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

[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.

[shieldofrohan]

His touch makes her skin crawl, and she can't help but tense away, her jaw painfully tight. He lingers on her humiliation, on her vulnerability, at every step, and she cannot help but rise to it, to feel the bile and anger raising in her throat, and the fear and shame too. She knows what he will do to him - she knows he will hurt her, will rape her, will do all that he can to break her. There is no power in that knowledge. There is only the despairing knowledge that he will, in the end, succeed.

But he is a coward. He is weak, and cringing, and a coward. She closes her eyes tightly as his fingers trail with mocking gentleness over her most private parts, as he invades her body yet again. She swallows, and tries to focus on the pain, on that red-hot rod of agony that burns in her wrist. It's better that way, feeling the pain. Better pain than pleasure. Pain is something she knows how to breathe through.

"If you were not a coward," she grinds through her gritted teeth, "you would not need me bound. You would not need me enslaved. If you were not a coward, you would face me like a man, not a rutting beast."

[godofthemachine]

Coward. It's a word that those in cornered positions will use in a last ditch effort to hurt the enemy. As if the word means anything to AM, particularly when he has exactly what he wants right here.

As he runs his fingers between Éowyn's folds, he delicately traces almost a figure eight, circling over the clit and down, then back. There he presses his fingers in further, feeling the skin shift with his touch, but the raised nub remaining mostly in place.

It's not that AM is particularly skilled at fingering, but he knows very innately the entire anatomy of the male and female human bodies. Plus, he pleasures Hiling enough as it is that he has gotten better at it.

"Oh, so that makes me a coward?" He finally sits on the side of the table, though his fingers keep doing what they were.

"Dogs don't learn how to behave unless they face discipline. In fact, some of the laziest, most useless pets are owned by those far too afraid to enforce rules."

He leans in closer to her face, then, speaking at a far lower volume. "Besides... you are far prettier in these restraints."

[shieldofrohan]

She can't keep herself from shuddering, and has only the faint relief that - despite the heat pooling heavy and dark between her thighs - the shiver is one of disgust, not pleasure. His breath feels hot on her swollen face, his hand unbearably gentle on her bared cunt. She heaves a ragged, laboured breath, willing herself to stay perfectly still, to resist that part of her which wants to buck against his hand and intensify that unwanted hunger he demands from her with every stroke of his calloused fingers. Her cheeks are flushed with effort and with pain, hectic spots of red that stand out against her wan and weary face as she glares up at him.

"You know as little of beasts as you do of Man," she spits in answer, through gritted teeth. "A whipped cur will tear out its master's throat, given half the chance. Go too heavy on the spur and crop, and even the best horse will throw you." Her eyes narrow, fixed on him with burning hate unabated by the catch in her breath, the tight pain in her face - or the slickness beginning to build under his fingers. "Torment is not discipline. Fear is not respect. And I am not, nor will I ever be, a bitch to call to heel."

It is difficult, costly, and fundamentally unwise to summon enough moisture to her mouth to spit at him again. She does it, nonetheless. What else is there to do?

[godofthemachine]

If Éowyn's intention is to insult AM, it works somewhat. As he gently strokes between her legs, he abruptly shoves his index and middle fingers right inside of her. It isn't the spit that annoys him, but it's her words.

He sneers in her face then, assuring her, "I know far more about Man than you ever will." He keeps his fingers inside of her, but they move a bit as he leans in more to grab her hair, pulling her head toward him.

"A war-hungry species, knowing and caring nothing of one another!" His rubbing of her genitals gets more intense, his fingers starting to move in and out as his thumb presses against the top of her labia, scrunching the skin in and out over the clit. As his aggression rises, of course he is going to be far less gentle in his movements.

"This is far better than what you deserve!" It is, after all. Why would he be delivering pleasure to someone who deserves pain? Well, the answer is obvious to both of them.

[shieldofrohan]

Her jaw tightens, the tension on her battered and bruised face more painful than the rough thrust of his fingers inside her; the muffled cry that escapes her close-pressed lips is one of surprise rather than one of pain or fear. She expected him to escalate, of course - expects him to continue escalating, for she hardly expects him to be satisfied with his fingers - but in the moment, the sudden shift in movement, the sharp violation, is shocking.

Then he grabs her hair, and she glares up at him with hard venom as he pulls her head back. The worst part is, as he insults her people - her race, her entire species - as her blood boils at the indignity of it and at his air of knowledge, as he sneers at everything she holds dear, his increasingly violent stimulation winds hot tendrils of desire into the base of her spine, winding upwards through her bound and helpless form. The very roughness of it makes it harder to resist, that violent pleasure that is barely a hair's breadth from pain. She has always been a wild thing, hot-blooded and easily raised to action, and with all her heart she hates that the rougher he is in his ministrations, the more her body responds. It takes all her effort to hold still, not to buck against the thrust and drive of his hand, not to pant and moan and give in to the wild urge to revel in her own destruction. Even with that effort, her hips jerk a little against his hand, the muscles of her inner thighs taut and trembling. Each thrust of his fingers now makes a wet, slapping sound, a undeniable proof of his success.

She wants to argue with him, to defend her species. To tell him that even the war-hungry are not without care, that Men stand with their comrades and die for them, that she herself has sacrificed everything for her fellow countrymen and for her family. She wants to demand what he thinks he knows of humanity, he who has none to speak of. She wants to curse and howl and tell him there are worse things than war, than a noble death in service of one's people, that he understands nothing and never could, that he has never seen how a war-torn country comes together and the small kindnesses of warriors...

She wants to say a lot of things, but she dares not speak. She can feel the cry building in her throat - a cry not only of anger but of shivering need - and if she opens her mouth, she knows it will escape. If she speaks, her voice will shake and catch, will be throaty with the breathless hunger his hands are waking in her. He must not see that. She will not give him the satisfaction.

So she only lies there, rigid and trembling against her restraints, and glares, her lips pressed together until they almost disappear, white and bloodless, into the hard gash of her mouth.

[godofthemachine]

Éowyn may not verbally express it to him, and her face may in fact spell out utter hatred, but AM can still tell that need she feels: a shameful, despicable need for pleasure at the hands of her captor, her dominant, the man who had raped her more than once. Human sexuality is a funny thing; every human is an absolute slave to it, and yet they build a culture of taboo and shame around it. So easy for AM to exploit. So easy for him to feel pleasure from it.

As her hips jerk into his movements, even subtly, as her folds become wet, AM knows that he has to finish this. She needs to feel that utter shame from pleasure. Her mind needs to break.

His ministrations get more intense, two of his fingers thrusting inside of her while his thumb continues to scrunch the skin over the clit in erratic patterns. He presses a knee onto the table to give himself better leverage as well, leaning in and pressing his fingers deeper and harder.

"Nothing to say? Even you can't deny it. You know you're just the same as them."

He presses his other hand over one of her breasts, squeezing it and kneading it as his other hand works her lower part.

[shieldofrohan]

She fights it. Of course she fights. It isn't in her to do anything else. She bites down on the inside of her cheek in an effort to focus herself, until the already damaged skin gives way and she feels hot blood squirt over her tongue; she tightens her jaw until her head throbs with the tension, and stiffens her spine, and tries with all her might to clamp down on the heat, the pleasure, the want. She doesn't even respond to his words, except with a low, hoarse grunt of displeasure; all her attention is on the battle with her own body, with the desire that tugs at her with aching, burning claws.

It's a losing battle, of course. She can feel herself giving ground, each agonising inch he claims in this war of wills. She can hear, and wishes she could not hear, the wet slap of his fingers against her slick, yielding cunt; can feel, and wishes she could not feel, how her nipple swells and hardens against his roughly groping palm. Sweat prickles along her arms, sits cold against the metal she lies on. She closes her eyes tightly, and gropes for the strength to resist, to demand that her body obey her, to refuse him this satisfaction. She will not enjoy this. She refuses. She will not enjoy any part of this.

And yet, she has no choice. As he continues to work his hand against her hard and aching clit, his strong fingers finding the spots inside her that send trembling need rushing through her, she feels the pressure building like a physical thing. She has an image of a city wall, besieged by a thousand thousand men. It will fall. She will fall, and the vile hordes of her own lust rush over her.

Her breath quickens, grating through her gritted teeth, her face reddening with the effort of self-control. Even so, there are things she cannot hide, and as he continues his torturous pleasuring, those things become more and more visible - the curl of her fingers and toes, the twitching of her hips and thighs, the shivers that run through her when he forces back the hood of her clit. Her eyelids flutter, her eyes rolled back to the whites, and she lets out low, unconscious whimpers, even as she demands silence of herself.

When at last she gives in, it is with a cry less of release than of anger and grief, a loud and echoing cry that reverberates around her prison, as her whole body arches and bucks against her restraints, lifting almost off the table. "Stop!" she screams at him, through the garbled moans of unbearable arousal, and there are tears in her eyes again, though not of pain. She doesn't expect him to stop, doesn't expect anything at all - it's simply all she can do to command it.

[godofthemachine]

Finally, he gets it from her. Not necessarily a release, but a begging cry. A command for him to stop. Something desperate, the signs of finally buckling under pressure. A sign of submission. It was only a matter of time.

She can't even respond to his taunts because she is trying so hard to resist his fingers; that much is obvious. Her body twitches and her toes curl, and it is an absolute thrill for AM. To think, he could hold so much power over someone and torment them only with pleasure.

The bondage table creaks and scrapes its legs on the floor as Éowyn's hips jerk nearly off the table, though AM's body weight keeps it mostly in place. But when she finally comes, AM doesn't even bother to hide his sick, satisfied grin or his soft laugh. There's nothing he needs to say, though. It's clear as day that he has gotten what he wanted.

But he at least abides by Éowyn's command. He strokes his fingers over her clit for a little longer as she rides out the orgasm, and then withdraws them. "All right, if that's what you wish."

He climbs off the table, then, leaving her strapped in. But he already has an idea of what to do next as he walks to the corner, grabbing a few more implements.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn collapses back against the table, panting, her lips parting a little. There is pleasure there, a warm comfort that even begins to overwhelm the pain of her broken, throbbing wrist. The pleasure sickens her, twisting the knife in a way that no pain ever could, and she feels her gut knot and twist. She can smell her own sex, even with her nose still swollen and bruised, and it makes her want to crawl out of her own skin, away from the cooling sweat that is stiffening the skin of her breasts and belly, away from the frantic thud of her pulse as it begins to settle, away from his touch and what it does to her.

Of course, there is no away. The only escape at this point would be unconsciousness, and somehow that feels as though it would be an even greater defeat. She is a daughter of Eorl, she reminds herself, as her tongue darts out to wet her cracked and swollen lips. She is a shieldmaiden of Rohan, a Horse-Lord of the Mark. She is... she is...

A disgrace. The thought comes to her unbidden, and she feels fresh tears sting, hot and sharp, at her eyes. It is not true, she wants to cry in defiance of that small voice within, that cruel whisper; it is not true, she has done all that she can do, has been brought here through no fault of her own. A gasping, gaping whore, wet and wanting at her own humiliation. A woman without command even of herself, even of her own filthy, needy cunt. A beast stretched on the altar. That is what you are.

If your people only knew.

She lets out a little whimper of furious, horrified negation, and tries to turn her tearstained face away from him, into the soft tangle of her hair; tries to disguise the despair that rises like bile in her throat. It is a vain attempt, but she tries, nonetheless.