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]

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.

[godofthemachine]

If he wanted to, he could pummel her face into an unrecognizable pulp. She's lucky he hasn't gotten to that point yet, as Éowyn still retains her beautiful features, even with swelling and bruising and blood.

In a way, her rebellious spirit and her good looks combine to entice AM. After all, knowing that he has exclusive access to a woman whom would be considered highly desirable is a huge power trip for him. And her own power will wane by the second, even faster than she can realize it.

Finally, though, she is gagged, and her attempts at distracting herself with her mantra have ended. Of course, this isn't the most effective gag - it's more a gag for show, built specifically for humiliation - but it will at least muffle her words as AM does what he wants to her. The time has arrived, then, for him to satisfy his libido, to finally fuck her as he has been desperate to do since the one and only time he was able to do so.

Once more he somewhat straddles her, pressing his cock against her pelvis, where it drips with precum. As the base of his shaft rubs between the top of her folds, that too feels slick, so really, he doesn't need lubrication. Sure, it would make things a bit easier, perhaps, but no, he wants to hurt her. He wants her to feel every inch of his large cock as it stretches her open.

At first, he grinds against her, wrapping a hand in Éowyn's hair to tilt her head back as his teeth again find her neck. This time, a healthy trail of blood has slid down from her nose, so he presses his tongue to it, letting the coppery taste run over his mouth. He rounds his back slightly, letting his lips taste the blood on one of her breasts as he squeezes beneath it to lift it closer to his mouth. Every inch of her belongs to him. Her blood, her tears, her sweat - all of it is his.

But the anticipation in his groin only grows as he grinds against her body. So, with his hands, he reaches behind her, squeezing on her curvy hips to lift her up slightly as he moves one of his legs off of her. It's almost like a scissoring motion as he tries to align himself, trying to slide his cock between her folds. It doesn't quite seem to line up, especially since it's likely she will try to resist any attempts to move her hips.

It only works when neither of his legs are really straddling her, and it's almost like half of his body is off the chair. It's a difficult maneuver, and he thinks to himself that he should have strapped her to a table instead. But finally, finally, with enough maneuvering, his cock finds her opening, and he lets himself simply push in, like a key finding a lock. Hands on her ass, he squeezes and lifts, gritting his teeth as he tries to force himself in.

[shieldofrohan]

She writhes away from him, pulling against her bonds, the chains clinking and juddering as he tries to pull her hips towards him, and she tries to pull away. It's hard to breathe, between the gag in her mouth and the bloody clots and swelling around her nose and lips. She's almost glad of that - it means there's something to focus on besides the slide of his cock against her, his mouth on her breast, the grasping press of his fingers against her skin.

It's a losing fight, of course, as all of this has been. No matter how she squirms and pushes back against his grip, no matter how she might strain against the chains to try and close her legs even a little, or how fiercely she might glare... in the end, his cock finds its entrance, and she lets out a choking little sob around the gag, unable to stop herself, as she feels his erection force apart her lips, feels her cunt stretch and ache around his girth. Sweat and her own shameful arousal make her slick, but not slick enough to keep it from hurting as he drives mercilessly deeper into her. Her muscles clench as if to push him out, as if in some last desperate attempt to force him away - and even knowing, as she does, that it probably feels good to him, she can't stop it, any more than she can stop the tears of humiliation welling in her eyes.

He pushes deeper, the head of his cock bruising against her sensitive inner walls, and again she lets out a quiet groan, a shudder running through her. I am not yours, she thinks, but there is less certainty in it than desperation, and she feels herself straining to accommodate his cock, feels how it rubs and rakes deep inside her, and all she tastes and smells and feels is blood and rape, and words fail in the face of it. I am not yours, and his hands are on her, his fingertips dragging dents in the taut muscle of her backside, and her mouth is dry, the gag pinning her tongue down, stealing even her voice from her. I am not yours. I do not yield.

The sharp pain as he pushes himself in to the hilt, takes every inch of her cunt as his own, seems to mock her. She does not yield, no. And he does not care.

[godofthemachine]

The only reason AM doesn't speak to Éowyn is because he doesn't need to. Actions are far more effective at communication, and everything he does right now is explicit enough. Mine, you are mine, he thinks, though not in words. No, it's data. Knowledge. Simple fact. She is his submissive, his object, his toy, and there's nothing she can do about that now.

When his cock finally penetrates her after that struggle, the reward is all the sweeter. It's not as if she could put up as much of a fight while she's chained up, but she tried. And the tight entrance that greets him is a pleasurable end to that brief fight, the slick tunnel almost seeming to conform to his cock as he thrusts it in, leaving very little buildup before he simply pounds it. No, the buildup was in the fight, in chaining her up and making her squirm with his tongue. It's inevitable that his cock would be absolutely desperate for the most intense stimulation.

But AM is lost in her, aroused by her struggles, by her spirit, by the fact that he has won this battle. One hand still grips her ass, reaching down toward the middle, below where it meets the legs, to dig his fingers into the flesh, helping to pull open her folds. His other hand is cupping her breast again, bringing it toward his face as he presses his lips against it, biting it in irregular patterns.

Maybe the one good thing for Éowyn is that AM probably won't last much longer. But... that only means that the next occurrence will be all the sooner.

[shieldofrohan]

The back of the chair bruises against her arms and her back, the chains twisting and biting against her wrists and ankles. His thrusts rattle through her, rough and unrelenting, his hard cock hitting again and again on the deepest and most tender parts of her, his fingers raking her cunt open further, his balls slapping against her as he forces himself into her over and over again.

She is weeping openly now, despite herself; with her head thrown back as it is, the tears flow back over her cheeks and drip into her hair, soaking into the tangled mass of gold and disappearing there. The gag goes some way towards muffling her sobs, but not enough that he will not be able to hear, even carried away as he is with his own pleasure. At least there is no audience this time, she thinks, with cold despair. At least this time, when he humiliates her and shames her and tears into her weaknesses this way, they are not observed. It could still be worse. It has still been worse.

Still, she shudders and moans despairingly under the his onslaught, and still she cannot stop herself from crying in shame and horror, at the doom that awaits her, of which this is only the first act. There is no audience - but she is still witness, and that is enough. His teeth dig against her breast, drawing sharp, bloody points of pain, and he is on top of her and around her and inside her, and she is helpless as she has so rarely been, longing for it to be over, fearing what might come next. Her cunt still spasms and clenches around him, trying to protect itself; her skin crawls at his touch, even as the sweat and tears and blood trickle together between her breasts and against his hand, her fingers clenching into fists behind her until the tendons of her wrists ache against their bonds.

She has gone still now - perfectly still and rigid, except for the walls of her sex, still moving around him, now aching with the friction of too large an intrusion, too little arousal. She bites down on the gag until her abused jaw screams anew, closes her eyes tightly, and waits for it to end.

[godofthemachine]

Each hard thrust from AM's hips scrapes the legs of the chair on the floor, a loud noise among the standard sounds of flesh pounding against flesh. But the one sound that AM listens for is the sound of Éowyn's voice, the muffled sobs and cries of pain and humiliation.

If he doesn't break her now, he will break her soon - in more ways than one.

His teeth trail up from her breast as he kneads the bottom of his in his hand, his other one clenching tight upon one of her supple cheeks to pull her folds open and feel the soft yet muscular flesh in his grasp. Humans are so very squishy and vulnerable, and yet AM can't deny he enjoys the feel of that malleable flesh in his hands.

As he thrusts into her, angling her hips so that they fit nicely against his, it becomes far easier, as if he has broken a seal. Or perhaps it is because she has stopped struggling, letting herself succumb to the inevitable torment. As his teeth trail up, then, he tries to get a better look at her face, the window into her pain, and finds that it is hidden behind her abundant golden locks, wet with sweat and tears.

He bites against her neck then, and her jaw, mouth open as he essentially sucks on the skin, almost like he could devour her. She is his now. Every part of her.

So finally, AM does reach his peak, letting out a loud moan that he suppresses by clamping down on her neck. His body shudders and he releases his seed deep into her body, the first of many such deposits to come.

At least it's over for now, though. AM rides out his orgasm and finally slows, realizing how unstable he is on this chair with her. He doesn't linger at all, quickly standing up and giving Éowyn a full view of his gradually softening erection, still dripping with the remains of their session.

"Ha... I enjoyed that." Knowing she can't respond, AM leans in and cups her jaw, forcing her to look right at him. "Look at it this way, my dear: You won't have any trouble reaching quota now."

[shieldofrohan]

She feels his seed inside her, feels with disgust and shame how it trails out in thick strands and drips a little down the crack of her ass as he pulls out of her. The thought of it makes her skin crawl, makes her want to reach inside herself and rake it out, scrub until she bleeds and until the filth of his touch is washed off her. Where he bit her neck, it has risen into a stinging, throbbing welt, an angry purple-red, dotted with spots of blood where he has sucked so hard as to draw it to the surface. She can still feel his spittle there, hot and slick, mixing with her own sweat.

He drags her face forward to look at him. Under the thick waves of gold that hang limp and damp, she is a mess - her eyes still full with the tears that stain her cheeks and smear her whole face, sweat gleaming on her brow, her face marred by swelling and blood and rising bruises. Still, she summons enough energy to glare at him, tears or no; her eyes are grey coals burning in her battered face, hate scorching from them.

Not broken, then. Not yet. She will not let it be so easy.

[godofthemachine]

It's done then. AM has had his fun with her for the time being, gotten to fuck her and hear her scream and cry, failing to fight off the inevitable. After standing up from their tryst, AM pulls his pants back up and zips them shut as if nothing had happened. He strolls over to the corner and locks up his cabinets of tools, securing them with electronic devices he installed himself. He briefly inspects the chains holding Éowyn to the chair, then without another word, leaves.

It will be difficult for her to escape, since the room is wired with more security that AM fashioned himself, locked by keypad and all. So there he leaves her to rot for at least a day, chained to the chair, voice muffled by the gag. Hopefully that will weaken her enough.

The next day, though, AM finally returns, hoping that Éowyn hasn't left her position. If she was able to somehow get the gag off, that's fine - that was more or less just for show anyway. But if not, he'll gently remove it, reaching behind her long, soft hair to pull it off. After a day, after all, she needs to drink something.

Still, with the gag removed, if she has anything to say, now would be the time before AM brings up a bottle of water to her lips, holding the back of her head in place as he wordlessly implores her to drink.

[shieldofrohan]

When he is gone, she lets herself break, thrashing blindly and wildly against her bonds although she knows she has no chance of escape, screaming her rage and desperate anguish around the gag still in her mouth. All she succeeds in doing is knocking the chair out from under her, and the fall knocks the air out of her as she crashes to the hard floor. Maybe it knocks her out - she truly isn't sure. By now, exhaustion and horror have taken their toll, and things are merging into a haze, her mind buzzing with deep panic and her body aching. One way or another, whether it's the blow or her own exhaustion overtaking her, she loses consciousness.

She's still lying there on the floor, glaring up at him, when he returns. She's managed to spit out the gag, and - with the chair no longer settled on the ground - even to loosen the bonds on her legs, although her arms remain tightly bound behind her. Her skin is sticky, filthy with dried sweat and blood, her long hair lying around and over her like a cloak. Purple-blue, mottled bruises cover her legs where she has fought against the chains; the swelling on her lip is starting to go down, but there is blood in her hair and on the floor beneath her head.

Still, she doesn't fight when he approaches. She wants to fight - wants to hurt him, wants to kill him - but she has also had time, far too much time, to consider her new predicament. Lying there - unable to get back upright, knowing she didn't have the strength to smash apart the chair she's still bound do - she has had nothing but time to face the horrible truth of his power over her. She can give in to her instincts, as she has so far, fight him every inch of the way until she collapses, and she will never have her revenge. She will never have the strength, never recover enough, to really hurt him.

So she lets him approach, although she could kick out at him, might even knock him down with her. She stays perfectly still as he lifts her head, and when he puts the water to her mouth, she drinks greedily. She is thirstier than she had imagined possible, her lips cracked and her mouth dry, and she couldn't refuse to drink even if she had feared what he offered.

[godofthemachine]

If AM had the powers he once had, able to keep humans alive through hunger, thirst, and more, then Éowyn wouldn't get the privilege of drink. Not yet, at least. But even after a day, it's clear how desperately she needs it, so he lets her. After all, he has his part of the bare-bones contract to fulfill.

Since she's on the floor, AM is kneeling beside her. Upon seeing that she was on the floor initially, he said nothing, instead laughing to himself. The concrete floor, though, would provide a great way for her to get a head injury, so perhaps he needs to take more precautions after today. (After all, if she dies at his hand, he could get in trouble. And while he has heard of people "reviving" here, she would no longer be his prisoner.)

As she drinks, he lifts her head slightly to check for specific life-threatening injuries, but is content to find nothing outrageous. Maybe she hurt her head from falling, but that's nothing compared to how AM is going to treat her.

"Perhaps I should unchain you," he muses aloud. "If you're so keen to be on the floor."

Indeed, it is something he thought about over the past day, which is why he brought in a folded-up bondage table. Sure, with Duplicity being so heavily focused on sex, sex equipment can be bought pretty much anywhere, so it didn't take any effort for AM to acquire this. But he did modify the restraints on it, so Éowyn has little hope of escaping.

He leaves her on the floor as he pushes the table in, unfolding it next to her as he splays out the leather straps. Now comes the interesting part - move her from the chair to the table. Is she still going to fight him, or has she given that up? Is she too weak? No, AM expects a challenge, of course, but he won the first one. He can win this one easily.

He grabs the sides of the chair to hoist Éowyn back up. The chains rattle as her body and the chair move with his force, but rattle far more when he finally unlocks the the padlock between her feet. Carefully, he unwinds the chains from her ankles, fully expecting a kick or a knee of some sort. But if that's successful, he moves to the lock behind her back, unwinding the chains from around the rest of her body, temporarily freeing her. But if she tries to run, she won't get far - the door is locked from the inside.

[shieldofrohan]

She doesn't move. Despite her stiff, aching joints, despite her exhaustion, not moving is an effort, a battle against the urge to kick out as hard as she can, to try to break his knee or get him in the balls. It wouldn't help her, but still the muscles in her legs twitch with the urge, until he moves behind her and out of their reach. Still, she doesn't move, as the lock clicks and the chains slide away from her bruised, swollen wrists. He will have locked the door - of that, she's certain - but she still means to make a break for it. It's only that she can't move too soon, lest she miss her chance.

When she does move, it's with a speed and ferocity that belies her battered state. Pain stabs through her from her stiff limbs, making her clumsy, but she does her best to ignore it, grabbing the chair that has been her prison and twisting as she rises, swinging it with all the force she can muster at his head. Most likely he'll anticipate it; most likely he'll dodge, particularly weakened as she is, and then the chance will be gone. But she has to try - even if the chance of escape is slim, even if the chance is nothing, she cannot simply let herself be strapped down and used. Not for anything.

If she can just knock him down... if she can just get that momentary advantage...

[godofthemachine]

Isolation leaves one alone with their thoughts. No doubt Éowyn fantasized about this very thing, escaping from her confines and assaulting her dominant. It's too bad, then, that having over a day to plan this out would still have left her with something so utterly predictable.

The chair is the most obvious weapon, but due to her weakened muscles, she's just slow enough at grabbing it that AM is able to dodge it. Plus, he absolutely was anticipating that.

AM raises an arm to protect his head instinctively, stepping back as Éowyn swings. In the moment after the swing, there is a brief pause, whether she plans to run or swing again. It's in that moment that AM strikes, reaching for the chair and pulling. He is stronger than her, given how he is built as an android-type thing, and hasn't been deprived of food and water for the past day, so he's likely able to yank the chair away from her. If not, he at the very least pulls at it to prevent her from swinging again.

If, however, he can pull the chair away from Éowyn, then he grits his teeth and throws it to the side before lunging forward and aiming to grab her by her hands or whatever part is most easily accessible.

[shieldofrohan]

There's no plan, nothing so rational as that; the hours she was left here haven't been spent in lucid contemplation of her options, but in blind fear and rage and the effort of suppressing them. She isn't surprised that he expects her movement, any more than she's surprised that he's both faster and stronger than she is. Proud as she is, arrogant as she can be, she's not fool enough to think that hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and physical injury have no effect at all on her.

She lets go of the chair easily enough, but lunges at him as he throws it aside, her teeth bared, scratching for his eyes like a wildcat. Again, there's no plan to this - no expectation of success, either. She just knows she has to try, has to hurt him if she can, before she's strapped down again and helpless to do even that. She spits in his face, her saliva threaded with thick, dark gobbets of half-dried blood, and when he catches her wrists, she uses his grip as leverage to put her whole weight into a kick aimed at the side of his kneecap.

[godofthemachine]

Once the chair is no longer being used by Éowyn as a weapon, AM is fairly sure he can subdue her. A feisty woman like her, of course, is going to try and fight, and he anticipates it, though he had wrongly assumed that she would try to run before he caught her.

She is successful at landing a few scratches on his face, slamming into his leg as he nearly trips backwards. No, no, he won't let her win. She can't win! She is weak. She is his submissive! And if she hurt him, he could easily get her sent to punishment. Then again, what he plans to do to her is far worse than anything LIES would ever do.

So as he takes her wrist in hand, he knows he needs to use his strength before she does anything more. He twists her wrist in hand and attempts to bend her hand backwards, intent on indeed breaking the bones. But if that doesn't work, then he slams his knee into her - her front, her side, wherever it goes, and attempts to shove her down to the hard cold ground. However he can incapacitate her, he'll do it.

"Ha--! Already breaking our contract!" He huffs, wincing in pain from her scratches. "You know I can't let that go unpunished..."

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn isn't immediately sure whether her wrist is broken. All she knows is that, despite her efforts to move with his grip and lessen the impact, something crunches audibly, and the pain that explodes in her arm and behind her eyes is white-hot. She cries out in pain, unable to swallow it back, and sways on her feet, but stays standing - stays standing, that is, until his knee comes up and knocks the wind out of her. The scream dies into a strangled, breathless gasp, and her legs go out from under her; it's an easy matter for him to pin her down after that, her wrist already beginning to swell and her ribs heaving with the effort of catching her breath.

She's not entirely sure she could get up even if he wasn't there. Not right at this moment. Despite her stubbornness, she's only human, and she was already weakened before this fight. Now the blinding, throbbing pain from her wrist makes her vision swim, and as she sobs for breath, dark spots dance in front of her eyes. For a moment, she thinks she might pass out, and welcomes the thought even as, instinctively, she fights against unconsciousness. The stone floor is cold against her front, a humiliating reminder of her own nakedness as well as the defeated position she's been forced into.

Even so, she laughs at his words - a hoarse, ragged sound, dragged from lungs still struggling to fill. She wants to tell him why she's laughing, tell him that she knows perfectly well he'd find cause to punish her whatever he did, that he needn't pretend there's any such valid reason. But it's hard to breathe, and hard to think, so all she actually wheezes is "Fuck you."

[godofthemachine]

She doesn't need to tell him why she's laughing. It's the same reason why AM would laugh in such a situation - an angry, bitter laugh of defeat. The brain's attempt to calm and take control during a stressful situation, one that hardly works. Éowyn can laugh all she wants, of course; it won't change the situation.

Still, at least AM is able to subdue her easily enough. Once she's on the ground, he bends down to pick her up, wary of any kicking or clawing she might try to do. But hopefully she's dazed enough where he can grab her with little issue.

If AM can grab her successfully, he carries her bridal style a very short distance in the room to the table he unfolded, depositing her right atop it. This will be a much better place to keep her for now, as it will be far easier to fuck her and whip her and do whatever he wants. There are convenient holes for her orifices, and the restraints he modified to keep her bound.

"I will do just that, my dear..." He finally responds to her petty insult, attempting to lift one of her wrists above her head to strap it to the table. If all goes well, she'll be splayed out with her legs and arms open, bound to each corner of the device.

[shieldofrohan]

It isn't her dizziness that keeps her from fighting back, or even the agony in the swollen wrist she now cradles against her chest as he lifts her. Nonetheless, she's largely still once he gets her off the ground, rigid and limply heavy. What holds her back is the sudden realisation of how undignified it is, how much more shameful, to slap and kick and scratch like a toddler unwilling to be carried to bed. Something about the image of it, him carrying her like a groom carrying a bride while she screams and flails in a useless tantrum, is oddly more humiliating even than what he's done to her so far. Because that's the thing, of course. What he's done to her. If there's one thing, one tiny thing, she can try to cling to in this place, it's that her dignity may be stripped from her, but she will not give it up. She will not let it be her actions that humiliate her, no matter what his may be.

Of course, in many ways it's too late for that. Still, it's all she can think of to do now. She can't hope to fight him off, or even really to hurt him. Not when his touch on her wrist, as he pulls it up and shackles it, makes the whole room swim and darken as she lets out a low, pained sob she isn't entirely aware of.

She doesn't quite lose consciousness. She's aware throughout the whole process, aware of the straps tightening against her wrists, the heat of his hands on her legs as he pulls them apart and binds her ankles. But that awareness is swamped under a red-black tide of pain, and comes from a distance, hazy and unclear. She certainly isn't in any state to do more than kick, almost reflexively, against his grip as he straps her ankles.

Little by little, she drives back the pain, although the pressure of the strap against her purpling wrist makes it a struggle. She's pale with it, her jaw drawn agonisingly tight and her body shivering with tension, sweat beading on her lip. When she opens her eyes, which have been screwed tightly closed since he first touched her injured arm, her vision is unfocused and swims with tears - but she manages to look up at him nonetheless, her chest rising and falling with the ragged ache of her breathing.

"Coward." Her voice cracks. "Filthy coward."

[godofthemachine]

Since he has broken her wrist, AM is well aware that shackling it will only make the pain worse, which is why he pulls on it, deliberately causing even more pain.

It's funny that she resists throwing a tantrum in his arms; a smart victim would do whatever they could to escape, but then again, perhaps she's even smarter than that, realizing that AM has done what he could to lock the exit and put other security measures in. But then again, it's obvious that Éowyn thrives on control, just as AM does. And that's why he needs to do all he can to take it away from her.

Once he affixes the last shackle to an ankle, she insults him, as if that one word has all the power in the world. AM doesn't even acknowledge it at first, simply continuing on his way to strap her onto the device. A few other measures are taken, a couple of straps tightened here and there, and then finally after a couple of minutes he addresses her.

"Tell me, my dear pet..." As her legs are spread somewhat open, AM runs a hand down her smooth thigh, testing and enjoying the control he now has.

"What is it that makes me a coward?"

But he runs his hand back up before gently massaging his fingers between her labia, circling them over her clit and then down, softly prodding inside of her. He moves his fingers back up, then, as if idly exploring the contours of her vulva.