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.

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[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.

[shieldofrohan]

She fights against his grip, of course, but quickly begins to flag, cold despair seeping into her veins and weakening her. Even Éowyn, stubborn as she is, has to admit to herself that she can't fight forever. Exhaustion is beginning to numb her; she had already fought hard before she ever came to the stage where he found her, and always against those stronger and better-armed than herself. As he starts to punch keys, she lets herself stop fighting for a moment, focusing on steadying her breathing and bringing the world back into focus, on readying herself for whatever comes next.

What comes next, as her vision starts to clear, is the room. The chair. The blood. The chains.

It is that last part which makes her cry out, furious and afraid, and begin to fight his grip again, with less finesse than sheer, blind panic. She remembers being bound before, at his hands, and the chain makes that memory real again, so real that she feels it as if it were still happening, the sharp pain in her breasts, the heat of his body against hers, the eyes of the crowd...

Panic brings with it a surge of strength, but it makes her clumsy, too, robs her of any skill she has in fighting. Instead, she finds herself just trying instinctively to get away, pulling against his grip, twisting and shoving at him in a way more likely to hurt herself than to do any real damage to him. She is horrified to find that her vision is blurring again, this time with unwanted tears.

[godofthemachine]

While AM knows that he certainly scarred Éowyn emotionally, it's difficult for him to know the depth without being around her regularly. He doesn't know her life or her fears, other than what she exhibits. Still, it's easy for him to surmise that she certainly values her independence. She's prideful. And well, isn't pride one of the cardinal sins?

Needless to say, though, Éowyn's reaction to the room is both amusing and annoying. It's easy to detect when the realization hits her that she's not just going to be any ordinary submissive. No. She's going to be his toy. Just the room alone suggests that she's in for an indeterminate amount of time reduced to a plaything. The time is only indeterminate because who knows how long her life will last?

Still, AM feels a significant tug at his grip on her as she fights and yells and seems to shove every last ounce of strength into this. It's commendable, in fact... But the fact is that she's far outmatched in strength. AM just huffs as he attempts to reel her back, pulling her toward the chair as he slams the door behind him with his other hand.

And now to restrain her further, after the door is slammed, he slams the same hand toward her face, reeling forward to shove her into the wall, hopefully let her head smash against it.

[shieldofrohan]

Her head hits the wall with a dull thunk, and for a moment, pain washes over her - a numb, dull pain that tinges everything in red. She thinks, for a second or perhaps an age, that he's hit her harder than he meant to; that perhaps he's cracked her skull, perhaps this dizzying wave of crimson is what comes before oblivion. Perhaps this is how she dies. The thought is almost peaceful. It would not be so bad, to die.

Of course, she is not so lucky. Unconsciousness hovers in front of her, but just out of reach; her eyes roll up into her head for a moment, and she goes limp again, this time not from choice, but she's still all too aware - aware of his hot hand against her head, his bruising grip on her, aware of the echoes of the door that's slammed on even the little freedom of the city. Her stomach twists, and she gags weakly, not hard enough to bring anything up. There is fresh blood matting on one side of her scalp now, dark against her golden hair.

Reeling and semi-conscious as she is, AM will doubtless have no trouble in getting her into the chair. He's got a minute or two, at least, before she can regain her composure enough to fight back.

[godofthemachine]

Disorientation is a decent weapon for AM. It's a delicate balance - he wants to incapacitate her, and yet doesn't want to kill her or cause severe brain damage. A bump on the head is unlikely to do the latter two, but something that is enough to incapacitate her is a whole different matter.

With her body going limp, AM takes advantage of the moment and grabs her, keeping her close to him. Since Éowyn is still conscious for the most part, AM does have to make sure she stays put when she is finally in the chair, so with her in hand, he bends down to pick up the scattered chain on the floor.

So now he has to act quickly, shoving her into the chair and pressing a hand against her to keep her there. As long as she doesn't fight back much, her arms are grabbed behind the chair, the wrists bound together with the chain wrapping up the arms and around the back of the chair, essentially keeping her bound to it.

Her legs are still free, but those can be dealt with easily. As long as he has her trapped, she is his for the taking. So when she's bound up, AM lifts a boot, placing it atop one of her thighs as a perch. Knowing, though, that she would probably use her other leg to attack his groin, his other boot presses atop the bare foot, keeping it secure against the floor.

"Too bad, really. Had you been more cooperative, I might have given you a nicer room."

[shieldofrohan]

She does fight - even now, she fights, can't conceive of doing anything else - but it's a weak struggle, and a doomed one. The chain is ice-cold against her bare skin, raising gooseflesh where it falls, biting at the taut muscle of her arms and digging against her back. With her arms bound behind her that way, her shoulders are pulled back, arching her back and pressing her chest up and out.

He's quite right that her next move is to try to kick him, and even with his boot on her foot, she pulls against the weight of him, trying to use her bonds as leverage to pull herself away from him.

She looks up at him, hating the fact that she has to look up at him, that she's put in a position where she feels almost as though she's been made to kneel. For all the agony and horror of the last time he got his hands on her, at least then she could look him in the eye. Naked, bound, and in a position that can only be read as submissive, it makes her feel sick to think how much the city has already succeeded in humiliating her through this - and that it has only just begun.

[godofthemachine]

If AM were at all attracted to the human form in more than the most basic of ways, he would certainly find Éowyn rather fetching. But her true beauty comes from her naked vulnerability, bound up in chains like a true slave, completely helpless before him. There is some blood from being attacked, but it's nothing compared to what AM plans to do to her in the future. After all, he paid good money for her. He's going to get good use from his newest pet.

"Hmm... Maybe if you don't kick me, I won't need to chain your ankles up," he tells her, pressing his boot harshly into her foot. She tries to pull it away, of course, and he knows that she is going to kick him, so obviously he will need to restrain her somehow.

"But it's up to you. Cooperate, and perhaps it won't be so bad..." His legs shift slightly, though he keeps his feet pressed where they were, trying to keep her legs down. But all the while, he leans in, taking hold of her thick curls and pressing his lips to the side of her neck - inhaling her scent, tasting her flesh. He expects she'll retaliate, of course - perhaps try to bite him, which is to be expected. He almost wants it. And yet she may not, in which case his lips will press further along her neck.

[shieldofrohan]

She laughs at that - a sudden, jagged sound, bitterly sardonic and entirely unfeigned. "Perhaps, indeed!" There is no merriment in her voice, but a kind of hollow resignation at odds with her laughter. She tenses under his touch, recoils instinctively from his mouth with a look of disgust, but chained as she is, she can hardly hope to escape his parody of a kiss. "Perhaps a warg will sit and beg, and a brigand spare the passing poor. But I will not stake my chances on perhaps."

She doesn't try to bite. She'd like to keep her teeth a while longer. Instead, she tries to headbutt him again, ignoring the sharp pain of his hand in her hair, and at the same time her briefly-limp body twists under him, not kicking so much as kneeing. She has no illusions of her chances. Bound as she is, it would take a miracle to incapacitate him, and even then, she would be bound in a place where none but him might come for days, or weeks, or longer.

But no matter what she does, he means to hurt her. No matter how she acts, he means to rape her, to torture her, to enslave her. He has made that clear. No matter what she does, he will hurt her, and he will hurt her no less if she is meek and malleable: she has seen how that would please him, and men like him may be worse pleased than angry, if anything. Why, then, should she not try to hurt him in return?

[godofthemachine]

She is frustrating. Feisty. Annoying. And yet that's why AM is so drawn to her. There are plenty in this city who are meek, whom he could easily mold and shape to his desires as much as he wants. And then there are those who present a significant challenge, but... not an unwinnable one. There are overpowered submissives in this city that AM would love to beat down and claim for his own, such as Jonathan Reid, but his own power can't compete. At least not for now.

Éowyn is the next best thing - a challenge, but one he can win. Now he's in the position where she will fall to him, even with a fight, but eventually her mind will be so warped that the fight will be gone. Will she still be fun then? Perhaps. And yet he won't have to worry about bruises from where those knees jab into him.

"Fine then, keep fighting." He winces as a knee drives into his thigh, and he smashes his foot down even harder to keep her foot in place. Ugh, he does need to chain them up, doesn't he? Fine. She's not going to stop, so he won't stop either.

Fortunately, the chain around her wrists is long enough that it can wrap around to both of her ankles, so he reaches behind her to grab the loose metal links, pulling them toward him as he finally kneels down. Now, this kneeling obviously frees one of Éowyn's legs, as AM no longer pins it down with a knee. And the other foot, pinned beneath his boot, is freed at least temporarily as he shifts his foot beneath him to kneel.

As quickly as he can, he grabs her ankle, attempting to pin it to the chair leg. If he can, he'll wrap the metal chain around both the leg and the chair, winding it several times to keep it tight and secure before affixing a lock.

[shieldofrohan]

Freeing even one of her legs is a dangerous move on AM's part. Éowyn's legs are strong and well-muscled, fit not only for riding a horse, but for kicking like one, too. It's hard to aim a kick as precisely as she would like, bound as she is and with her head still spinning a little, but she makes up for it by putting as much force as she can behind it, aiming for his head, his throat, his chest - anything in reach, anything that will hurt. She wants to break something - his nose, his jaw, his neck - but she'll settle for just leaving a nasty bruise or two.

Still, there's only so much she can do. To her disgust - and, yes, her horror - he has her right where he wants her; he need only move to the side, or back out of reach, and there is nothing she can do against him. And she is tiring, even through the adrenaline. She has lost. They both know it. All she is doing is putting off the inevitable.

And the inevitable comes nonetheless. She has fought until she can fight no more, but he has every advantage, and at last she is chained fully, hand and foot, so that all she can do is glare, pressing her lips taut and hard, and silently promise him death some other day. She pulls a few times against the chains even after the lock clicks into place, testing their strength, their tightness, seeking any way she might escape. Then she settles into stillness, her jaw tight, her eyes closing for a moment. She is horribly aware of her own naked vulnerability, her breasts jutting forward as her back arches against the tension on her arms, her legs bound far enough apart that the cold air brushes her exposed cunt like a mocking caress. Even with her eyes closed, she could swear she feels his gaze on her, scorching her with its hungry mockery, with the triumph of his victory and his anticipation of whatever he plans to do to her.

She no longer says anything; does not trust her voice not to betray her with a quaver. When you cannot fight, all you can do is hold fast. He will not break her, she swears to herself, though her tongue feels thick in her mouth and she feels her chest tighten with dread. He will not break her. Not again.

[godofthemachine]

Any thoughts that this might be easy are quickly dashed as Éowyn fights against AM with all her might. Her legs are certainly strong - well-trained and sculpted. Plus, with the adrenaline from being captured, her body will exert more strength... So those few seconds where her ankles are free have proven to be less than ideal.

As soon as he lets up on one foot, it flies up and hits him in the side as he starts kneeling, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Perhaps it's because he has a robotic endoskeleton that he isn't as affected as he should be by that kick, or perhaps it missed a vital area. Still, he growls and snatches that ankle, wrapping the chain around and strapping it to the chair leg.

The other ankle, when temporarily freed, does end up connecting with AM's face, and he reels back, hand over his nose to stem the slow bloodflow. Still, with his other hand automatically grabbing at the ankle, he's able to hold her back for that short while as he gets his bearings, feeling his head spin for just a few moments.

He growls in fury then, glaring up at her with bright red eyes that match the color of blood dripping out of his nose. He doesn't need to say anything, as his anger is reflected purely in the harsh tightness with which that ankle is wrapped.

But still... Once that's done, he finally has her. She is chained to that chair completely, and just to make sure, he attaches a heavy lock to it. Sure, it is possible she could escape from it, as anything is possible, but the room will be locked when he leaves. However... he's not going to leave just yet. He has to play with his new submissive first.

"You know, my dear, it violates our contract if you kick me like that!" Truth be told, any contract that was signed was absolutely bare bones if at all, given that Éowyn was bought from the public square. He stands up and wipes away the blood from his mouth with a sleeve before putting his hands down on the sides of the chair to lean over her.

With a much softer tone, he says, "Then again... You would probably rather be at the People Zoo than here, wouldn't you?" He knows that she's trying to stay strong, to not break. It's obvious. And that's why he's going to enjoy what he does to her.

So to bask in the joy of having a fully captive submissive, he slowly runs a hand down her hair, twirling a curl around a finger as it traces down, and then comes to cup one of her breasts. He squeezes it just briefly before his hand traces down again over her soft flesh, down over the belly, then between her spread legs. Two of his fingers trace between her folds, gliding over the clit and below, briefly inserting themselves inside of her.

[shieldofrohan]

There's no satisfaction, even fleeting, in the crunch of his face against her heel or the oozing ribbon of blood. There ought to be something, some tiny sense of victory, but all she feels is a sick, mounting dread that overwhelms everything else. After all, she's still bound, and he still has her caught, and it wasn't even close to a strong enough kick to knock him out.

Sure enough, a moment later he's wrapping cold chain around her ankle, the links biting cruelly against her skin and crushing her foot back against the chair leg, and his blood and his anger count for nothing when she's so thoroughly, hideously immobilised. She's lost. All the pride in the world, all the stubbornness, can't deny that she's lost. Defeat twists bitterly in her throat, and she has to fight against the sting of tears trying to fight their way into her eyes. She manages to meet his eyes as he leans in, her lips pressed into a thin, white line and her teeth clenched; her face is stony, unmoving, but there's no way to hide the fear in her eyes, or their slight wetness. She's good at hiding her emotions, but not inhuman.

She also can't quite hold back how she flinches when he trails his hand through her hair, down to the breast that still bears the scars of the last time he had her tied like this. It's at that point, when he squeezes her breast and makes her gorge rise with it, that she gives up on defiantly holding his gaze: biting down hard on the inside of her cheek in a desperate effort to hold back her nausea and her tears, she turns her face away (as well as she can, with her arms pulled back at such an awkward angle) and closes her eyes tightly. As his hand continues to work downwards, unhurried and inevitable, she tries to breathe, tries to fight the disgust and panic lodged like a bone in her throat.

Then his hand is between her thighs, probing at the heat of her cunt, and although she instinctively pulls against her bonds, trying to close her legs, there is nothing she can do to prevent it. Worse, too: whether because of the adrenaline, or simply because her body is a traitor, that warm and gliding touch against her clit sends an unwanted shiver through her. At least the friction of his fingertips thrusting into her is enough to reassure her that her cunt, for now, is dry. At least there's that.

She pulls against the chains, ignoring the bruising press of them against her skin, in a desperate attempt to pull away, although she knows there's nowhere to go. Her eyes, now beginning to fill with tears despite her best efforts, open and fix on him with a furious hate.

[godofthemachine]

Stubbornness can be a good trait to have, and yet it can also be deadly. Éowyn's stubborn nature has probably helped her thus far, and in the end, who is to say that it would have saved her from AM? Had she been too easy to break, he wouldn't enjoy her so much, probably would not have decided to purchase her at the auction. Maybe it is a detriment to her, at least at this moment, because now she looks all the more alluring as she tries to hide her emotions.

As AM looms over her, he sees those tears start to prick at her eyes, even with a concentrated effort to stop them. Good. Soon they will flow, because he has only just started... And they do.

Every motion he makes now is deliberate in an effort to demean her, to make her realize she is nothing more than property, an object. And because he owns her, he can do whatever he wants to her. Her genitals are his for the taking, just as he lets his fingers glide between her legs, carefully studying every curve and bump between the folds.

When she glares at him, though, it's obvious that he has won. Even now, even as this has only begun, AM knows that she is his. The corners of his mouth twist and he bares his teeth slightly, lips parted in a sick sort of grin.

As he explores with his fingers, though, he realizes that if he keeps this up, he'll be hunching over continuously. So he pauses momentarily and grabs the other chair in the room - a much nicer one at that - and pulls it up to Éowyn. Once he's seated, though, his fingers are back between her legs, and this time they press harder, deliberately rubbing in a circular motion over her clit.

Now that he's seated, he leans forward, pressing into her body as he more or less sits on the very edge of his chair, knee perched next to her hip. The hand goes deeper then, his elbow bending as the back of his hand presses against the metal chair, palm cupping over the vulva as his fingers push their way inside of her.

Meanwhile, his face is back upon her body, teeth at her neck to bite down. They down from there as he squeezes a breast in hand, letting himself get absorbed in the passion of this encounter. No... passion would denote that he might actually care about her. A more accurate word would be power, something that he will gladly hold over her.

[shieldofrohan]

She knows that this is what he wants from her, and yet she can do nothing to stop the tension thrumming through her, the tears that sting at her swollen face and will not stop. He wants her pain, wants her humiliation. He wants her to fight against her emotions, and to lose. The hardest thing of all is to know that she is giving him exactly what he wants, and that there is no way in the world that she can stop. If she were stronger, perhaps... if she were the hero she wishes so dearly she were, perhaps she could bite it back, face this with courage and strength, and never shed a tear. After all, he has hardly even hurt her. Yes, she is a little battered, but she has withstood worse pain and never made a sound. She ought to be able to withstand this.

But it is too late; the tears are already there, her gut already twisted into knots of fear and nausea. And she knows - they both know - that pain is not the worst he has to offer. Pain can be withstood. Far worse is the humiliation of defeat, the violation of his hands and his mouth on her body, the knowledge of her own powerlessness. He bites down on her neck hard enough to wring a stifled cry from her, but even then it is not a cry of pain, but one of disgust and grief, at all that he has taken from her already and at how easily he has been able to do it.

And worse of all, worse than even the knowledge of her defeat, is the betrayal of her own body, the sickly unwanted pleasure that comes from his rough hand circling her clit, tracing her folds, pressing inside her to find, no doubt, the treacherous slickness of arousal. She would far sooner be tortured to death than this; rather be flayed and torn limb from limb. At least no-one could claim that she enjoyed that. At least she herself would not wonder whether she did.

She presses her lips tighter together, digging her teeth against them until the abused skin splits again, a thick dribble of blood joining the tears that stubbornly course down her face. Under his hand, her scarred nipple is hard. From the cold, she tells herself, only the cold. But his fingers find little resistance as they push into her, and so it is hard to convince herself that she feels nothing. It is impossible not to feel the heat that pools between her legs, the treacherous lust that even a body so abused may find in itself at the worst moments.

[godofthemachine]

AM is taking his sweet time at this point, prodding her and exploring her body instead of immediately commencing with outright fucking her. Of course he will do that soon, but right now he wants to get to know his newest submissive. He wants to know what makes her tick, wants to know how easily she can break.

Funny how she says nothing to him, no more cutting words, no more insults, just the silence of defeat, with the occasional involuntary noise. Maybe he should gag her, but that can come later. If she's forced to be silent, then she will have an excuse to hold back her tears. But the voluntary silence, AM assumes, is the only thing keeping her tears from flowing harder.

AM breaks the silence then when he feels between her folds, prodding inside and feeling distinct wetness. Arousal. Her nipples are hard when he fondles her breast, but she is naked in a cold room. Ah, he can't wait to pierce them again now that he thinks about it. Éowyn's breasts are lovely, and would look far better with chains pierced into the skin to denote her lowly status. Still, the silence is broken when he softly laughs, grinning against her collar with a muffled sound.

"Just because you're my submissive doesn't mean that this can't be a mutually beneficial relationship, after all..." Last time, he hadn't done anything to pleasure her. It was all a show of power, a raw beatdown and rape to humiliate her in front of a crowd. This time there is no crowd, but that doesn't mean the humiliation can't be just as potent.

AM shifts his position again, bringing his other knee to the floor, transferring from a half-seated position to simply kneeling before Éowyn. He places one hand on each knee as he leans in, her exposed warmth right before his eyes. Only a momentary pause with a broad smile then before he presses his lips to the top of her labia, tongue starting to circle between the folds over the clit.

[shieldofrohan]

"Hold your filthy tongue." Her voice is low and taut, thick with the effort it takes to hold it steady. It is an empty gesture, of course, and the command that might ring in her voice is muffled by her clear distress. Still, she is not yet so far gone that she will let what he says pass without comment. She will not let it go unchallenged. "There is no benefit, no relationship. I..." She bites down on a sharp intake of breath as his breath brushes her exposed cunt, and tightens her jaw. "I despise you."

His kneeling is somehow worse for its irony; a sick parody of respect or submission. There is a way in which she feels kneeling is where he belongs: she would gladly see him kneel in surrender, or crawl on his belly like the snake he is. And yet, even here, he has the power, and there is nothing she can do to prevent his mouth, burning hot compared to the cold air, from closing over her clit. This time, she can't hold back the little whimper that rises to her lips, or the sharp twitch of her hips and thighs against the bonds that hold her. Her legs flex vainly against the chains, and succeed only in digging the metal more tightly into her skin. If she were only free to move, if her well-muscled thighs could only close, she feels sure she could at least hurt him, if not crush his skull. If she could close her legs, turn the trap against him...

But she cannot. She can do nothing but tense uselessly, until she feels the sharp pain of muscle straining beyond what it can bear, and finally collapses back onto the metal chair, unable to pull away from him, unable to fight. Still his mouth is on her, driving against her with pleasure that is worse than pain, a mocking parody of intimacy. She feels her body answer his attentions, no matter how she might demand that it do otherwise; feels the slick heat of her arousal and the swelling of her clit under his tongue. No matter how she might try to keep her breathing even, it catches in her throat, her heart skipping and thundering in her ears.

She speaks louder to drown out the telltale drumming of blood in her ears, speaks with a venom that she can only summon with an effort. She no longer cares how she sounds to him, that he can hear the tears and the tremble in her voice; just now, all that matters is that she say something, that she not allow him to overcome her so easily. "One day, you will... you will kneel in truth, worm. You will crawl and beg. And I will show thee no less mercy than you have shewn to me."

Her mouth is dry, her breath unsteady. Under the blood and tears, her colour is high. Defiance has not left her yet, it seems - but nor can she hide her defeat, not when her whole body cries it.

[godofthemachine]

At first, AM says nothing. His mouth is occupied, after all, his rather puffy lips pressed between Éowyn's legs. Her legs, while muscular, still hold the softness of flesh as AM runs one of his hands up the inside of her thigh. But he can feel the goosebumps prickle her skin as well - from the cold or from her fear, who can say?

The noise that AM does make, though, is a muffled laugh right into her flesh, purposely letting his lips and tongue vibrate with the motion. He's probably not the best at delivering oral pleasure, given that his fine motor skills leave something to be desired, but he is at least very practiced, and he knows he is doing something, given the way she reacts.

And it is amusing how Éowyn reacts, so his laughter isn't forced. Her voice sounds on the verge of breaking, like she's trying to convince herself that she isn't already far gone. What a joke.

He just presses deeper in response, hands gripping at her thighs to keep them open (even if the chains keep them in place as is). His tongue stretches out, folding against her clit, then unrolling down. His mouth opens wide, as if he's hungrily kissing her. And in a sense, that's what he's doing, isn't it? Ah, but if he were to kiss her...

Suddenly he bites down on the side of her labia, letting his teeth scrape down and between her folds. Another nip here and there, he no longer decides to be tender with this act.

[shieldofrohan]

The pain of his teeth - a sharp, hot pain that jerks through her and makes her jolt against her bonds - is a bitter relief. It is humiliating, of course; and with her traitorous body responding to his touch, her labia starting to swell with arousal, it stings sharply; it is a pain too intimate to ignore and too sudden to control her reaction to, and she cannot bite back the cry that rises to her lips.

But it is pain. It is simple, and sharp, and though it reminds her of her helplessness and despair, at least no part of her wants it. There is none of that confusion, of her body warring with her mind. Pain is pain. An attack is an attack. Better this than some sick mockery of tenderness.

And yet...

And yet, it is too late. His laughter still echoes through her, makes the heat of embarrassment crash against the cold dread of despair; he already knows. He can feel, smell, taste her arousal, the wet beads of unwanted lust. He can see how her clit presses up against its hood. Can he hear how her heart thunders, how her breath catches with fear and fury and that hot and vicious need thrust upon her? Does he know that it is not only the cold that makes her nipples stand hard and proud, not only exertion and fear that has brought that thin sheen of sweat to her skin? The laugh tells her that he does, that in this too she is betrayed by her own body, which all her life she has trusted. And the pain does not worsen it - but neither does it make it better, at least not enough.

She has said that she fears neither pain nor death. Indeed, often she has sought them - but sought them to prove she can withstand them, that like the heroes of old she can hold to her courage and her nobility in the face of suffering. There is a warped nobility to enduring a sword to the gut or a backhand to the face.

There is no nobility in this. The pain is meaningless, minor compared to some of what he did before, and yet she weeps at it, because it is meaningless. Because it is a relief of sorts from his intimate mockery, but that relief comes too late, and with a new kind of despair she sees that any pain, any relief, will now come too late. He has taken something from her, something intangible and indescribable, and she feels its loss in the hollowness of pain. And worse: she knows he has scarcely begun.

[godofthemachine]

The biting provides a nice contrast for AM, an action that satisfies a primal urge to violently dominate. Yes, he rather enjoys the pure power he holds from delivering pleasure, but why not give little hints of what is to come? As Éowyn utters a sharp cry from the bite, it is a noise that AM has craved, one that seems to reverberate from her throat, all the way down directly into AM's body, hardening his cock. He laughs again after his teeth trail down, biting over the sensitive skin of her inner labia.

Now her skin has become more sensitive from the biting, so of course his tongue needs to soothe it... And that's what it does. The tongue flares over the opening, curling into the wet entrance before lathing back up and over the swollen labia once more. The tongue traces the fresh bitemarks, circling over them briefly before returning to the primary focus, the clitoris.

As he traces his tongue over her delicate parts, AM finds one of his hands slipping between his own legs, beneath the belt of his pants, fondling his erection. He can't help himself when this power he holds is so intoxicating, after all. Every noise Éowyn makes seems to cause a jerk of his hips, a rush of blood to his groin.

But then again, why should he masturbate and waste a perfectly good opportunity? Sometimes his refractory period is longer than he would like, after all. And with Éowyn as a fresh new victim, he needs to break her in in the most satisfying way...

Whether or not, then, that Éowyn is close to her own climax doesn't matter to AM now. If she's close, then it's all the more fun to cut her off. If not, then he has plenty more time in the future to make her squirm in pleasure. But he pulls back, lifting an arm to drag across his mouth and wipe the excess saliva and juices away, before standing up and wordlessly undoing his belt and pants, letting them fall to his ankles.

Éowyn gets a good view, then, of his erection as he stands before her, smirking in anticipation. So it's only a few moments before he's back to straddling her, pressing his cock against her abdomen, twisting a hand in her hair as his lips ravish her neck once more.

[shieldofrohan]

There's something grotesquely hypnotic about his anticipation, the cruel smirk playing on his full lips. Éowyn can't bring herself to look away, no matter how loud the part of her that cries for her to close her eyes and close herself off to this whole vile situation; she can't be elsewhere. Her eyes dart from his hooded, darkened eyes down to the thick cock that stands proud and erect from the dark, coarse thatch of hair between his legs. It seems to pulse in time to her own too-fast heartbeat, to the throbbing ache of her cunt where his teeth have bruised the tender skin. She swallows hard, her mouth dry, and as he straddles her and moves to kiss her throat, she tries in vain to push him away the only way she can think to, with jerky, unsteady movements of her head that do nothing to keep his hot mouth off her.

His cock presses roughly against her taut belly, hot and hard, and there is no reason this should be any worse an indignity than anything else she has suffered. But it is worse, for the simple reason that part of her - that traitorous, animal part that wets her cunt and tautens her nipples, that dragged those low sounds from her throat as his tongue probed the deep pink folds of her pussy - wants it to press elsewhere. Her mind recoils from the thought, but her loins, aching as they might be from his teeth, long to be filled, to be touched.

She mutters something in her own tongue, low and muffled - not to him, not this time, not insults and recriminations, but something that might almost be taken for a prayer. "Toloce Eorlingas," she murmurs, her voice low and taut. "Wan éaðmód. Wan alief." There is a ferociousness in her tone, but it is aimed inward, not out. I am of the Eorlingas. I do not yield. I do not allow it. Again and again she mutters it, through gritted teeth; it means nothing, she fears, is as meaningless as her threats or her insults, but to say it is to have something to focus on besides the need that he has left coiling like a serpent in the pit of her belly, gnawing and burning, making her wet cunt clench and shift against the air as if to draw him in, making her hips twitch and her breath come in low, hoarse groans. He slobbers against her neck like an animal, she thinks, his mouth scorching against her skin, his body a solid weight against her. And forgive her, oh, forgive her, but she wants him to have done with it already, if he means to do it; let him fuck her if he must, but let this aching lust be gone, let him merely hurt her again.

"Wan éaðmód," she hisses again, and closes her eyes tightly, for all the good it does - it can't disguise the heat of him, the reek of his sweat, the bruising pressure of his engorged cock against her. "Wan alief. Toloce Eorlingas. Wan alief..."

With the sweat beading on her skin, with the maddening itch of need between her thighs, it is hard not to feel that all those negations and protestations are lies. It is hard not to feel that she has already submitted, willing or no; that her body has made a liar of her, and that she has already let him overcome her spirit. She has never hated anyone with the same dark fury, or the same hopelessness, that she hates him now; nobody, that is, except perhaps herself.

[godofthemachine]

It doesn't matter what she says, as nothing can stop the truth of the matter. Éowyn belongs to AM now. She is his submissive, his property, a toy that he can do with as he pleases. The contract that was purchased along with her had only the most basic of rules, nothing that provided protection for her except for the basics - food and shelter. And, well, this secure room certainly serves as such, right? She'll get food, after all, when she needs it.

AM can understand her mantra, but that's all it is: a mantra. A last grip on sanity, on control, something that Éowyn desperately needs. And that's the only reason why AM needs to shut her up now - she can't have control.

As his teeth bite into her neck like a bloodthirsty vampire, she mutters her words even as his hand twists her head by the hair. But he pauses his motion, slowly pulling back to get a better look at her bruised face.

"Ah, I knew I forgot something..."

Once more he climbs off of her, staggering over to his locked cabinet. Every step feels almost painful, as his erection is naked and desperate. But this will make the reward all the sweeter, won't it? So he grabs a ball-gag from his assortment and returns, once more straddling his newest submissive. Without another word, he attempts to slip the gag on her, holding her head steady with one hand on the hair, a vice grip close to the scalp.

He fully expects a struggle, as this is a deliberate attempt to rip away any control she has over the situation, any denial over the sheer truth of her position.

[shieldofrohan]

Her muttering dies away as he climbs off her, and she watches him with baleful eyes as he moves to the cabinet. It's a respite, at least, though not one that she expects to last; her chest heaves as she tries to take the moment to breathe a little deeper, to regain what command of herself she can. To tamp down on that insistent, nagging heat in her belly, force it back into the darkness where it belongs. If through force of will alone she could draw the droplets of slick moisture back up and out of her cunt, she would. As it is, all she can do is try to wrestle her own arousal to the back of her mind, her eyes never leaving AM for a moment as he unlocks the cabinet.

She isn't surprised by what he's holding when he turns back to her. When he grabs her hair again, she has already clamped her mouth tightly shut, grinding her teeth together, locking her jaw as firmly as she can. He's right to expect a struggle, although it isn't just denial that drives her, or dread of yet another layer of helplessness. All of that is there, of course, a heavy knot in the pit of her belly - but more than that, the struggle is all she has. The one thing he cannot force her to do is consent. The one thing she can do against him is refuse to make it easy. It doesn't even matter that she knows, deep down, that's what he wants - knows he takes sick pleasure in seeing her struggle in vain against him, knows he would be disappointed if she gave in so easily.

It doesn't matter. She cannot give up the struggle. She is, after all, the one who has to live with the knowledge if she surrenders.

Her eyes burn like grey embers from her swollen face, and she tightens her jaw until the pain lances up through her bruised cheek into her skull. She doesn't try to escape his grip - his hand is too close to her scalp and his arm too strong for struggling against it to do anything but take her attention off the important thing, which is keeping her mouth closed. Her nostrils flare, the tendons standing out from her neck, and she clenches her fists against the chains that bind them. It occurs to her that there is nothing to stop him from breaking her jaw, or knocking her teeth out, to force the horrible gag in. It doesn't occur to her to be afraid of that. All she's afraid of, right now, is her own defeat, already upon her, and having it driven further home. And, if she's honest, of that hard and throbbing priapism she can feel once more driving against her belly, hot and purple with lust. She's afraid of that, as well.

[godofthemachine]

The struggle that AM gets is something he expects, and yet it still provides a challenge. It's annoying enough where he gets irritated, where the challenge proves to be outside of that sweet balance of feeling like he has power over a strong being - instead just existing as an annoying exercise in near-futility.

She clamps her jaw down so hard that AM wonders if she would shatter her own teeth, or develop TMJ or something similar. But she's right in that there is nothing stopping AM from beating her until she opens her mouth, so that's what he does - he draws back a closed fist and aims it toward her face, hoping that the blow will relax her jaw enough. The only reason AM doesn't want to completely dislocate her jaw, though, is that she still needs to eat, of course. Even if they have the most basic of contracts, one of the required provisions is food.

"Oh, so now you don't feel like talking?" He laughs bitterly. Whether the punch connects or not, he still tries to get the gag on her face. It's risky to put his fingers in her mouth, of course, because he knows very well that they will get bitten hard. But he cups her jaw, craning her head to face him directly, and squeezes, attempting to drag it open if he can.

Obviously if that doesn't work, he'll punch her again - or attempt to - and again a few times, hopefully punishing her into submission enough.

At this point now, he just wants to fuck her, but he can't give up and let her think she has won on this silly little challenge. That would defeat the entire point of gagging her in the first place!

[shieldofrohan]

Her lip splits again with the first punch, blood bursting against his knuckles and running down her chin. She feels it jar deeply into her skull, snapping her head back and to the side; distantly, she feels a few droplets of blood fly out at the impact to spatter, hot and sharp, on her bare breasts and chest. It's dizzying, bringing tears to her eyes with the effort it takes not to let her aching jaw open - not at the blow, and not at the pain of his fingers digging in between the bones, pulling and squeezing.

It's a losing battle, of course. He holds all the cards, and she has nothing - not even her full strength, given how battered and beaten she already was. Still, she manages to hold out until he hits her the second time, sending a salt-bitter wave of blood back into her mouth and - she's fairly sure - knocking at least one tooth loose.

Even then, she only lets her mouth open a little way, only for a moment, physically unable to keep clenching muscles which are now so sore and weary. It's enough. She knows it's enough even before he takes advantage of it - knows in the moment she feels her swollen and bloody lips part that she's lost this battle, too. The gag is pushed into her mouth, the abused muscles of her jaw screaming pain as they're stretched to accommodate the intrusion, and then even the little freedom of cursing him is gone. All she can do is glare, her mouth distended by the gag, her face distorted with blood and bruises, as she strains uselessly against the chains.

At least she can tell herself that it's his punches that brought all the tears to her eyes. At least she doesn't have to face the fullness of that, just yet.