for godofthemachine

[shieldofrohan]

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

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

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

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

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

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[shieldofrohan]

She 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.