Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 06b

To her eyes, however, his once sinister air of lurking menace had departed, never to return. Before her was a wizened, ugly shell of a man, his fundamental emptiness filled with no more than words, lies, and treachery. Rather than dangerous, he seemed to her pathetic and pleading. No longer the crafty manipulator who'd dominated her thoughts and her body for days, he'd become a witless worm. And it was time to crush him beneath her heel.

Though a brutalized throat he croaked her name. "Éowyn...."

Once again she captured him by the neck. He knew he was in peril, but his ability to resist quickly waned as he drifted towards unconsciousness. Her staccato words assaulted his ear.

"You. Will. Never. Touch. Me. Again!"

Her knee whipped into his scrotum, every bit of her considerable strength and fury behind it, and he doubled over, falling to his knees in paralyzing agony. He'd never imagined he could feel this much pain. Consciousness fled, and he crumpled to the floor.

Whirling, she stepped over his fetal form. Searching his clothes, she found a key and used it to open his trunk. The cylinder she'd found before was still there, and she quickly passed through the ritual that opened it, extracting another vial and unsealing it to reveal an unassuming dull grey powder. Dipping a wet fingertip into the vial, she knelt, slapping Wormtongue's cheek until he moaned in semi-consciousness and pressing her finger to his slack lips. And then she whispered her revenge.

"Your words are no longer your strength, and though they will continue to seem wise to you, they will gradually lose their power over others. The skill of your voice shall wane, and you will forget the existence of any external or magical aid to that skill. Your confidence will turn to craven cowardice whenever you face a setback. You will, if offered forgiveness from the consequences of your treason, choose to flee and thus forever compound that treachery."

She paused, considering.

"We've never touched, you and I. You will remember nothing of what we've done together. But," she added with a cruel twist, "the full measure of your desire for me you will retain. Nay...you will feel it at ten times its former intensity. Yet you will conceive of no way to act on that desire. You will crave me, but you will be too afraid to speak of or act upon that craving. Your lust will rage unsatisfied until the end of your days. And if you cannot have me, neither will you ever have another, for your tongue and your manhood will fail at the attempt."

Replacing vial, cylinder, and lock, she wrapped one of his robes around her naked body, carefully gathered her dress, and fled his room. In the dim nighttime illumination of Meduseld's empty halls, there were none to wonder at the glistening white droplets marking an unsteady line from his door to hers.

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

Her dress hung from a mold in the corner of her room, shining and shimmering in the candlelight, as seductive, pristine, and beautiful as before.

Its owner was permanently sullied.

She bathed. Scrubbed. Bathed again. Outside and then, gingerly, deep within — and oh how the aftermath stung, especially inside her reamed and ravaged ass. She cleansed everything she could reach and some places she'd never thought to touch. It took several purgings of the bathwater to rid it of clinging foams and disgusting liquid memories. But at last she was clean...at least, to the extent that she could be made clean by mere water.

Back in her bed, unclothed yet feeling far more exposed than any lack of covering could explain, she curled into a ball and shivered in misery. The brief afterglow of her triumph had faded, while the shame of her willing subjugation consumed her until she wore it like a shroud. Her buttocks bore a dense thatch of bruises and welts. Some had, when abraded by a wet cloth, started to bleed. Her back, thighs, and breasts bore their own marks, and one nipple was swollen to nearly twice its natural size. Her sex felt as it if had been in a brawl, inside and out; one that it had lost. Her anus was stretched, fucked raw and burning like fire. Her pelvic bone throbbed and ached as if bruised. She was stained. Damaged. Branded. Broken.

He will never touch me again.

She hugged herself as she rocked back and forth in tortured recrimination.

He will never touch me again.

Tears of regret drenched her pillow.

He will never touch me again.

The breadth and duration of her defilement played back in lurid detail, despite her intense desire to forget every moment of it, and as the memory unspooled she was forced to relive the panoply of sensations. She still couldn't find a way to separate or rationalize the incomparable pleasure and the soul-destroying pain, both the physical and the existential. Her weeping began to disrupt her breathing, and though her window was open to a night far too cold for her nudity, she gasped for purchase on air that proved no more purifying than her bathwater.

He will never touch me again.

She shuddered. Her wrenching sobs fell into rhythm with the slow undulation of her body.

He will never touch me again.

Fingers — four of them — plunged, over and over, into the gaping maw of her insatiable sex.