Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 06a

Her soul withered and her heart sank, for it was all too obvious what she had to do.

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From her closet, she withdrew the most form-fitting and seductive dress she owned. Made of fine white silk woven with silver threads, it was a family heirloom restored and tailored to her shape, waiting for a sufficiently special occasion that had yet to come. How awful that this is the reason it finally finds purpose. The dress permitted no undergarments, and so with no further preliminaries she carefully smoothed it over her naked body.

The result was magnificent. Every subtlety and curve was revealed and highlighted; not only the swell of her breasts, the gentle prominence of her nipples (at the thought, they hardened and accented that swell), and the flawless arc of her buttocks, but also the seam at their center and the narrowing arrow between her legs that ever so slightly drew the front of the dress inward. It was vastly more revealing than her usual formalwear, leaving her graceful neck and a deep expanse of her upper chest uncovered, though it stopped at the last possible point beyond which it would expose cleavage. She looked more feminine than she ever could have imagined, and — more importantly — thoroughly seductive without blatantly compromising her dignity. Well, not too much, aside from the fact I'm doing this at all. Admiringly, she ran her hands down her body, and a powerful throb shot from her nipples deep into her sex, which blazed with renewed arousal.

Not now, damn it all. Not now! With immense effort, she ignored the sudden quake in her loins and turned her attention to her hair. Should I set it in waves, or something more elaborate? No, that would take too long. Braids? Too utilitarian. Long and elegant, then, to match the dress. And entirely unbound, which somehow feels more...suggestive. At least, I hope it is. She sighed. I really should be better at understanding such matters. Still, I can scarcely believe that such a reprehensible snake is about to benefit from my first true attempt at seduction.

Tingling with eagerness, nervousness, and fear, she appraised herself one last time, then turned on a slippered heel and left the room.

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Gliding past his door for the eighth — or is it the ninth? — time, Éowyn wondered if this was a wasted effort after all. She was tempted to knock, the sooner to get the distasteful theater started and thus over with, but knew he'd never believe she'd willingly come to his quarters dressed as she was. The first time she passed she pressed an ear to his door and heard noises within, confirming that he was in residence, but she wanted him to discover her presence rather the other way around. With each lap, she searched for a spot on the floor that might squeak, or crack, or make a sound that would draw him into the hall to investigate. But there was nothing. Meduseld was too solidly built.

Her tension grew. She was just about to give up in frustration and retreat to her room when she heard his door open behind her. She slowed, just enough to ensure he'd recognize her.

"Lady Éowyn! What an unexpected pleasure to find you at my door!"

She half-turned without moving her feet, knowing that this would stretch the dress across her breasts to accentuate both their shape and the peaks that crowned them. Indeed, his eyes immediately flickered downward before returning to meet hers.

"I assent to unexpected, but not the pleasure."

Ignoring her sour response, he stopped attempting to hide his study of her form, letting his gaze roam freely and lasciviously. His eyes widened at the vision, for her flawless beauty was now sheathed in unexpected ravishment. Inside his robes, he began to harden.

"Indeed? And yet it seems to me we were destined to meet, fair Lady."

"Nay, I'm merely returning from the seamstress Fréolaf's chamber. She was making adjustments to this dress." She shifted her weight, the clinging fabric now accentuating the undulating slope of her upper thigh and the dimple at the side of her buttocks.

"She's done a most praiseworthy job, then." He stared at and through her, undressing her with his eyes and imagining more. His ardor increased. I hadn't planned on pursuing her tonight, but now that she's here I absolutely must have her. Immediately. I haven't prepared any magical assistance for this encounter, but given what happened yesterday, perhaps none will be necessary.

"Lady Éowyn, I point out that we have unfinished business, you and I."

The audacity of him! "No, Master Wormtongue, our 'business' is quite concluded. As it should never have started."

He didn't fail to notice that she'd called him "Master," even though it was paired with the insulting nickname. Though she'd said it with the expected sarcasm, it achieved the intended fluffing of his pride...and not just his pride.

"In that you are mistaken, Éowyn. When we last...talked," (the downward motion of his glance was deliberate and unmistakable) "I pointed out that you lacked allies." He took a step towards her, lowering his voice. "There is a way to convince valuable advocates to your side, and I can demonstrate it to you. An unexpected...or, let us say instead, a previously unimagined way."

Could it really be that easy? Is he, of his own volition, going to reveal the secret I've spent all day pursuing?

She turned away, wishing to appear as if she was contemplating refusal, and stealthily dragged her finger across her nipples. She knew they'd be clearly visible through the thin fabric. Calling up the most inscrutable façade she could summon, she turned and was immediately rewarded by another reflexive descent in his attention. He looks like a wolf salivating over its kill. I have to be incredibly careful. "Don't waste any more of my time than you already have. What can you possibly offer me other than more lies and tricks?"

Shaking his head, he indicated his open door. "Not here."

She hesitated. It was somewhat of an act — were she unexpectedly acquiescent, he'd be suspicious — but for the most part it wasn't. She remembered all too clearly what happened the last time she'd entered his chambers, and what kept happening every time they were alone. But then this is why I came, isn't it? To dangle the promise of this very transaction before him. This is no time to turn cowardly, for I'm familiar with his tricks and might not get a better opportunity. Still, I shall have to be exceedingly wary. Steeling herself despite a patina of very real trepidation, she strode through his door with an assertiveness she didn't quite feel, growling, "I'll listen, but I won't hesitate to leave the moment you attempt to do anything other than talk."

"Of course, my Lady. Though I doubt you'll wish to leave, once you learn what I have to offer." He followed her inside and closed the door behind him.

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"So, what is it that you wish to say?"

Éowyn stood in the corner of the room, staring into his darkened fireplace, presenting him with an uninterrupted view of her back. On the surface it seemed a dismissal, but she was aware it would be received differently. Indeed, Gríma was enraptured by the long, silken mane of her hair, drawing his gaze inexorably downward to the supple curves of her ass. He felt a powerful rush of triumph at conquering such magnificent territory the previous evening. But tonight would bring a new victory.

"What's it worth to you?"

She sighed. "If you have no more than innuendo to offer, I'll go now."

"No, Éowyn. Let me explain. I have a...let's call it a lever. A kind of tool. Wait," he hastened to add as she grimaced and moved towards the door, "I don't mean that in the way you think. I mean an actual tool. But I can't just give it to you. I need to teach you how to use it. "

"You've said similar words before, and these add no greater illumination."

"So you must also remember me saying that the key to gathering others' power is understanding your own. There are powerful levers at my disposal, and I am offering you insight into the one best suited for your skills. But to use it, you must learn control."

"You speak, as is your wont, in riddles."

"Control is a dangerous tool. To use it to influence or even direct someone else, you must first have absolute control over yourself. Mastery over your own desires and responses. You're already aware of the virtue of such mastery when it comes to weaponry, but you must learn to expand that control to other realms. The best fighters rely not on decisions but on an instinct for those decisions, and the very best are unerringly right the first time, for only instinct is immediate enough. This is how one masters the sword, and it's also how one masters one's life. You can allow neither hesitation nor doubt to cloud your purpose. The core of your difficulty, Éowyn, is that once you put down your weapons you're filled with hesitation and doubt."

Her brow furrowed, for she was confused by the odd direction the conversation had taken. "I don't...I don't follow you."

He filled his voice with earnestness. "You are beset by doubts. I can feel them. In fact, I can see them, for they surround you like a fog." He paused. "Tell me: has there been anything, of late, that you've greatly desired, but that despite your best efforts you've failed to capture? Trying again and again, along all the avenues available to you, yet unable to achieve success?"

My efforts to sway the King are obviously no secret. And he can't possibly know about my attempt to unmask him, except in a general sense. What else could he mean. Unwillingly, she recalled her futile day-long attempts at self-pleasuring. Surely that can't be what he means! She put down a resurgence of this ever-present distraction and concentrated on his question, seeking an answer she might turn to her advantage. Her purpose in coming here seemed increasingly obscured.

"Nothing of consequence," she lied.

"I don't believe you, Éowyn. I sense your lack of fulfillment. Your growing frustration. If you cannot easily clear these disappointments from your mind — and it is apparent that you can't, without help — you must find a different way to fulfill your unmet desires."

Again, the turmoil in her loins escalated. She forced it down, though with more difficulty this time. "I desire naught but an answer to your tiresome riddles."

"So! As I'm currently presenting you with the answer you seek, you finally admit that you desire me after all?"

How I despise his mockery! "I desire no one. Least of all you."

"Ah...but there again I don't think you say truly. For you are lonely, Éowyn. Aren't you?"

Damn his intuition. And damn him! "So you say. I am, at the least, better off far from you."

"Yet you're talking to me. Aside from our praiseworthy seamstress, has anyone else truly talked to you on this day? Talked...and listened...as if you mattered?"

She recalled her profoundly dismissive encounter with the King. And the Weaponmaster. He's right. Again. She said nothing, wondering when she'd let this conversation get away from her.

Abruptly, he changed topics, though not tactics. "Has anything brought you satisfaction today, Éowyn? Anyone? Has anything at all brought you pleasure? Has anyone?"

She remained silent, for she knew he was again plying her with innuendo. But she also knew that he understood, as well as anyone, the nature of her frustration. Better, perhaps, than even she did.

But what of it? He's still my most dangerous foe. He would do or say anything if it served his ends. I was a fool to come here, and a greater fool to think I could emerge unscathed. And yet here I am, and even now I don't leave. Why not? For what reason have I abandoned wisdom, common sense, and self-preservation to voluntarily entangle myself in this spider's web? Because he tells me the truth? Yes, when it serves his needs, but the truth on his tongue is a weapon no less dangerous than that tongue itself. For here is the bitterest of truths — his truths — laid plain before me: I do indeed want something from him. Something that, against rationality and decency, against dignity and even sanity, it seems only he can provide.

Despite her ongoing hope for his eradication — a hope to which she still clung, even now — she was here, attempting to fence with him but lacking a sword. Despite the clarity of her hatred, she didn't strike him down. Despite the unquestioned skill with which he manipulated her with words, she let him speak her deepest secrets without objection. Despite her shame and anger over what had already transpired, she willingly put herself back into his clutches. Despite knowing that she need do nothing special to be the object of his lust, she thought to come to him as a seductress and best him at a game he'd already mastered.

To what end did I imagine that a necessity? How did I imagine this would end?

And despite her fearful certainty that what had happened before could easily happen again — was, in fact, about to happen again right now — she did not flee.

As if he'd heard every word of her internal litany, he pounced. "You know the answer. Moreover, you feel the answer. That's why you're really here. Only I can salve your loneliness. Only I can reach deep inside your body and your mind. Only I can fulfill your unquenched desires. Only I can bring you pleasure. Only I can touch you as want to be touched, because only I know how to touch you."

His arms — when did he move behind me? — embraced her waist. She tensed, all her fear and doubt converging on this critical moment of decision. He whispered in her ear. "I'm all you have, Éowyn. I hold your key. Let me unlock you. For I know what it is you need." He pulled her towards him. Gently. It was a plea, not a demand.

She remained in place, poised at the precipice. And then, shuddering, let collapse into ruin the last of her resistance, giving into the emptiness of her darkest fears and leaning into him. Accepting. Capitulating. Weeping at the depths of her weakness and the now-inevitable consequences of her failure.

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Close and tight he held her. She'd surrendered, and there was no need to hasten. Not anymore. Soft kisses along her neck, a gentle breath on her ear...soothing...waiting....

His hard organ threatened to burst through his breeches and bore directly into her flesh. There was no other barrier between them, save the barely there thinness of her dress, and he knew she could feel it. It throbbed and pulsed with every heartbeat, and with a slight shift of his arms he pressed her even tighter against its length.

Her sobs stilled, her breath caught.

Waiting....

Slowly, meditatively, his hands moved to possess her body. Arms, neck, and thighs. Chest, hair, and back. Breasts, buttocks, and sex. No part of her was left unclaimed by his gliding palms, and her breath grew sharper and more shallow. After an eternity of touching, he lifted her dress in one long motion, its departure itself a final, full-body caress. She made no move to stop him.

Even from behind, she was impossibly beautiful. In fact: from behind she was, perhaps, at her most unparalleled. Her flowing golden-white hair, the tapered elegance of her back, the shapely musculature of her long legs, the scintillating enticement of her ass...he wanted to claim and conquer every inch. And tonight I will.

He revisited her naked flesh with one hand while divesting himself of unwanted clothing with the other until they were both naked. She continued to offer no resistance, but her countenance remained tense. Receiving, not giving.

Waiting....

A gentle massage of her soft breasts gradually became firmer, more confident handling. Her nipples he touched, circled, stroked, and pinched, building her lust alongside his. How very lost I am, she despaired, even as her body trembled under his fingers. My hate for him doesn't ebb, even now. Yet I'm letting this happen. No...I want this to happen.

Eventually, inevitably, a hand slid between her legs, and she widened them in anticipation. Wanting. Needing.

Waiting....

A fingertip worried her clit, then plunged into her steaming depths. Stroking, penetrating, stimulating...and she undulated against it, falling to meet the finger on her clit, rising to push it deeper inside. And still his hardness pressed against her buttocks...at first laid across one tight cheek, then slotted into the crack between.

A second finger explored her swollen outer rim and then joined the first, penetrating and exploring. She wrapped her arm around his head, moaning in pleasure. Her unachievable orgasm was, at last, on the horizon. In a fit of unmindful ecstasy, she reached behind her with the other hand and grasped his drooling tumescence. It was hot and throbbing in her palm, and now it was his turn to shudder with surprise and desire.

He continued to force his fingers in and out of her pussy, dragging the rough flat of his hand against her clitoris with each thrust. She spread his emissions around his prick and stroked, instinct triumphing over resistance.

With a sharp convulsion and a harsh cry, she came. A long day of pent-up sexual frustration exploded from her cunt, wetness practically fountaining from her opening, and she wondered if she might pass out from sheer relief. Fingers still curled deep inside her channel, Gríma waited out her body-doubling orgasm. He knew there would be many more under his authorship.

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Reveling as he was in the unexpected feeling of her hand around his cock, he decided it was time for her to do more.

"Éowyn," he whispered as her aftershocks waned.

She made no response. He continued to stroke two fingers in and out of the swamp of her sex, the wet noise of each penetration beautiful music to his ears. The path to her next climax was already in sight. And then she moved.

Letting go of him and shifting to the side, she reached between her legs to again take hold of his shaft and guide him into the humid space between her thighs. Astride his pole, she leaned against his body and settled back on her heels, using her fingers to press his rod against the volcanic heat of her sex.

"Éowyn," he repeated. Her name, on his tongue, was an agony of begging.

Tentative and experimental at first, she moved forward, then back again. Letting his cock slide between her swollen lips, but not allowing it inside. Parting her soaked folds with his length, massaging the head with her clitoris, but not letting him control their union.

"Éowyn!" he hissed, burning with arousal.

Back and forth she thrust, trying with all her might to view the motion as anything other than fucking, but as just another variation on external stimulation. Back and forth he thrust in turn, but he was most certainly anticipating what seemed the inevitable next step, for he was all but inside her now. Another climax shook her limbs, but she continued to pump. Another orgasm followed, this more powerful than the last. And then another, greater still. She spiraled beyond reason, and without conscious thought pulled upward on his throbbing cock, positioning it so the next thrust would plunge it into her heedless but all too welcoming cunt. In that moment his climax arrived, spraying past her hand and onto the floor. Grunting and shaking as he unloaded his balls, he added to the ever-expanding mess of fluids at her feet.