspiration glowed all over the breathtaking sculpture of her body. Her sex throbbed with every heartbeat. Her legs remained splayed wide in clear invitation. At length, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. There they remained, in silence, as the minutes stretched onward. But their inertia drifted past the limits of his tolerance, and his impatience grew. His erection, anticipatory and unsatisfied, showed no sign of abating.

Without a word, her hand drifted to her sex to massage her clitoris. Thinking it a sign he took his chance, slipping between her widely spread legs, positioning himself at her sodden entrance. Suddenly, he found his penis caught in her dangerously tight grip. Fully aware that she'd finally touched him without coercion, he prepared for his long-awaited conquest of her sex. But his first enthusiastic thrust drove his cock not into her wet core, but along her folds and up the curve of her belly. She'd rotated him upward the instant he moved.

"No. I've told you, over and over. No." It was a flat declaration, as unenthusiastically delivered as an order to complete some distasteful task. Her tone was one of utter indifference to whatever was to come, yet her legs were still open, he remained lodged between them, and she made no attempt to dislodge him.

At last he found his voice, though it was riven with more frustration than was his wont. "Lady Éowyn, there are precautions that...."

"No. I mean it. Never." She held his phallus tight against her body, no longer allowing him to move but still not casting him aside.

"You cause me to consider restraining you once again."

Mocking laughter suffused her response. "Ah, yes, the Great Wormtongue. Defiler of the pure, corrupter of virgins...as long as he can first bewitch or bind them."

"Éowyn..." he grated, threat in his tone. His cock throbbed in time with his accelerating heartbeat, but she didn't release him.

"What a majestic figure of masculinity is The Wormed Tongue of Rohan! He can bring you to the heights of passion, but only if he can imprison or blackmail you. He is truly a master of seduction."

Though an inability to withstand mockery was hardly an uncommon weakness, especially among men, it was decidedly one of his. Especially from her, right now. How dare she? No whore who writhes with pleasure under my tongue will speak to me this way without consequence! His rage bubbled over, and he seized and roughly flipped her onto her stomach, severing her grip on his rod. She squirmed away, though in his fury he failed to notice the halfheartedness of her effort. Angrily grabbing one wrist, then the other, he pinned them behind her back, straddled her legs, and dragged her into an uncomfortable position that left her head hanging over the side of the bed.

"Such a monument to virility! What woman could resist being thrown about and manhandled against her will?"

Imprisoning her wrists within one of his hands — still not registering how trivial it would be for her to escape his grip, should she wish to do so — he applied a stinging blow to her exposed buttocks with the other. Immediately, her porcelain white skin turned an angry red, outlined in the precise shape of an outstretched hand. Even in the midst of his fury he admired its vivid clarity. "When the time comes to commission my own heraldry, Lady Éowyn," he spat as he again slapped her upturned cheeks, "the Red Hand shall be my emblem. You shall gaze upon it and be forced to remember this moment forever."

She responded to his boastful monologue with more mockery. And so he spanked her again. And again. Harder, varying the strokes, gradually turning her magnificent ass into a mottled patchwork of angry red. She allowed him only the briefest of grunts after a particularly well-struck blow, but otherwise seemed unperturbed by her humiliation. He has no idea how much pain this body can take, she thought, and his pitiful strikes hardly qualify. Maybe I'll be fortunate and this will expend his feeble energies, so that I may avoid further molestation. But despite her determination, she neither struggled nor fled.

Her lack of response only added to his anger. "Have you learned your lesson yet? Will you submit to me?" he demanded between slaps, but she remained silent. In his continuing blindness, incognizant of the fact that she wasn't fighting him as she could, he rolled from the bed and stood in front of her, roughly yanking her head upward by a handful of her hair and presenting his rampaging cock.

"Suck me."

"I absolutely will not."

"Take it in your mouth!"

"No."

He pushed against her lips, but she held them tightly closed. He pinched her nose closed, once again intending to force her to breathe through her mouth, but having anticipated his gambit she stole a lung-filling inhalation just before he did so, then resolutely held her breath. He squeezed harder, prodding her lips with his leaking shaft, but she remained unmoved. In their battle to see who would yield first, it became clear that she was not going to precede him, even at the cost of consciousness.

This isn't working. He stepped back, leaving a translucent smear of his emissions trailing across her lips and chin.

The moment he released her, she drew several deep breaths and then used that air to mock him yet again. "Poor Wormtongue. No woman will willingly give you her tongue, for who would wish to endure your loathsome manhood?" Raising her head, she idly reached out and lifted his throbbing organ until it pointed straight at her.

What's she playing at now?

"Pitiful in size though it is."

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

For all the cruel condescension in her voice, she didn't feel anything approaching the confidence she was attempting to project. Though she longed to fight him off, even to beat him into an insensate pile of bones, blood, and flesh, she knew that to truly injure him (which she was easily capable of doing) would be a hollow victory that he would eventually twist to his own benefit. The other compelling alternative was to kill him, but she remained certain the King, even in his right mind, would never countenance such an act. Worse, either choice would end her hopes of exposing his treachery, for it would be her guilt that would command attention. She had to bide her time, waiting out his schemes, no matter what bodily horrors that portended.

That he would, in the interim, subject her to further sexual humiliations was certain. That she would, despite her revulsion, experience undeniable pleasure during those humiliations was equally certain. That she was, in a sense, offering her body in trade to get what she truly wanted was a horrible realization, the implications of which weren't lost on her. I've become a common whore, she thought, ruefully, before correcting herself. No, not a whore. A whore is paid. I'm letting this snake have me for free.

But even in her calculated helplessness, she was sure she could refuse certain accommodations. Though the remaining mechanisms available for stopping him were (short of violence) few, she would never let him fuck her. Knowing that all his efforts were directed towards this goal, denying him was a satisfaction all its own. Nor would she willingly let him use her mouth, though she feared her resistance would eventually be rendered moot if she wished to preserve the sanctity of her other orifice. She didn't object to the act — in fact, she'd always found the idea arousing, at least in theory — but it represented a form of submission that she was unwilling to offer to someone for whom she felt such contempt.

The spanking, though, had been more difficult and confusing than she'd imagined. It stung, of course, but years of training pushing her body beyond its limits meant that the relatively minor pain hardly registered. The humiliation of implied subservience was more damaging, especially as she knew it existed only at her allowance and that she could have dislodged him at any point. But by the end, she'd started to feel something else. Not pleasure, exactly, nor anything she'd identify as sexual. It was more like accepting something well-deserved, as if the despoiling of her unsullied posterior was an inevitable price to pay for her eventual triumph.

Or perhaps I see it a deserved punishment for what I've done, for what I've allowed to him to do to me, and for what I fear I'll continue to allow.

She filed further investigation of this disquieting notion away, for she needed her wits intact to regain the initiative. When he again pulled her head closer to his jutting manhood, however, she realized that the key was right in front of her.

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

Gríma managed a cold smile, though inside he seethed with a tempest of towering anger. Whether she knew it or not, she'd skewered him straight to the heart of his greatest vulnerability. For, to his longstanding shame, he was poorly endowed, and early recognition of this unfortunate fact (made worse when someone he'd thought a friend made it a subject of public mockery) had fueled much of the seething resentment that eventually led him to seek revenge on his people. He developed what he knew were formidable oral and manual skills in an attempt to compensate, and while there had been women — willing or otherwise — over the years, it was clear that for all his prodigious technique, his penis was an inevitable disappointment to his partners.

Nevertheless, his size was what it was, and in the meantime he had to regain control of the situation. For despite having just submitted to a lengthy and aggressive paddling, she was besting him...and worse, he feared she knew it.

"Éowyn, my impetuous love, you think to wound with base insults, but I fear you simply misunderstand. I've given you pleasure, asking nothing except the opportunity to give you more and wishing only fair recompense for my efforts. Note well that while you're free to reject both that pleasure and the one who offers it, you haven't." Though she didn't outwardly dispute his contention, neither did she offer a sign of assent. "But if you continue to deny me this, and anything else that will bring me the satisfaction I so freely give to you, I see no alternative but to take my solace another way."