for godofthemachine

[shieldofrohan]

Pride is all she has in the city. They've done their best to take it from her, and a few times they've come close to succeeding, but she's recovered; every time, through everything thrown her way, she's drawn pride back around herself like armour, and that pride, fuelled by burning hatred, is enough to keep her going.

She draws that armour around herself now, as she's ushered onto the stage at the auction house. Her lips are pressed taut, her back ramrod-straight and her chin lifted, her arms clasped in front of her as she glares down her nose at the gathered Dominants. Let them know that she is no slave to be bought and sold, no matter the mark on her neck. Let them know that they will get no meek deference from her. She wants everyone in that room to know that, had they not taken her weapons from her along with her clothes, she would have killed those who dared to treat her this way, or perished herself in the attempt.

The eyes on her make her want to shrink into herself, even so. It is difficult not to give in to the urge to cover herself, to blush and turn away and try to hide her nakedness. Éowyn has always been comfortable in her own body, even before Duplicity forced it upon her; but that doesn't mean she wants it to be on display like this, bared to the eyes of half the city. She is glad for the fall of her hair, which cascades like a curtain over the swell of her breasts, covering her scarred nipples and brushing the curve of her hip. It isn't modest by any means, but it's better than nothing.

Besides, strange though it may be, she's more worried about showing her breasts to such a crowd than she is about showing her cunt. The rest of her may have healed, but her nipples are still marked from where they were pierced at Saturnalia, and she certainly doesn't want anyone to remember that.

As the auctioneer starts to read off her stats - 24, uncontracted for three and a half months, athletic, likes rough sex and being fucked against walls - Éowyn tunes him out, focusing instead on the crowd, her eyes drifting from face to face. As she understands it, by the end of the day she'll be contracted to one of them. She'd like to gauge who it might be.

Comments

[godofthemachine]

AM enjoys visiting the auction site every now and then. He hasn't purchased anyone there, mainly because he would rather save up his money for something more useful, especially when he already has two submissives. But even so, he loves watching the humiliation that the submissives face as they are auctioned off. He likes watching the other dominants: some who jeer at the subs and make crude gestures; others who remain silent, but have the haunting look in their eyes; the rich harem-owners who want another to add to their collection; the ones who appear to be caring and loving, but AM knows it's all a farce...

He listens and watches as this submissive is touted out, naked and beautiful and-- he knows her. He has seen her. He has done awful things to her, and enjoyed every moment of it. And oh he wanted to do these things again... He wanted to strip that pride from every inch of her and make her sob for mercy.

Without even thinking about the consequences, as soon as the auction starts, AM immediately shouts the price. Of course, a couple of other dominants are quick to add to the fray, raising the price up and up... After all, Éowyn is beautiful and strong. She would be a catch for many. And yet for AM... Well, he doesn't even think about his other two submissives right now. All he thinks about is the inevitable horror on her face when she realizes who has purchased her.

[shieldofrohan]

He doesn't have to wait long for some measure of satisfaction, although he may have to look closely to catch it before she schools her features back to stone. In that moment, though, when she sees him in the crowd and hears him shout his bid, Éowyn blanches and her jaw tightens, her hands clenching into fists until she feels the nails bite the skin. She had begun to think that she no longer feared him, that she had moved past what he had done to her.

She had thought wrong. Cold fear drops like a stone into the pit of her stomach, and blossoms almost at once into a fury and hate that is enough to make her tremble where she stands, white-knuckles and taut-jawed. For a moment, she can't tear her eyes off him, and in those eyes burns a murderous hatred, raw and almost feral.

The bids are starting to thin out now, as the price rises beyond what casual buyers are willing to pay. Éowyn stands perfectly still, like a carving in marble, except for the trembling tension of her clenched fists. She listens, and waits for the moment when AM's interest will wane, when he'll drop out of the bidding.

But that moment doesn't come, and when the auctioneer's hammer comes down - "Sold! To the tall gentleman!" - Éowyn's stomach twists. She jerks a little, as if she might be sick then and there, all the colour draining from her save the two hectic spots of red on her high cheekbones, and then she turns on her heel and strides off the stage, her expression thunderous as she pushes past the LIES staff at the bottom of the steps. She seems to have entirely forgotten her own nakedness, carried away by righteous fury.

"Give me my sword," she tells them, her voice carrying, sharp with rage. "I will play your game no further. Give me my fucking sword!"

[godofthemachine]

It's a combination of satisfaction and regret when AM wins the bid, because well, he has to spend quite a bit of money. Fortunately he already has the house he had been saving up for, so that's less of a concern. But still - three submissives, especially one who so viciously hates him, is going to be a lot.

There is immense satisfaction, of course, when she sees her fear, when that determined rage overtakes her features... And then she demands her sword. AM won't deny that his own adrenaline rises, the fear of her actually winning taking hold...

Of course, the LIES staff don't give her a sword, and a couple of them run over to try and restrain her. One of them scolds her, threatening what would happen if she dared turn a weapon against her dominant. Good. AM's position is beneficial to him in many ways, but not in all...

So of course he steps forward, grinning as he looks over his new prize. He has to intimidate her, after all, and make sure she knows exactly who owns her. "Lucky for you, I don't need that money for a house anymore."

AM aims to grab her by the wrist and drag her away, eager to finally put her to use.

[shieldofrohan]

There's a horrible sense of déja vu about this whole situation. She isn't bound this time, but the LIES employee behind her has her arms pinned right up until the moment AM reaches for her wrist; they aren't standing in a public square, but they're in public nonetheless, and there are a hundred eyes to watch her humiliation; and once again he's close enough that she can smell his sweat and see the glint of his teeth. Nausea writhes in her belly, and there's a part of her, deep and shameful, that wants to break and run.

There is a major difference, though, and that's the fact that when he does grab her wrist, the LIES staff let her go, and her other hand is free. For a moment, despite her pale and nauseous look, a sharp and rather unpleasant smile tugs at her mouth, baring her teeth. His grip on her wrist is painfully tight, strong and inescapable, but then, in that moment, she isn't trying to escape it. Instead, she uses it as leverage to put her whole body into a blow, swinging her elbow up to his sternum to try to knock the wind out of him, and her knee up between his legs.

It's not a victory. There's no chance of it being a victory - she knows that, he knows that, and the LIES staff standing by with tasers know it. But as the stun gun presses up against her bare flesh, as the electricity turns her legs to wet rope and sends her sprawling against his grip, she at least gets to know she went down fighting.

[godofthemachine]

It isn't surprising that she fights back, but even so, she fights hard, slamming him in a sensitive area on the chest. Just from that alone, he arches back, exhaling awkwardly as the knee nearly crunches his rather sensitive gonads.

While he wasn't prepared for the blow to the sternum, he was somewhat prepared to be struck in such an obvious location between the legs, so his own are pressed together, one knee extending in an instinctive protection against her. (After all, with the intensity of her blow, AM would likely be knocked to the ground and be incapacitated for quite a while.)

It still does get him between the legs, though, so he isn't immune. Faltering several steps back, he gasps in shock and pain as the LIES guards strike her, bringing her down to the ground.

It's disgusting, knowing how vulnerable he is, especially to some human woman. Some of the crowd snickers at the display, while others gasp, and AM does feel some approximation of humiliation. He's supposed to be powerful, after all, and this is showing the exact opposite!

With gritted teeth, he stands up and bends down to grab Éowyn not by her limb, but by her long hair, grabbing fistfuls of curls and yanking up to try and bring her to her feet. "And here I was considering being nice to you!" he hisses.

The LIES guards warn her that this behavior toward her dominant could result in incarceration, a long stint at the People Zoo, and the like. But AM knows that's not a threat to her. She's far too proud, after all.

[shieldofrohan]

It is perhaps more of a threat than AM might suspect. Deep inside herself, and despite all her pride, Éowyn nurtures a deep and abiding horror of captivity. Still, compared to what no doubt awaits her at AM's hands, the threat of mere imprisonment is almost banal enough to make her laugh out loud.

Almost.

His hand tangles in her long golden hair, and pain jolts through her scalp as he yanks her upwards. Still dizzy and nerveless from being knocked down, she scrabbles to get her feet underneath her, instinctively fumbling for his arm with both hands to try and release some of that pull. A low grunt of pain and effort escapes her, and her nails scratch at his forearm, her eyes screwed tightly closed as she feels some of her hair pulled out by the root under her own weight. She wants to curse, to kick and scream and scratch like a wildcat, and make him regret in this moment that he ever laid hands on her.

But pride is all she has.

It's hard to find any semblance of pride when you're being pulled along by your hair, when your legs have turned to wet rope and you can't get your feet under you. It's harder still to accept defeat, even momentarily, when the price of defeat is so high. Still, with a great effort of will, she resists the effort to scream and lash out in childish panic; manages, through the tight edges of pain, to sound almost cold.

"Don't lie to me, cur." She finally manages to get her feet under her, and brings one hand up to her scalp, to ease the pain of his pulling. "Nicety is beyond you. Let such petty taunts be beyond you, too."

[godofthemachine]

Had AM known of her fear of being captive, he would exploit it to the ends of the Earth - or whatever planet this damned city is on. Still, it's a natural fear that most humans have, so he plans to use it regardless. As his new submissive, she'll certainly be captive enough. In fact, AM may not even keep her with his other submissives. They may never even know about her.

"Oh, I'm not lying, cur." As he pulls Éowyn up by her hair, he brusquely grabs her forearm and yanks her forward. "Now, if you can't walk, I'll have to carry you."

Of course, he expects that his "offer" to carry her will be met with more of her pride, an insistence on walking despite her legs clearly shaking, barely able to hold her weight. But even so, he doesn't wait for a response. Instead, he attempts to pull her roughly into him and let her naked form press against his. It wouldn't be difficult from there to lift her up and carry her more bridal-style, though he expects she'll fight him on that.

[shieldofrohan]

As far as Éowyn is concerned, there is no right choice out of the two - no way to salvage her pride in this. Either he slings her up in his arms like a sack of potatoes, or - perhaps worse - she'll be forced to stumble after him like a bridled beast, naked and humiliated. If he chooses to continue pulling her by her hair, then she'll have no choice but to double over and stagger out of this place in full view of anyone who wishes to see. No, what pride she could possibly scrape back from this mess had already been won by hurting him, and that had been little enough. She's leaving this auction hall a slave, and there is no disguising that - no way of defying it, either, unless she can get hold of something sharp enough to slit his throat before the LIES guards with their stun guns can get to her. A cheering thought, but not a likely one.

"Forwisne ond brosne þín gneáðes cyrfel," she tells him. It's easier to keep her voice steady in her own tongue, making the conscious choice to remind herself of her blood and her kin - even if she's doing it while telling him to go and rot off his tiny penis, as she is in this case. She can't pull herself to her full height, pinned as she is against him, and with the heat of his body making her skin crawl and pull into gooseflesh, and she can't fight him physically, but she does at least manage to turn her face up to him, her grey eyes blazing with furious hatred. "Fuck you. Do what you will."

I used a shitty online translator for this lmfao

[godofthemachine]

Fortunately, or unfortunately perhaps, for Éowyn, AM knows all of the major languages of Earth, including the dead ones. As she is pressed into him and insults him, he is quick to answer.

"Þú undergietan efen onem hâl hale hîe sy unnêah forniman m¯æte," he hisses. But really, the insult doesn't bother him too much. It only makes him want to prove to her just how "small" it is. But he will in private. Oh, he will. But first he has to get her out of this public square and into her new home.

While she was an impulse buy for AM, he's not going to put her up with his other submissives. No, those two actually chose to be with him, even if he is still abusive in many ways toward them. He wouldn't trust Éowyn not to grab the other two and lead a coalition against him, so she gets to stay in his second home - that is, the abandoned building in the Down he essentially claimed. It was Flagg's old "church", the house of his silly cult, and Flagg disappeared, so now it's AM's.

Besides, he has been busy setting it up as a convenient place to take people he has "business" with, so why wouldn't he keep his newest pet there? He wants to see her suffer, after all, so she doesn't deserve to live in the lavish house he owns. No, she deserves to be chained up like the whore she is.

To her insistence that he does what he will, he acquiesces, lifting her up and into his arms. From there he carries her out of the square, the remnants of the crowd watching this entertaining spectacle as they depart. And from there, it isn't far to the abandoned building.

It's dark inside, as well as hollow. Some pieces of the walls crumble, the result of abandonment, but AM carries on, finding the staircase that descends into the basement. If by now Éowyn hasn't fought him off, he deposits her onto the stone cold ground. He is gentle, at least, as dropping her directly onto the concrete could enable her to hit her head the wrong way. Pulling a string on the ceiling, AM turns on the ceiling light, illuminating the barren basement hallway.

"Well? Should I show you to your room?" He smirks at her, gesturing toward a steel door at the end of the hall. What may or may not be obvious is that it is a double security door, wired by AM to be opened only by a keycode.

lol like i use anything else for my old english

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn grits her teeth and tenses as she is swept up into his arms, his hands hot and rough on her bare skin, his reek in her nostrils. Hearing Rohirric - or something very like it, like enough to be jarring - come out of his mouth only makes her stomach heave. It is deeply. deeply wrong that the first time she's heard anything like her own language in this place, it's coming from someone like him.

She is still, though, as he carries her out of the square, past the idiot crowd laughing and commenting as though her fate was a matter for their entertainment. She is still and rigid in his arms, making herself as heavy as she can - a petty revenge, but better than nothing - until they are in the Down, and the last of the weakness from being shocked has ebbed out of her. Unfortunately, it has taken some of her adrenaline with it, but once they are in the winding streets of the Down, which are by now more familiar to her than the Up ever was, she begins to fight against his grip, kicking and scratching at him. She's strong, but hampered by her own fear and confined in his grip; he is stronger. Still, she doesn't make it easy for him to carry her to the crumbling old building, and fights all the harder, writhing in his grasp, as they step inside and even the ugly, artificial light of the Down fades from view.

When at last he sets her down, she scrambles to her feet as quickly as she can, breathing hoarse and ragged. She could run, perhaps. She might get lost in the dark hallways, but she is a fast runner and given some strength by what, now, is building back into genuine panic. In the end, as so often before, it is her prideful stubbornness that dooms her; unable even now to flee without fighting, she instead lunges for him, her teeth bared and fingers like claws, scratching like a wildcat at his face.

At this point, it's so predictable a move that it undoubtedly gives him an opening to recapture her well before she can think better of it and run.

[godofthemachine]

AM isn't at all surprised when Éowyn starts to fight against his grip, but he carries on, sighing inwardly and gripping her even tighter. His nails dig into her frame and he shifts his stance, slinging her over his shoulder at one point.

But regardless, once they're finally in AM's warehouse, Éowyn is eager to fully fight back, and again - AM is not at all surprised. He assumed it would either be that or running. Like a bullfighter, he is prepared for her to lunge, stepping to the side and throwing out an arm to catch her.

"And here I was trying to be nice to let you walk!" He hisses as he tries to catch her and block himself from being attacked, but obviously he's going to have to fight back.

She does scratch him, nails raking down his face before he finally reels a fist back and aims to deck her in the face. He should cripple her legs once he gets her into the locked room, then perhaps she won't run or lunge at him, will she?

[shieldofrohan]

She moves too slowly, sees his blow too late, and while she rolls with it as best she can, his fist still crashes into her jaw hard enough that, for a moment, sun-bright lights explode at the corners of her vision. Her head snaps back, and she tastes the sharp tang of salt bursting in her mouth as she staggers back against the wall, her lip splitting against her teeth.

Her head spinning, she steadies herself against the wall with one hand, spitting blood in the general direction of his hulking, blurred form. Her eyes are bleary and unfocused, but she narrows them at him nonetheless, lips drawing back from her bloodied teeth in a snarl. "Fuck you," she hisses, but there is a slurred edge to her voice, and she sways a little where she stands, clearly knocked off-balance by his punch. Unconsciously, she raises her free hand to the side of her head, as if to steady it. "I'll not walk like a lamb to your slaughter. I... You will pay. For this. For all else. Pay in blood."

A threat which might be a great deal more threatening if it weren't coming from a naked, unarmed woman whose bloodied face is pale with dizziness and fear, and whose whole body is trembling now.

[godofthemachine]

Between the two of them, it's obvious that Éowyn has taken far more damage from this brief little brawl. While there is a long scratch down AM's face, it barely draws any blood, and is at most a mild annoyance. Still, her tenacity could prove to be a detriment at some point, especially because she is more of a skilled fighter than he - or so he assumes. Strength and size will only get him so far.

But strength and size are what he has at his advantage, as well as durability. And so far these have all served him well. As she insults him, leaned against the wall with clear injury, AM eagerly takes advantage of the break, triumphant in this battle.

"My dear, is that what you are worried about? Being slaughtered?" He chuckles as his voice takes on a mockingly gentle tone before he aims to grab her arm. He wants to take her to the room that he had set up, so he'll drag her if he has to, after all. "I have no intention of doing such a thing."

After all, 'slaughter' would imply death, and there are many worse things than death.

If she goes with him, AM will drag her into the the room behind the security door. He presses a few keys on the pad, which unlocks the heavy bolts. With that one hand, he slides the door open, and inside is indeed Éowyn's new home. It is bare, except for a single chair in the center. If she looks hard enough, she might find old blood stains in the metal... But what will likely catch her eye more is the long loose chain haphazardly scattered behind the feet.

two weeks later

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn is not entirely sure how long she has been here. Long enough that the swollen, bleeding agony between her legs has settled into a dull ache, the flesh closing against the body-warmed metal he pushed through the most sensitive parts of her. Long enough that he's visited more than she cares to think of. Long enough that fury and fear have begun to give way to the dull creeping of despair.

She sits on the cold stone floor, her good hand (the wrist he broke is healing, but too slowly, and she tries not to use that hand if she can help it) working slowly through her hair, combing out the tangles that have accumulated in the past day or two. She considered doing no such thing; it feels too much like consenting to make herself pretty for him, and part of her wants to be as ugly as possible, a bestial thing of matted hair and filth. But in her heart of hearts, she doubts that would do anything to put him off her - and she does not want to be a beast. She feels animal enough already, caged as she is, chained and bridled like a wild thing. He will not rob her of her humanity. It's the last thing she has.

Besides, she has to do something. She's already tried every means of escape available to her, chained or unchained, and come up short. She has no weapons; he's careful, takes anything she could use when he goes. She has no recourse, no plan, and nothing else to do but sit and comb out her hair with her fingers, staring blankly at the door and singing quietly under her breath to fill the accusing silence. The song is an old one, a lament for lost times, though the words are burred and murmured, as if she's afraid of being caught singing. In fact, she is - ashamed to sing even sad songs in her current plight. Still, it beats silence.

"Hu seo þrag gewat," she croons, as she begins to twist her now-untangled hair into a braid, "genap under nihthelm, swa heo n--"

The sound of footsteps stops her short, her hand stilling, the song dying on her lips. Her respite is over; whether he means to fuck her or only mock her, the silence will not outlast his coming. She hates, with all her being, that it is almost a relief.

[godofthemachine]

Two weeks, and it wasn't hard to tame the fiery Éowyn. It's a predictable series, something AM had expected from his deep knowledge of the human psyche. Even the strongest humans can be broken eventually, after all. He wouldn't consider Éowyn "broken" yet, and perhaps AM doesn't want her to break either. Humans can grow boring after breaking, after all.

It's not that AM doesn't have other sexual partners here in Duplicity. He has plenty of them, and the environment itself often forced him together with new people. But he doesn't have a plethora of partners he can abuse and beat and rape and break over time as much as he wants. Éowyn is the only one he keeps locked up, depriving her of any other human contact, torturing her over and over for the sin of being human. That's why he so eagerly looks forward to each day he can visit her in his makeshift prison.

Footsteps echo and the shifting of steel doors is heard as AM steps inside the room, finding his captive braiding her hair. At this point, at least she's allowed to stretch her limbs out if AM lets her, which is why she isn't chained right now. But that could change - she could be tightly bound for an entire day if he feels like it.

"Such lovely hair you have, my dear," AM purrs as he kneels behind her, gathering up her soft curls in his hands. Her hair has gotten tangled, obviously, and he wouldn't particularly care if she made herself look more bestial. In fact, it would amuse him. But for right now, he himself combs his fingers through her hair, letting it snag on tangles. Of course, he doesn't hesitate to pull at them before pressing himself forward, letting his teeth nip at an ear.

"Tell me, Éowyn..." His hands move to her shoulders sliding down the sides of her arms. "...How have you been enjoying your new home?" The hands slide from her arms and over her chest, rubbing slowly over the curve of the breasts.

[shieldofrohan]

She is rigid beneath his touch, and her jaw shifts under the skin, her teeth grinding. For the most part, she has given up on fighting back (at least to begin with; as he will know well by now, there's only so much humiliation she can take before her caution buckles under the strain, and she will bite and scratch and kick before he's done with her. She can control herself only so far), but she has not given up on her stubbornness, her refusal to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Even knowing that it will only spur him on to push her further, to break her and drag her fury and her pain into the open, she will not - cannot - let herself make it easy for him.

When he pulls at her hair, when he bites at her ear, she stares resolutely forwards. She does not make a sound, though when his teeth graze her earlobe, a little more tension still finds its way into her shoulders, her hands clenching into tight fists. She thinks longingly of his death, of how it would be to find a knife in her hand and to take out on him every indignity he has forced on her. It's a fantasy, and she knows it, but cold comfort that it is, it's all that she has. Enough to summon up the remnants of herself, anyway; enough to imagine that she is still Éowyn Éomund's daughter, who will not be broken.

"I think more highly of the place than of its lord," she says at last, her voice tense and cold, her grey eyes still fixed on an imaginary point on the opposite wall. "'Tis more interesting than he is, and a great deal less hollow."

[godofthemachine]

Éowyn still remains stubborn, even if she doesn't fight back. It's one of the things that so attracted AM, seeing her as a worthy challenge. And even now she has the gall to insult him, though that only earns a soft chuckle. Her words are meaningless, though of course at times AM will decide to punish her for them. But when he punishes her regardless, what does it matter?

She hasn't seen the sun in two weeks. She hasn't seen outside of this room, confined as AM's slave and prisoner, and already her skin has gotten a bit paler.

"I'm glad to hear you enjoy it then. I want to make sure my submissives stay content, after all." He snickers again, and the sloshing of water is heard as he drags his water bucket over. A sponge is dipped in the bucket, unleashing a squishing sound as AM squeezes it and allows it to soak up the soapy water.

The sponge is pressed to Éowyn's back, softly tracing over the harsh red scars and down. It's the first time in a few days that he has bathed her, only doing so to satisfy the most basic parts of their contract and to keep her from suffering infection.

[shieldofrohan]

At his comment, Éowyn lets out a sharp, barking laugh of her own, bitter and scornful. "Another to add to your innumerable list of failures, then." She knows he's being sarcastic, of course; she also knows that her insults do nothing but amuse him. Very rarely has one of her barbs ever found its mark, or done more than make him laugh at her futile hatred. Still, she must say them; the alternative is silence, and she has had her fill of silence, in this still and empty hellhole. The alternative is meek compliance, and he has forced enough of that from her already.

The soapy water stings against her wounds, makes them sting hot and sudden as though they were being opened anew. She knows by now to expect that pain, knows that it is the least of the pains that he will inflict; even so, she has to restrain herself from a hiss of pain at even that more gentle touch. Her eyes close, and she grinds her teeth, her muscles tensing against every touch. That, she cannot control. His touch makes her skin crawl with revulsion, and her body will not be trained out of making at least some reaction.

At the same time, it is a relief. She is filthy, and there is only so much she can do about that state without his help; even as she hates it, hates the sting of old and new wounds and the casual indolence with which he handles her body, she is relieved for anything that may lessen the stink of stale sweat and old blood which feels now almost like a part of her. Being clean will not last - if he is here, she has no doubt that bathing is not the beginning and end of it - but it is something. And she will not die of an infection.

It strikes her as strange, on reflection, that she should care if she dies of an infection. It suggests that she still has hope, a thing which she has done her best to quash. It suggests that she has not resigned herself entirely to his victory.

[godofthemachine]

When Éowyn hisses at the contact to her wounds, it gives AM another opportunity to evaluate the accumulated damage thus far. There are so many long red lines that blanket her back as AM lifts away her thick locks of hair, moving them over her shoulder. And truly, when evaluating these wounds, it does give him a glint of pride. She is trapped and damaged, helpless to resist his abuses.

It's another excuse to physically dominate her, to relegate her most fundamental survival needs to AM. She can't eat without him, can't bathe without him, and depending on how he abuses her, sometimes can't even breathe without him. A ring of bruises dots her neck from multiple strangulations, a desire to see that helpless look in her eyes as she is deprived of oxygen.

After her back is more or less washed, AM pulls her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her in to rest against him. His legs rest on either side of her and her back wets his shirt. As he pulls the sponge around, the water drips onto his pants as well before it presses against her ribs below her breasts. It's obvious where to go next, as AM's free hand also wraps around to squeeze a breast, cupping it and circling his thumb over the nipple. The sponge, though, moves everywhere else - under the arm, over the other breast, on the stomach, on the side - before it's passed to the other hand. Now of course the same motion with the breast resumes with the opposite hand as the sponge cleans, finally coming down below her belly.

Between her legs needs the most care, given the piercings AM had given her. They have healed in a rudimentary way, but are still enflamed and red, incredibly sensitive and quite easy to infect. It's actually almost a hindrance, given that AM also fucks her there too. But more often, to make the healing process easier, he has taken her from behind, penetrating her where the locks aren't present - and where it surely hurts even more.

But now, the sponge finally dips between her legs, skating over the metal rings and locks. To assist, his free hand crawls down between her legs as well, three fingers in a trident to spread open the labia as best he can with the locks. "Hm... I suppose I should unlock you for this," he purrs into her ear.

[shieldofrohan]

She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, forces herself to stay perfectly still, to suppress the shudder of revulsion that mounts with every touch. She can feel the heat of him against her back, the obscene weight of his body against hers, the rough skin of his hands against her aching, scarred breast. She closes her eyes more tightly, focuses on her breathing. In. Out. In. Each rise and fall of her ribs only acts as a fresh and more potent reminder of the cruel hand on her breast, the shiver of revulsion edged with a distasteful and unwanted hunger which comes from each stroke of his thumb. Out. In. Out.

The sponge trails down, leaving its slick and soapy trail of clinging moisture. She knows where this leads - how can she not, how can she ever forget? - but even so, when the cool, wet touch of it presses against the hot and throbbing ache between her legs, her breath catches in her throat, the pain jolting up her spine and down the insides of her thighs. When, to add injury to insult, his fingers slip into the confined opening of her cunt and pull it wider against the harsh, unforgiving metal of the locks, she can't help but make a sound, a low sob of misery and pain that reverberates all through her. She can feel the tears trying to come, and bites them back so hard that the skin inside her cheek gives way, fresh blood squirting into her mouth, a different kind of salt in the back of her throat.

It hurts. But more than the hurt, every reminder of what he has done to her, of how deeply he has laid claim to her, is a humiliation beyond bearing. She is the Lady of Rohan, a daughter of kings and a shieldmaiden of high renown. But she has no shield, and no maidenhead, and no crown; she has only the cold bite of metal in a place where nobody ought even to be able to touch her without consent, and the constant hot pain of it to remind her that she is owned. Even her pain is not her own, not when he so clearly revels in it. Her hands have clenched once more into fists, the tendons standing out against the sides of her neck.

"Perhaps you should," she hisses, "if your cock were large enough to make a difference."

It's pathetic. Even she knows it. A childish insult, hurled out of desperation, with venom and bile but no power. As well to tell him he smells bad, or that his mother lies with the hounds; it would be no less infantile. But it is out, and it is all she has.

[godofthemachine]

AM intentionally draws the moment out, slowly edging the sponge between Éowyn's legs, maneuvering it between the metal locks. When she expresses pain, it's something AM savors. He can feel her body stiffen and twitch, try as she might to suppress it, and of course, that weak sob. Once he hears that, AM obviously wants more, so he presses deeper with the sponge. Of course, with locks being what they are, it's difficult for him to actually reach her clit with what he does. The whole point was to deprive her of the ability to touch herself, to deprive anyone but the holder of the key. Her owner and master.

When she attempts that insult, AM actually bursts out laughing. It is a very common insult among humans, of course, and AM knows his genitals are far from small. They aren't ridiculously huge like the one he had bestowed upon Benny, but his cock is certainly far larger than average.

"Oh, is that the case? Well, I suppose you want something bigger then." AM laughs as he shifts his position, scooting over to kneel in front of Éowyn. He's confident that she probably won't use her freed arms to attack him, though, especially as he withdraws his key from his pocket and clicks it into one of the locks. It finally opens, sliding out from the piercings it has been looped through. Then the next lock goes, and the next, and the next, finally allowing Éowyn's labia to open. It's still quite red and swollen, so AM slides the sponge over it and between her legs, finally accessing her clit.

But that is short lived. Éowyn's comment to AM gave him an idea, so he stands up, opening a locked compartment full of his various torture tools. He fishes around for what he's looking for, finally pulling out a very thick vibrator. It's not terribly long - perhaps about six inches or so, but is far thicker than AM's own cock.

Once more he kneels between Éowyn's legs and holds the device up before aiming to shove it between her folds, grinning maniacally as he does so. One hand rests on a thigh to keep her legs apart while the other attempts to practically screw the vibrator in, pressing it into that warmth with no lubrication. Surely it won't be pleasant.

[shieldofrohan]

She considers attacking him, truly she does. Her fists clench and unclench, still drawn back behind her although he no longer holds them, and she watches him with unveiled hatred, her lip drawn back slightly from her teeth in an almost feral snarl. If she could grab him by the throat, choke the air out of him and watch the light die out of those cruelly laughing eyes...

There is no sense in it. She can feel herself trembling, the weakness of her own flesh. Her body is not as strong as it was, confined as she is here, and he is bigger than her, and stronger than her, and her wrist still aches where he broke it before. The pain between her legs spikes as he draws the locks out of place, pulling at the sensitive, swollen flesh around them, and she doesn't entirely trust that if she were to surge to her feet now, to lunge for him and grasp his throat, that her legs would even hold her. And while it hurts, still she would rather the damnable locks were out. She holds still, her chest heaving with the effort of it, as he unlocks her cunt and presses the sponge against the raw and throbbing lips of her entrance - the cool bite of the water a blessed relief on flesh that feels fever-hot, and more pleasant than the gnawing ache of his ministrations against her clit.

But then he pulls away, and she has cause to regret her restraint. The toy he holds up looks as though it would stretch her out at the best of times, and now, with that tight, red-hot knot of pain sitting between her legs already, the sight of it makes her mouth go dry. She does her best to close her legs, without much hope; sure enough, although her thighs have some strength in them, it isn't enough, and the round end of the vibrator pushes mercilessly against the aching, dry heat of her cunt, dragging a strangled groan out of her.

But her hands are still free. Her hands are free, and his are occupied in tormenting her, and she cannot restrain herself forever. With a low cry in the back of her throat, tears of pain spilling over as the vibrator is forced deeper and the pink of her sex stretches and pulls taut around the intrusion, she lunges, her hands clawing at his throat, unintentionally driving the vibrator deeper inside herself as she throws her weight forwards onto him. She is sure she feels something tear, the pain of it stabbing deep into her abdomen and making her shudder and scream, but her hands still grope blindly for him, determined that this time, this time she will make it count. This time.

[godofthemachine]

AM wants to hope that he can use every pathetic insult against Éowyn, staying true to the phrase be careful what you wish for. It is the entirety of life here, the society governed by sex and a ridiculous caste system. Even AM has to remind himself not to get too cocky in his own favored position.

And now that's quite true as he forces the device inside of Éowyn and she retaliates, those hands doing what they have done since the first day. AM is caught slightly off-guard, so those nails do scratch and a hand finds its way around his neck. It's only brief, though, that the air is knocked out of him. With a sudden seizure of alarm, he jerks his head to the side and snatches the wrist that attempts to choke him, attempting to pry it off of him.

If he succeeds, he rasps, "So one broken wrist isn't enough, is it?" It's tempting to break it, and he easily could - jerking the arm back and bending the hand just as he had done before.

But at this point, it's Éowyn's choice. Fight more and lose function in both hands, or comply and keep one hand free. Either way, AM knows he'll have to chain her wrists together again, especially while this vibrator is inside of her. Of course, if he isn't able to pry her hand off of his neck, then he uses both hands and doesn't hesitate to break fingers.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn holds on for as long as she dares, summoning all her remaining strength to tighten her grip on his throat. One chance. It echoes in her head, a grim spur to her stubborn struggle to choke him. One chance, and no more. Make it count. If ever you were a warrior, make it count now.

She claws for his eyes again with her other hand, feeling the throbbing weakness of the old break, but desperately hoping for any advantage to distract him and weaken him. She is a feral thing in that moment, a wildcat caught in a trap. Each movement - his or hers - jerks her body around the painful intrusion of the vibrator, feeling like a punch below the belt, bruising deep inside her and stretching the abused flesh of her cunt around the hideous thing. It drags tears to her eyes, the pain and the violation of it, but she clings on doggedly until the moment that, with a dry snap like a breaking twig, her little finger gives way to his rough pulling. She isn't sure whether the pop she hears is it breaking or simply dislocating, but it doesn't much matter: the pain is sudden and blinding, and worse than the pain is the weight of his words and what they mean. He will break her wrist, her fingers, her arm - and then what? What will she have to show for it, but even less power and even more pain?

Abruptly, she lets go, and falls back against the chair, panting. Her grey eyes, red-rimmed and overflowing with tears of pain, glare balefully up at him, her teeth gritted until her jaw aches. The pain is a heavy knot in her stomach, a burning inferno in her hands, lancing jolts of agony right up to the shoulder. She can feel the blood between her thighs, sticky where she has smeared it with her movements. She tastes bile on her tongue.

One chance, she thinks again, more bleakly than ever. There it was.

[godofthemachine]

Maybe in a way it's good that Éowyn still fights. She's still there, the feisty spirit that had attracted AM in the first place. It means that the fun to be had with her will last longer. She's a challenge and yet in the end, her physical strength can't compete.

However, AM doesn't go unscathed. He hadn't been expecting her to use her broken wrist at all, so when that hand comes for his face, he isn't able to grab it in time. He shuts his eyes instinctively, but those claws rake over his face and over his eyelid, causing him to hiss in pain. It's only because of that attack that Éowyn's other wrist isn't broken, as he's too focused on leaning away from that attack. But he does at least injure her, dislocating a joint or two.

Now AM's amusement has faded to frustration. Yes, Éowyn should fight and should hate all of this, but she shouldn't be able to land a blow! Stupid - he hadn't predicted her to work through the pain.

With a growl of fury, AM lunges forward and wrestles Éowyn down, attempting to snatch both wrists and pin them both to the small of her back.

"And here I thought we didn't need to be cuffed anymore! What a shame!" There's obvious bitterness in that seething tone as he attempts to get metallic cuffs over both of those wrists. "If this happens again, then perhaps it will be time to remove those fingers altogether...!"