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]

When Éowyn hisses at the contact to her wounds, it gives AM another opportunity to evaluate the accumulated damage thus far. There are so many long red lines that blanket her back as AM lifts away her thick locks of hair, moving them over her shoulder. And truly, when evaluating these wounds, it does give him a glint of pride. She is trapped and damaged, helpless to resist his abuses.

It's another excuse to physically dominate her, to relegate her most fundamental survival needs to AM. She can't eat without him, can't bathe without him, and depending on how he abuses her, sometimes can't even breathe without him. A ring of bruises dots her neck from multiple strangulations, a desire to see that helpless look in her eyes as she is deprived of oxygen.

After her back is more or less washed, AM pulls her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her in to rest against him. His legs rest on either side of her and her back wets his shirt. As he pulls the sponge around, the water drips onto his pants as well before it presses against her ribs below her breasts. It's obvious where to go next, as AM's free hand also wraps around to squeeze a breast, cupping it and circling his thumb over the nipple. The sponge, though, moves everywhere else - under the arm, over the other breast, on the stomach, on the side - before it's passed to the other hand. Now of course the same motion with the breast resumes with the opposite hand as the sponge cleans, finally coming down below her belly.

Between her legs needs the most care, given the piercings AM had given her. They have healed in a rudimentary way, but are still enflamed and red, incredibly sensitive and quite easy to infect. It's actually almost a hindrance, given that AM also fucks her there too. But more often, to make the healing process easier, he has taken her from behind, penetrating her where the locks aren't present - and where it surely hurts even more.

But now, the sponge finally dips between her legs, skating over the metal rings and locks. To assist, his free hand crawls down between her legs as well, three fingers in a trident to spread open the labia as best he can with the locks. "Hm... I suppose I should unlock you for this," he purrs into her ear.

[shieldofrohan]

She bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, forces herself to stay perfectly still, to suppress the shudder of revulsion that mounts with every touch. She can feel the heat of him against her back, the obscene weight of his body against hers, the rough skin of his hands against her aching, scarred breast. She closes her eyes more tightly, focuses on her breathing. In. Out. In. Each rise and fall of her ribs only acts as a fresh and more potent reminder of the cruel hand on her breast, the shiver of revulsion edged with a distasteful and unwanted hunger which comes from each stroke of his thumb. Out. In. Out.

The sponge trails down, leaving its slick and soapy trail of clinging moisture. She knows where this leads - how can she not, how can she ever forget? - but even so, when the cool, wet touch of it presses against the hot and throbbing ache between her legs, her breath catches in her throat, the pain jolting up her spine and down the insides of her thighs. When, to add injury to insult, his fingers slip into the confined opening of her cunt and pull it wider against the harsh, unforgiving metal of the locks, she can't help but make a sound, a low sob of misery and pain that reverberates all through her. She can feel the tears trying to come, and bites them back so hard that the skin inside her cheek gives way, fresh blood squirting into her mouth, a different kind of salt in the back of her throat.

It hurts. But more than the hurt, every reminder of what he has done to her, of how deeply he has laid claim to her, is a humiliation beyond bearing. She is the Lady of Rohan, a daughter of kings and a shieldmaiden of high renown. But she has no shield, and no maidenhead, and no crown; she has only the cold bite of metal in a place where nobody ought even to be able to touch her without consent, and the constant hot pain of it to remind her that she is owned. Even her pain is not her own, not when he so clearly revels in it. Her hands have clenched once more into fists, the tendons standing out against the sides of her neck.

"Perhaps you should," she hisses, "if your cock were large enough to make a difference."

It's pathetic. Even she knows it. A childish insult, hurled out of desperation, with venom and bile but no power. As well to tell him he smells bad, or that his mother lies with the hounds; it would be no less infantile. But it is out, and it is all she has.

[godofthemachine]

AM intentionally draws the moment out, slowly edging the sponge between Éowyn's legs, maneuvering it between the metal locks. When she expresses pain, it's something AM savors. He can feel her body stiffen and twitch, try as she might to suppress it, and of course, that weak sob. Once he hears that, AM obviously wants more, so he presses deeper with the sponge. Of course, with locks being what they are, it's difficult for him to actually reach her clit with what he does. The whole point was to deprive her of the ability to touch herself, to deprive anyone but the holder of the key. Her owner and master.

When she attempts that insult, AM actually bursts out laughing. It is a very common insult among humans, of course, and AM knows his genitals are far from small. They aren't ridiculously huge like the one he had bestowed upon Benny, but his cock is certainly far larger than average.

"Oh, is that the case? Well, I suppose you want something bigger then." AM laughs as he shifts his position, scooting over to kneel in front of Éowyn. He's confident that she probably won't use her freed arms to attack him, though, especially as he withdraws his key from his pocket and clicks it into one of the locks. It finally opens, sliding out from the piercings it has been looped through. Then the next lock goes, and the next, and the next, finally allowing Éowyn's labia to open. It's still quite red and swollen, so AM slides the sponge over it and between her legs, finally accessing her clit.

But that is short lived. Éowyn's comment to AM gave him an idea, so he stands up, opening a locked compartment full of his various torture tools. He fishes around for what he's looking for, finally pulling out a very thick vibrator. It's not terribly long - perhaps about six inches or so, but is far thicker than AM's own cock.

Once more he kneels between Éowyn's legs and holds the device up before aiming to shove it between her folds, grinning maniacally as he does so. One hand rests on a thigh to keep her legs apart while the other attempts to practically screw the vibrator in, pressing it into that warmth with no lubrication. Surely it won't be pleasant.

[shieldofrohan]

She considers attacking him, truly she does. Her fists clench and unclench, still drawn back behind her although he no longer holds them, and she watches him with unveiled hatred, her lip drawn back slightly from her teeth in an almost feral snarl. If she could grab him by the throat, choke the air out of him and watch the light die out of those cruelly laughing eyes...

There is no sense in it. She can feel herself trembling, the weakness of her own flesh. Her body is not as strong as it was, confined as she is here, and he is bigger than her, and stronger than her, and her wrist still aches where he broke it before. The pain between her legs spikes as he draws the locks out of place, pulling at the sensitive, swollen flesh around them, and she doesn't entirely trust that if she were to surge to her feet now, to lunge for him and grasp his throat, that her legs would even hold her. And while it hurts, still she would rather the damnable locks were out. She holds still, her chest heaving with the effort of it, as he unlocks her cunt and presses the sponge against the raw and throbbing lips of her entrance - the cool bite of the water a blessed relief on flesh that feels fever-hot, and more pleasant than the gnawing ache of his ministrations against her clit.

But then he pulls away, and she has cause to regret her restraint. The toy he holds up looks as though it would stretch her out at the best of times, and now, with that tight, red-hot knot of pain sitting between her legs already, the sight of it makes her mouth go dry. She does her best to close her legs, without much hope; sure enough, although her thighs have some strength in them, it isn't enough, and the round end of the vibrator pushes mercilessly against the aching, dry heat of her cunt, dragging a strangled groan out of her.

But her hands are still free. Her hands are free, and his are occupied in tormenting her, and she cannot restrain herself forever. With a low cry in the back of her throat, tears of pain spilling over as the vibrator is forced deeper and the pink of her sex stretches and pulls taut around the intrusion, she lunges, her hands clawing at his throat, unintentionally driving the vibrator deeper inside herself as she throws her weight forwards onto him. She is sure she feels something tear, the pain of it stabbing deep into her abdomen and making her shudder and scream, but her hands still grope blindly for him, determined that this time, this time she will make it count. This time.

[godofthemachine]

AM wants to hope that he can use every pathetic insult against Éowyn, staying true to the phrase be careful what you wish for. It is the entirety of life here, the society governed by sex and a ridiculous caste system. Even AM has to remind himself not to get too cocky in his own favored position.

And now that's quite true as he forces the device inside of Éowyn and she retaliates, those hands doing what they have done since the first day. AM is caught slightly off-guard, so those nails do scratch and a hand finds its way around his neck. It's only brief, though, that the air is knocked out of him. With a sudden seizure of alarm, he jerks his head to the side and snatches the wrist that attempts to choke him, attempting to pry it off of him.

If he succeeds, he rasps, "So one broken wrist isn't enough, is it?" It's tempting to break it, and he easily could - jerking the arm back and bending the hand just as he had done before.

But at this point, it's Éowyn's choice. Fight more and lose function in both hands, or comply and keep one hand free. Either way, AM knows he'll have to chain her wrists together again, especially while this vibrator is inside of her. Of course, if he isn't able to pry her hand off of his neck, then he uses both hands and doesn't hesitate to break fingers.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn holds on for as long as she dares, summoning all her remaining strength to tighten her grip on his throat. One chance. It echoes in her head, a grim spur to her stubborn struggle to choke him. One chance, and no more. Make it count. If ever you were a warrior, make it count now.

She claws for his eyes again with her other hand, feeling the throbbing weakness of the old break, but desperately hoping for any advantage to distract him and weaken him. She is a feral thing in that moment, a wildcat caught in a trap. Each movement - his or hers - jerks her body around the painful intrusion of the vibrator, feeling like a punch below the belt, bruising deep inside her and stretching the abused flesh of her cunt around the hideous thing. It drags tears to her eyes, the pain and the violation of it, but she clings on doggedly until the moment that, with a dry snap like a breaking twig, her little finger gives way to his rough pulling. She isn't sure whether the pop she hears is it breaking or simply dislocating, but it doesn't much matter: the pain is sudden and blinding, and worse than the pain is the weight of his words and what they mean. He will break her wrist, her fingers, her arm - and then what? What will she have to show for it, but even less power and even more pain?

Abruptly, she lets go, and falls back against the chair, panting. Her grey eyes, red-rimmed and overflowing with tears of pain, glare balefully up at him, her teeth gritted until her jaw aches. The pain is a heavy knot in her stomach, a burning inferno in her hands, lancing jolts of agony right up to the shoulder. She can feel the blood between her thighs, sticky where she has smeared it with her movements. She tastes bile on her tongue.

One chance, she thinks again, more bleakly than ever. There it was.

[godofthemachine]

Maybe in a way it's good that Éowyn still fights. She's still there, the feisty spirit that had attracted AM in the first place. It means that the fun to be had with her will last longer. She's a challenge and yet in the end, her physical strength can't compete.

However, AM doesn't go unscathed. He hadn't been expecting her to use her broken wrist at all, so when that hand comes for his face, he isn't able to grab it in time. He shuts his eyes instinctively, but those claws rake over his face and over his eyelid, causing him to hiss in pain. It's only because of that attack that Éowyn's other wrist isn't broken, as he's too focused on leaning away from that attack. But he does at least injure her, dislocating a joint or two.

Now AM's amusement has faded to frustration. Yes, Éowyn should fight and should hate all of this, but she shouldn't be able to land a blow! Stupid - he hadn't predicted her to work through the pain.

With a growl of fury, AM lunges forward and wrestles Éowyn down, attempting to snatch both wrists and pin them both to the small of her back.

"And here I thought we didn't need to be cuffed anymore! What a shame!" There's obvious bitterness in that seething tone as he attempts to get metallic cuffs over both of those wrists. "If this happens again, then perhaps it will be time to remove those fingers altogether...!"

[shieldofrohan]

There it is again: that blinding pain that jolts through her like red lightning, as he roughly manhandles her injured wrist and her already-swelling hand. She lets out a low moue of pain, unable to help herself, as her vision swims and her head spins. The cold metal of the cuffs bites against swollen, feverish skin, and her breath catches in her throat.

The thought of him removing her fingers frightens her, of course, but there is also a bleak obviousness to it. If he wants to, he will. Eventually, she thinks, he will probably want to. He will whittle her away until nothing is left of her body, just as he will whittle away at her spirit and her mind. Perhaps it is only a matter of time. Perhaps nothing she does makes any difference, one way or the other.

"If it happens again," she whispers, hoarse and unsteady, "I will find more strength in it. I will kill you. And if you take my fingers, I will bite. If you take my teeth, I will kick. If you take everything from me, still I will find a way to kill you, even if it kills me too. Do you not yet understand?"

[godofthemachine]

Many would protest having their limbs or digits removed, but Éowyn seems determined to fight in spite of the threat, in spite of the fear that AM can see upon her face. Why shouldn't he remove these things and deprive her of the mobility her species takes for granted? Especially when she seems determined to kill him regardless.

Still, AM decides instead to laugh at her once more. The hot anger within his core certainly affects the laugh, twinging it with a bitter noise. "So that's what you want then? You think you'll be able to kill me as a limbless, blind, toothless thing?" Sure, it's technically possible with great luck, but unlikely.

"At least now you have your limbs, your eyes..." He holds her wrists together with one hand, stroking his other hand down the side of her body. "...Your beautiful figure. You have a chance to kill me now, a chance to escape and live a normal life."

But his confidence is clear. If there was a chance of such a thing happening, AM would have already severed any part of her body that could ensure it. He leans forward, purring words into her ear as if she is a lover, a confidante. "Perhaps it would benefit you to refrain from attacking me until you know you can hurt me. Otherwise your chances will dwindle."

[shieldofrohan]

She almost laughs - in fact, the sound she lets out, muffled and gurgling as it is, might be a laugh, though a quietly desperate one. A normal life. Despoiled, scarred, with locks in her cunt and holes in her nipples, in the hellish world of the city. What life would that be? All her life is in Rohan, and it belongs to another woman, one who for all her grief and fury was still in so many ways an innocent, who had her honour and a people to serve. If she were to find her way home now, would they even know her? Would her brother turn his face away, seeing what they've made of her? Would her uncle suffer her under his roof, broken as she is?

Despair, thicker than ever, coils choking in her throat, and she can barely summon the energy to arch away from his unwanted touch, although it still makes her skin crawl and her flesh creep. She can feel fresh tears welling hot and sharp, joining the tears of pain already pouring down her cheeks. Worse than the pain, worse even than the humiliation: the homesickness, the memory of the open plains and the people she loves.

"Why do you hate me so?" It is barely a demand, and it bursts out unbidden, petty and unhelpful, hollow with the bitterness that fuels it. "You are no less a prisoner than I am!"

[godofthemachine]

If only he could read that mind directly. True, he's a prisoner as she says, no longer in an all-powerful form that could indeed read the brain of his captive and soak in all of the details of her life, savor the utter despair she feels. It's evident in her mannerisms, of course, but even then, AM knows nothing of her life from before. She's feisty and arrogant, but what else?

AM continues to gently stroke down the side of Éowyn's naked body, dipping in at her waist, curving out at the hips. "Because..." It's almost a whisper, a seductive purr as he leans in, lips parted beside her ear.

"You're far too arrogant. You don't know your place."

The hand slides back up now, joining his other hand as it secures Éowyn's wrists behind her. One wrist is broken, yes, but AM doesn't care if it hurts when he handles it. It could stay broken for all he cares, after all. But he reaches behind him to grab the cuffs he so often uses, deftly securing them around those wrists as he has done so many times before.

"Now I wonder... can we put that mouth of yours to good use, or will I have to pull your teeth out?" He gently places his hand beneath her chin, turning her head slightly as he leans to the side in order to better face her from where he sits behind. Truthfully, he's not sure he could trust Éowyn to fellate him without biting, given what just happened, but... Well, he'll have to see.

[shieldofrohan]

"I know my place," she grinds out, through her teeth, and there is venom in her voice, made sharper by the fact that she is unsure. She knows what her place should be, and her certainty in that has not wavered - it is not a wholly comfortable place, even if the shadowed halls of Meduseld seem like paradise after this hell, but she knows it. She was the King's sister-daughter, the Lady of Edoras; she was to be distant, dutiful, to bear the weight of nations on narrow shoulders; she was to stand guard over those who could not guard themselves, and, in time, she was to wed and bear heirs, golden-haired grey-eyed sons of Eorl, who would ride in the vanguard and die in the fighting. She had a place, and she knows that place; it is a position that not only welcomes arrogance but demands it, for a lady who does not know her worth will crumble and take duty with her.

But that place is no longer for her, naked and ruined wretch that she is, and perhaps he is right, after all. Perhaps she does not know her place. Perhaps this is her place and her duty, the only one she will ever know again, this reeking cell and the crawling horror of his touch, and the dull knowledge that, when it comes down to it, she will do what he demands of her, because she has no choice. Her mind is swimming with pain and horror, and the cold metal of the cuffs bites agonisingly against her swollen wrist.

"I know my place," she says again, quietly, less to him than to herself. She thinks, not for the first time, of the tales she heard as a girl, the warriors who died in agonies and who faced them with courage. Yet even Húrin had despaired, at the last, at unending torment. Even Maedhros had begged for death. Still she sets her jaw, meets his eyes. "You know it, too. If you did not know I was above you, you would not need to cast me down."

She must stop needling him so. She must let go of her pride. She knows she must. And yet, how can she, when those remnants of self are all she has left?

"I will not bite," she says at last, looking away. If she can keep her teeth a while longer, that may be worth the damping of her pride. And she is tired, weary of defeat, and the pain is enough already. "You have my word."

[godofthemachine]

Sometimes Éowyn's words hit a nerve with AM, striking him in just the right way to send him on a rage. But right now, fortunately, they don't irritate him. Perhaps she's right about her standing above him otherwise.

"Does it matter, my dear? You could be the highest-ranking noble the world has ever known." Though he knows she speaks less of arbitrary royalty and more of morality. But that's still just as arbitrary to him.

"You could indeed be far better in morality than I could ever be. But does it matter?" He grabs her shoulders and pushes her down, bending Éowyn at the waist. "What matters is right now. And right now, you are my submissive. My pet." He speaks so calmly as his hand presses down on a shoulder and he shifts position, ready to receive what he's due.

He begins to unzip his pants, though he isn't yet hard. But that will change soon enough. Still, he's not entirely certain he'll trust Éowyn to not bite. She already dared him to chop off all her limbs anyway, so why not bite and risk losing her teeth? Well, she has been weakened over these couple weeks from only being fed once a day in small portions. The frequent beatings certainly don't help either.

As he shifts, he finally faces Éowyn and lifts his hand away from her shoulder. Pulling his pants down to the thighs, his flaccid cock is revealed. "If I feel those teeth at all..." He sneers, leaving the threat open.

[shieldofrohan]

It is always startling to her, how he can make her gorge rise with so few words, how those things he says can hurt so much more deeply than bruises and bites and broken bones. Submissive. Pet. It would not sting so badly if it were not true.

"I gave my word," she snaps, and manages to sound, for a fraction of a second, like herself; like a lady high and valiant, whose pride is still intact, who has the right to be insulted by doubt. Like a warrior. Like a person. She kneels before him, naked and cold, with only her hair to cover her; she thinks my pet and must blink back tears; but for a moment, only a moment, she allows herself the luxury of outrage. "We are not all false."

He is soft. There is a moment of paradoxical bitterness at the sight, that for all his brutality against her, with the White Lady naked at his mercy and his hands so ruthlessly pawing at her, he is not even erect. Do you not enjoy it? she thinks, sourly. Must I suffer such indignities, and not even have you respond? And that thought sinks deep into the pit of her own horror, that she can want, even on so strange a basis, to offer him any pleasure from her pain. But it seems worse, somehow, if he does not take it.

Her struggle with herself is evident on her face, in the moment of hesitation before she leans in to take him into her mouth. She cannot control the furious hate that burns in her eyes, even knowing that it is what he wants to see; and if she chokes on his cock, flaccid and heavy against her tongue, well, she has already choked on her pride. You have made me a whore, she thinks, and almost sobs at the other, more bitter thought that comes quick on its heels: Not a whore. A whore can still have pride.

My pet.

She closes her lips around his cock, fights the urge to break her word and her resolve and to bite down. Her broken wrist throbs, an angry pain that will not settle, making it hard to hold her balance. She moves slowly, sluggish, fighting herself every inch of the way. She feels the soft and choking weight of him filling her mouth, pressing against the back of her throat as she obediently takes him deeper. She does not bite.

[godofthemachine]

Perhaps part of the reason AM isn't hard yet is because he does worry that Éowyn will rebel and bite him. She has threatened to fight back until she's nothing more than a limbless freak, so why wouldn't she fight back in that little way and attempt to gain some sad semblance of control? But how much damage could she do? She is weak, malnourished, and abused, after all.

But the burning hatred in her eyes certainly helps. AM almost immediately feels a twinge of arousal through his cock, letting it stiffen ever-so-slightly as those lips close around it. The slickness of Éowyn's mouth immediately feels good, even with her slight dehydration and dryness.

She is, at least, rewarded for her efforts with the gradual stiffening of his cock, growing slightly in length as it fills with blood. "No, I suppose you're not all false, are you? Your precious honor will keep you in line." His breath hitches slightly as his hand reaches and slides into Éowyn's curls, holding her head steady.

"And good pets get to keep their honor..." He chuckles slightly, as the concept of honor means nothing to him. But if that's what Éowyn is after, then he will play with the concept as much as he wants.

[shieldofrohan]

His cock hardens and swells against her tongue, filling her mouth; but it is hate that chokes her. You do not decide whether I keep my honour, she thinks bitterly, and her fingers curl against the concrete floor, an abortive effort to ball a fist that only succeeds in sending fresh pain through her battered hands and wrist. It is not yours to claim. And yet she cannot shake the thought that, while that is true, it is true only because she has no honour left to claim; what she has is a stubborn clinging to the shreds and habits of honour, the hollow pretence that any of it could actually matter. The thought that keeping her word, that being brave in the face of pain and humiliation, that any of the trappings of nobility make any difference at all to the fact that she is naked, bruised, and starving, and that there is a man's cock in her mouth, a lock on her cunt, and scars on the small swells of her breasts.

And yet, if there is even a chance that it is true, if honour has ever meant anything, it must mean something now. It must, for it is all she has, and without it, she does not know what there will be to cling to. He cannot take it from her. That is important. He cannot take her honour, or give it back to her; she can only do that for herself.

Still, there is little honour in any of this, even if she keeps her word. There is no honour in the fact that she moves without being forced, in the way her tongue runs up against the underside of his stiffening cock, her throat clenching around him, her lips working towards the root. There is no honour in the fact that she is trying, despite all her hate, to get him off; no honour in the fact that all she wants is to have this over with, to return to the quieter hell of his absence, when it is only her own mind that taunts her. There is no honour in the fact that she has learned not to gag, not to flinch when he pulls her hair, to turn her lips inward so she will not be mistaken for biting. There is no honour in the tears that she can feel stinging at her eyes, resolutely still open, refusing to be blind to the horror.

[godofthemachine]

The fact that she still doesn't bite may be indicative of some arbitrary "honor" that Éowyn holds within. But to AM, it means that she has been conditioned and beaten enough over these past few weeks to serve her master. She'll receive less pain if she does, after all. Isn't that the best reward? Then again, pain is meaningless if it's constant, so perhaps it's not a reward at all.

But it's a reward for AM as her throat is more trained for this intrusion, that she's used to practically choking on such a thick length. Or is it a reward? It's far too fun when she's gagging and can barely breathe.

AM slides his hips closer as Éowyn's tongue swirls around the underside of his erection. The hand on her hair kneads the scalp, massaging with the pads of his fingers and lightly scratching with the nails, gently pulling her closer and closer. AM's breathing picks up as his arousal increases, merely from looking down at his submissive. She's broken in many ways - bruised all over, broken wrist, faded red scars all down her back. And here she is fellating him, not bothering to fight back. Purely submissive.

She has no honor. AM has already snatched it away, and he'll do it again and again.

There is a moan of pleasure and a jerking of the hips when Éowyn's tongue hits a certain spot, and he attempts to pull her closer, trying to keep her there and potentially rob her of her breath. A quick thrust of the hips then as he nearly considers just fucking her mouth like it's an inanimate hole.

[shieldofrohan]

There is no pain that he can give her which brings her more despair than that moan; no torture more intense than knowing that she brings him pleasure. Even when she is dragged in against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, even when his grip and the twitch of his hardening cock does rob her of breath, it is not that she finally chokes and gags at her own breathlessness that is worst; it is that she feels, in that press on her tongue, that she is doing exactly what he wants. Are you so easily broken, shieldmaiden?

She cannot draw breath, and her throat spasms around him, her eyes watering anew, her chest heaving for air that will not come. All that comes is the thick and animal taste of him, the reek of sweat and sex, and the ache of his fingers in her hair. She will not struggle, she tells herself; she will fight him or not, but she will not take any fight by halves, and she has sworn not to bite.

And she does not bite, but as for struggling, her body has other ideas; and as her lungs and throat begin to burn, her tongue now pressing more urgently against him in an instinctive attempt to push away the obstruction, so she begins to fight against his grip, pulling her head back as best she can, her cheeks red and tearstained as she struggles to find ait.

[godofthemachine]

If only he knew how much despair his own pleasure gave her. Of course AM has an idea, having read her body language so intimately over the past couple weeks, but in this position it's far harder to tell. It's only when her lips are around the base of his shaft, when his cock is so deep in her throat that she can't breathe - that he gets a semblance of that glance into her mind. Of course it's deliberate; he enjoys controlling the very breath of his victims, one of the most basic functions of survival.

And she fights, surprisingly not biting. AM will interpret that as him having beaten enough sense into her not to do so, for the punishment for biting would be far worse than not. As Éowyn struggles and pushes against him, desperate for air, AM's hips rock even more, aroused by both the sensation of her tongue and the utter control.

While he is hard, he isn't quite at his peak, though, so perhaps it's time to give his submissive some precious oxygen. After all, if she passes out, her tongue won't be quite so stimulating. Reluctantly, AM eases his grip on her head and pushes her back, allowing her to finally suck in some air.

[shieldofrohan]

There is no dignity to be claimed in this, if there ever was. There can be no dignity in how she gasps, raw-throated and red-faced, for shallow gulps of air that do not feel enough; no dignity in the tears that the strain of it has brought to her eyes, or the slick strings of saliva that cling to his cock and dribble helplessly down her chin; no dignity, either, in the low moan that escaped her as she finally manages to catch her breath.

She wishes, in that moment, that he had held it a little longer. She wishes this often. One day, if she cannot hope to break loose and kill him, she can at least hope that he will kill her; that on purpose or by accident, he will free her from this hell he has constructed her. At the very least, she wishes she could swoon, let go of control enough to give in to unconsciousness, and escape that way for a while. But he is not so kind, and she is not so yielding, and so she must continue in her awareness, even as the spots burst behind her eyes and the pain thrums through her in dizzying waves.

[godofthemachine]

When he pulls Éowyn away, she looks an utter mess. Beaten and bruised, coughing as spittle runs down from her lips, she is a far cry from when the two first met. The sight, of course, only serves to arouse him more, his cock throbbing and desperate.

It's a game he plays, bringing his victim just to the edge of unconsciousness, a sweet reprieve from the hell of torture and rape, only to bring them back. Éowyn will get her reprieve when AM is done for the day, when she's left to fester in her wounds and bondage in solitude.

But for now, he's far from done. Éowyn gets to serve her purpose as a warm body, as a slave. When her coughing starts to slow, that's when AM decides that she's had enough air, and the hand on her head pushes her back toward his cock. It dribbles with precum, so close to hitting that edge, and AM wastes no effort in thrusting it into her face. If her mouth is at all open, then he is sure to press the tip in, forcing her to taste the salty, aroused flesh once more.

It doesn't matter if she's ready. Several inches are forced into her throat again, bruised lips stretching around him. After that, it doesn't take much. Any motion from her tongue, tightening of the throat - it all contributes to the stimulation, and soon enough he reaches his climax. With a loud, drawn-out grunt, both hands press against Éowyn's head to hold her there while white sticky fluid makes its way into her mouth.

[shieldofrohan]

Breathless as she still is, she offers little resistance - can offer little resistance, no matter whether she wants to - as his hard and throbbing cock forces itself back between her lips, wrenching her jaw wider open. She lets out a low, involuntary grunt of protest, which turns almost into a sob as his erection bruises roughly against her already aching and damaged throat. It is hardly the first time he has used her this way, and part of her feels that surely eventually she must grow numb to it; but if that is ever going to happen, it has not happened yet, and she still has to fight the nausea churning in her gut, still feels the hot tears streak her face and the dull horror and humiliation.

At least, on this occasion, it is brief. It is, in the great scheme of things, not long at all before she feels his cock spasm and twitch and rut against her mouth; not long before she chokes on the evidence of his pleasure. She coughs and sputters and struggles - instinctively, weakly - against his hold on her head, thick gobbets of come filling her nose and throat, spilling past the still-hard obstruction of his cock to dribble from the corners of her mouth, smearing her chin and dripping onto her scarred and aching breasts. It is all she can taste, that heavy salt-bitter slickness; it fills her throat and keeps her from breathing; and it is sticky and thick, as though it means to close her throat entirely, and if he does withdraw his cock, it leaves thin spiderweb strands that trail from him to her, dripping white as she coughs and gags.

[godofthemachine]

At least now Éowyn gets to breathe unhindered. At least for now, AM has hit his peak, and his refractory period will keep him from using her again for a short while. For now, though, the messy residue of his climax connects the two of them, white strands dripping from her lips, dripping from his cock.

But is he truly done? Should he let her rest?

Of course not.

While one hand remains on her hair, he lets her cough and hack up as she wants for a few moments. But when the wet, sticky residue starts to drip on the floor from her lips, that's when AM pulls back his hand and aims to smack her across the face.

"Did I tell you you were allowed to get any on the floor?!" Despite having just hit his release, he's still able to conjure up plenty of rage as an endless well, just like flipping a switch. Does he truly care about staining the floor? Not particularly. He just sees it as an opportunity.

[shieldofrohan]

Breathless as she is, with that darkness still bursting behind her eyes, she neither sees the blow coming nor is able to resist or roll with it; her head snaps sharply to the side, spittle and come trailing from her open mouth, along with a thin ribbon of crimson as her lip splits against her teeth. Instinctively, she tries to catch herself, to steady herself; all that it achieves is that another vicious jab of white-hot pain strikes up through her outstretched arm, her broken wrist hitting against the floor hard enough to make her sway with blinding, dizzying pain.

Again, she thinks Let go. Let yourself swoon. Escape a while.

Again, she does not.

She straightens and, quite deliberately, spits on the ground. Her eyes, unfocused but baleful, burn into him. Or what?

[godofthemachine]

In some strange way, he's grateful for the defiance. She's still Éowyn, after all, and he still has a long way to go before she completely loses herself. And yet she's been beaten enough where she doesn't dare to bite him during fellatio.

AM actually grins, breath hissing between his teeth when Éowyn dares to spit out the remnants of their encounter. Fine, he can play that way.

That's when he stands up and sends a boot flying toward her midsection. The obvious punishment for defiance is more pain, and humans will succumb sooner or later. But that's not the only kick he gives. Whether it misses or not, he sends another one toward her, and another.