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]

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.

[godofthemachine]

At the very least, what AM does prevents the LIES authorities from coming for Éowyn, as she is meeting her minimum duty. Then again, simply fucking her would do the same thing, though he does wonder how close they're watching. Would he get in trouble for this? No. There are plenty of dominants who do worse, he's sure, especially in the slums of the Down.

But of course the real reason he pleasures her is to claim ownership, to hold the reins of pain and pleasure completely in his hands like the god he is. He smiles to himself as he grabs a few tools before returning to Éowyn's side, pulling up a stool beside her table.

"So you don't want pleasure? Is that it?" He leans over the table, leering at Éowyn as she buries her face into her long, pretty hair. If she doesn't answer, he reaches to grab that hair and turn her head toward him. He waits for an answer.

[shieldofrohan]

He will wait a moment longer still, for Éowyn is struggling to find an answer that will not satisfy him, will not give him all the more glee in her degradation. As he yanks her head back to face him, she glares at him silently with red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes, her skin flushed with effort and with emotion.

"The only pleasure there will be for me," she says at last, thickly and without quite so much conviction as she would like, "is to see you breathe your last in agony."

It isn't that she regrets saying it, precisely, but even as she says it, the crushing futility of it washes over her. She knows she does not sound confident, certainly not with so long a pause to even dredge up so vague a threat; and she knows, too, that the threat itself is hollow, so long as he keeps her here. But still, it is better than answering yes or no. It is certainly better than the truth, which is that she longs now for the part where he turns to pain, when she need only steel herself against torture and not the poisonously sweet torment of forced pleasure. Even with how he shames her, even when he rapes her and mocks her, still it is a less brutal blow to her pride and her honour than to make her enjoy it.

[godofthemachine]

Every struggle she gives sends another shiver of pleasure up AM's spine. The tear-soaked red eyes and the hesitation, knowing that no answer she gives will end the torment - AM is absolutely breaking her by the moment. The money he spent on Éowyn was well worth it, for now he has his very own pet to break and torment at his leisure.

And it's true; what she says is more or less the same feisty personality she had at the beginning, but drained, as if he continuously sucks out her energy. So her answer is met with a closed-mouth laugh, an exhale as he releases his grip on her hair.

"You know, my dear, I lived for well over three hundred years without taking a single breath." Though he shouldn't tempt fate, being in the body he has now, with origins he still cannot figure out.

Still, he gets his answer. She doesn't want sexual pleasure. And that's fine. He can make good on that, as he sits back upon the stool beside her table. Scooting it over, he more or less sits right by her hips with easy access to what is between them. On the small bench of tools he brought out sits a large needle, though that still won't be thick enough to do what he wants. But still, it's a start.

"Well, if you don't want the pleasure I'm willing to give you, then I'll make sure you won't have it." He speaks almost casually as he fiddles with his tools, before standing up and leaning over, aiming to pierce the needle right at the top of where her labia starts to open. Following that, he grabs a small padlock, pressing the curved handle at the wound the needle created. Even though the lock is somewhat thin, it's still far thicker than a needle, so he fiddles with the two, pulling and stretching at the skin as he barely squeezes the lock through.

[shieldofrohan]

She had thought she knew pain. She had thought - naively, innocently - that there could be no greater physical pain than what he had already done to her, yesterday and before; no greater pain than the needle thrust through her nipples or the tearing, bloody wake of his rape.

She realises in the moment that the needle drives in, as the hot, sharp agony of it spills over along with the warm wetness of blood against her skin, that she was terribly wrong. Nothing he has done to her until now is close to this, as he first pierces and then stretches the achingly sensitive flesh of her labia. It is a pain that is almost literally blinding, light exploding behind her eyes as the lock tears through the hole he's made, tortuously slow.

Despite her best efforts, she screams. Screams in pain and horror, as curses in Westron and Rohirric are lost in the ragged gasps of pain; screams until it echoes around the high walls of the room; screams, and cannot seem to swallow back the scream once it starts, until her throat is raw and aching, and still it barely registers past the burning, stinging, tearing agony between her legs. The blood wells around the lock as he pushes it through, and flows freely, dribbling down the channel of her cunt and between her thighs, pooling on the table in a small, crimson pool.

[godofthemachine]

It's not that AM is at all careful to make this a clean process for Éowyn. He wants it clean to the extent that the locks work and will keep her labia relatively closed, making pleasure rather difficult. Not that she could do much to pleasure herself anyway, as AM sees little chance of not keeping her chained up.

But even so, the pain that Éowyn inevitably feels is a great bonus, and he makes no move to prevent this. When she screams and squirms from the pain and degradation, AM feels his own blood shooting right to his own cock. Once the locks are on, he'll have complete control over her genitals. She'll feel pain in that area for a long time, and even longer from the repeated rapes he will surely commit.

There is a sick grin fixed upon his face as he works on Éowyn's vulva, pressing the lock into her skin and shutting it.

Now he gets to do it again. A little bit lower on the labia, the needle punctures her skin once more, and the thick silver ring follows on each side - a few more times down the skin, ensuring that everything from her clit to the top of the perineum has rings that he can insert locks through. At the top of the perineum, though, he pierces her skin and fastens a lock instead of a ring once more, snapping it shut.

While several rings line each side of her swollen, bleeding labia, AM is easily able to press them together, ensuring he can fasten a couple more locks through them, effectively closing off her genitals. Once he's done, he stands up, holding a shiny key just above Éowyn's reach.

"There. Now you can't have the pleasure I was so willing to give you."

[shieldofrohan]

The pain is a living thing, coiling and scorching between her legs, a throbbing agony that stabs white-hot needles up her spine and into her belly. She can feel herself shaking uncontrollably, with pain and with fury, sweat slicking her pale skin, mixing with the tears that flow freely down her face. Her breath catches and burrs in her throat, coming out as hoarse, trembling sobs.

And with the pain, the humiliation - a heavy, bitter humiliation that clenches in her chest and twists in her guts. As if it was not enough to be enslaved, to be tortured, to be raped - as if he had not left his mark on her enough with the healing scars on her nipples - as if it were not degrading enough to be laid out here, naked and bound, helpless against a man who is in all ways (she feels it now and always will) her inferior. This is worse than rape, worse than enslavement. This is a brand she can never be free of. Her body will never be her own again. Even if she frees herself, even if she rips out the cold, aching metal she felt him stab through her most sensitive areas, the scars will remain - and so will the memory. So will the knowledge of his claiming her.

As he holds the key above her bound hand, she gags, tasting bile in her throat along with the bitter salt of tears. His words are a cruel mockery. She knows that, if he wants, he will still force that pleasure on her if he can - if her battered and bloody cunt is even still capable of pleasure, which in this moment it hardly feels. She knows, and knows that he knows, that it was never a matter of pleasure, only of pride.

He will not break me. He will not. She bites her lip until it splits afresh, blood squirting into her mouth and down her chin. Her eyes close tightly, her fist clenching. He will not. He must not. Praying against all evidence that she can hold out - that he has not already broken her. If he only gives her time to breathe, to regroup against the pain and the agonising humiliation, she will find her strength again. She has to.

"Fuck you," she grinds out, but her voice catches in a low, hoarse sob. "Filthy worm."

[godofthemachine]

It was a rather pleasant process to pierce Éowyn's genitals all over, claiming them completely as his own and delivering horrid pain. They always will belong to AM now, for even if the metal is removed, the memory will linger. The knowledge will linger. Perhaps even the pain will linger.

Of course it won't stop AM from fucking her, though. He holds the key, after all, so her chastity is only relative.

It's too bad her hands have to stay bound. Otherwise it would be fun to watch her struggle to pleasure herself or try to work around the locks and rings. But no matter. Perhaps one day she'll be broken enough where it will work. But not now, especially as she insults him.

But instead, he grins at her, deciding to climb onto the table and straddle her.

"'Fuck you', you say? You don't need to ask, my dear."

But as he starts to unbutton his pants, he pauses. "Ah, but the piercings do need to heal..."

So he scoots forward, straddling her waist as he unbuttons his pants. Now, it's tempting to shove his cock into her mouth, but he knows that she will just bite it. It's one of the few things she has left, after all, unless he decides to pull her teeth. Still, he'll figure it out. After all, as he slides his pants down, it's clear he's already half-hard.