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]

AM enjoys visiting the auction site every now and then. He hasn't purchased anyone there, mainly because he would rather save up his money for something more useful, especially when he already has two submissives. But even so, he loves watching the humiliation that the submissives face as they are auctioned off. He likes watching the other dominants: some who jeer at the subs and make crude gestures; others who remain silent, but have the haunting look in their eyes; the rich harem-owners who want another to add to their collection; the ones who appear to be caring and loving, but AM knows it's all a farce...

He listens and watches as this submissive is touted out, naked and beautiful and-- he knows her. He has seen her. He has done awful things to her, and enjoyed every moment of it. And oh he wanted to do these things again... He wanted to strip that pride from every inch of her and make her sob for mercy.

Without even thinking about the consequences, as soon as the auction starts, AM immediately shouts the price. Of course, a couple of other dominants are quick to add to the fray, raising the price up and up... After all, Éowyn is beautiful and strong. She would be a catch for many. And yet for AM... Well, he doesn't even think about his other two submissives right now. All he thinks about is the inevitable horror on her face when she realizes who has purchased her.

two weeks later

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn is not entirely sure how long she has been here. Long enough that the swollen, bleeding agony between her legs has settled into a dull ache, the flesh closing against the body-warmed metal he pushed through the most sensitive parts of her. Long enough that he's visited more than she cares to think of. Long enough that fury and fear have begun to give way to the dull creeping of despair.

She sits on the cold stone floor, her good hand (the wrist he broke is healing, but too slowly, and she tries not to use that hand if she can help it) working slowly through her hair, combing out the tangles that have accumulated in the past day or two. She considered doing no such thing; it feels too much like consenting to make herself pretty for him, and part of her wants to be as ugly as possible, a bestial thing of matted hair and filth. But in her heart of hearts, she doubts that would do anything to put him off her - and she does not want to be a beast. She feels animal enough already, caged as she is, chained and bridled like a wild thing. He will not rob her of her humanity. It's the last thing she has.

Besides, she has to do something. She's already tried every means of escape available to her, chained or unchained, and come up short. She has no weapons; he's careful, takes anything she could use when he goes. She has no recourse, no plan, and nothing else to do but sit and comb out her hair with her fingers, staring blankly at the door and singing quietly under her breath to fill the accusing silence. The song is an old one, a lament for lost times, though the words are burred and murmured, as if she's afraid of being caught singing. In fact, she is - ashamed to sing even sad songs in her current plight. Still, it beats silence.

"Hu seo þrag gewat," she croons, as she begins to twist her now-untangled hair into a braid, "genap under nihthelm, swa heo n--"

The sound of footsteps stops her short, her hand stilling, the song dying on her lips. Her respite is over; whether he means to fuck her or only mock her, the silence will not outlast his coming. She hates, with all her being, that it is almost a relief.