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]

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.

[shieldofrohan]

For the second time in as many minutes, she finds herself choking and breathless, as his boot slams into her gut and knocks the wind out of her. This, despite everything, is a strange sort of relief. This kind of pain, this kind of breathless and bloody torment, is something that she can handle; there is no deeper shame in it, no forced reminder of her degraded state. Anyone - man, woman, warrior or otherwise - may be defeated, and that is all this is. Simple pain, simple defeat. It is blindingly painful, especially when she comes down on her broken wrist; her lungs ache as they gasp for air that will not come, and she tastes blood above the lingering taste of his come, and she feels the dry-twig crack of a rib breaking; and it is still better, this pain, than when he uses her for pleasure.

Still, there are tears in her eyes; still, she curls in on herself, around the jarring ache of impact, instinctively bringing her arms up to shield herself. Still, when he finally lets up, she does not move, but lies still, her breath coming in raw sobs, her head spinning with pain and breathlessness.

[godofthemachine]

Maybe it's fortunate that AM isn't aware of the relief Éowyn may feel at this pain, for he will interpret it as he sees it. She cries and curls up on herself, clearly suffering, clearly receiving that negative conditioning to obey her master. And of course it feels good to kick her, to reinforce her status as nothing more than an object for his amusement, nothing better than a pet to be trained.

A few more kicks produce many bruises, opening new wounds and clearly damaging her, so after a few more, AM stands over to evaluate his damage. A broken, heaving mess is what lies at his feet, wallowing in a pool of misery.

"Are you going to make a mess next time, my pet?" He stands tall, not bothering to bend over. No, he's a giant in comparison, and he's keen to emphasize that.

[shieldofrohan]

She cannot breathe, cannot think. Black spots dance behind her eyes, bursting into dazzling shadow. Her breath rattles in her chest, against aching, broken ribs and bruised muscle. There is blood in her hair, the copper taste of it in her mouth overwhelming that other salt-bitter taste. For a moment, all she can manage is to lie there, the ragged inhale and exhale dragging hooks of pain through a damaged throat and lungs.

Little by little, she manages to shift, crawl, pushing herself up enough to look up at him. Her face is bloody and swollen, her blonde curls dark with sweat and blood where they plaster against her cheek. She doesn't think she can speak. There isn't enough breath left in her, and her tongue feels thick in her mouth, her lips swollen and sticky. Even so, she smiles - a broken, bloody smile - and spits again, aiming for his foot as squarely as she can with one eye swelling shut.

Much more of this will kill me. It is not a wholly unpleasant thought.

[godofthemachine]

Ah, so that's how they're going to play this game, are they? She spits a concoction of bloody semen onto the ground, barely missing his boots, and he stares down at her unmoving. No, he doesn't proceed to beat her more, knowing that she's already on the precipice of too much. If she dies, then he'll be out quite a bit of money from buying her, plus... Well, it will be one of the violations of the contract. Not that there's really anything in the contract that favors Éowyn at all, being the absolute bare bones for a submissive purchased in auction. But killing the submissive... Well, that had to be on the contract somewhere.

Instead, he utters a soft laugh from his closed lips before slowly bending down, reaching for those tangled blonde curls. He takes hold of them and pulls, partly lifting Éowyn's upper body up. "Such a feisty little vixen, aren't you? As if you enjoy the pain, just to get back at me."

He then lets go, letting her body drop back to the floor. "Clearly you despise me so much..." And now he takes a seat, gently maneuvering Éowyn's body and cradling her like one would a lover. But his hand goes between her legs, prying them open just enough to slip that lock back between her labia piercings with a click.

"So I'll do you the pleasure of leaving you alone for a few days," he gently purrs.

[shieldofrohan]

His touch no longer just makes her skin crawl - it hurts, no matter how mockingly gentle it might be. And yet, there's some truth in what he's saying: she might not enjoy the pain, exactly, but there is a savage, hollow satisfaction in it. It is the closest thing she has to getting back at him, knowing that eventually he'll push it too far, that he'll break her to the point where she's no longer fun for him, and have nobody to blame for it but himself. Her pain might be enjoyable for him, but only to a point. Sooner or later, she'll be too broken to fuck, and too broken to fight, and - maybe, just maybe - too broken to care.

Her eye is swollen shut, her mouth filling up with blood again. Breathing hurts. She doesn't resist as she's dragged up into his lap, doesn't even try to close her legs against his prying hand. Weak as she is, that would only humiliate her more. Even so, the sharp snap of the lock falling back into place through the raw, swollen flesh of her labia is enough to make her shudder.

"You cannot know," she croaks, "how much I despise you."

And even so, the thought of his leaving is almost worse. The thought of lying here, broken and alone, without even the distraction of his brutality, is appalling.

[godofthemachine]

AM's softer expression immediately sharpens when Éowyn professes her hatred. It sharpens as his eyes narrow and his lips curl, clearly quite satisfied with her description. She needs to hate every moment of this existence to come even close to a fraction of how much AM utterly hates her.

"Oh, I have a good idea of it, my pet," he croons, brushing some of her hair from her face. Gently, he dabs a cloth at her bleeding facial wounds and pours a little water from his canteen on them. It's almost a complete contrast to the sadistic delight in his face, the way he seems to lovingly tend to the wounds that he himself caused. No. She caused them. All of this is her fault.

"And that's why I'll give you a little vacation away from me." Another dab at the corner of her eye, soothing over the lid with the wet cloth. "Who ever said I didn't consider your wants and needs?"

He sets her back down on the floor relatively gently, setting the canteen beside her. "Be sure to ration out this water while I'm gone, though. That's all you're getting." That's when he stands up, tall and proud with his submissive at his feet, crumpled and injured on the floor. Pathetic. How much longer will she be that prideful vixen? Time will have to tell.