Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 12d

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Barahir
Barahir
35 Followers

[Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place at Dunharrow. Aragorn, who Éowyn has unsuccessfully tried to seduce, and the rest of his Rangers will depart for the Paths of the Dead in the morning.]

Arms limp, legs weak, neither her body nor her voice offered the slightest protest as the Rangers picked her up and carried her across the tent. Two of them folded her hands around the sturdy poles framing the door, holding them there until her failing strength proved sufficient to support her weight, then nudging her legs apart. Her eyes remained closed as she submissively awaited whatever it was they wished to do to her.

Suddenly, a terrible pressure blossomed in her anus. It felt like the walls themselves were trying to force their way inside her rear channel, and to her shock she realized that Halbarad was attempting to breach the only hole he hadn't yet conquered. Clutching her buttocks and pulling her tender cheeks wide, fingers digging into the angry red marks crisscrossing her ass, he pushed; forcefully and without respite. Her yelps of protest rose in pitch until, his indomitable will finally overwhelming a formidable physical resistance, he popped through the outer ring. Her answering screech of pain was not feigned. But he didn't relent, grinding his gargantuan phallus deeper and deeper into her anal canal until he'd buried the totality of his immensity in her colon.

Her scream turned to a moan of misery as she sucked in air with sharp, shallow gasps, trying to forge some sort of path though her suffering. For long moments Halbarad didn't move, apparently waiting for her to grow accustomed to his great size...though she found it unimaginable to believe that she ever would...and she yearned for a counterbalancing pleasure, or at least a distraction. I wish someone would reach between my legs and rub my clit. If I wasn't sure I'll need both hands for support when he starts pounding me, I'd do it myself. Yet no one approached. Time passed while her insanely distended sphincter throbbed around the base of Halbarad's mighty cock, while the rest of her body remained rigid with tension, anticipation, and no little fear.

When at last he moved she yowled at an immediate upsurge in pain. And then, to her disbelief, she came. Hard. Her cry twisted in midair as the foundation of her release shifted back and forth between the sexual and the unbearable. Pain...pleasure...pain...pleasure...over and over they circled and danced, coalescing into a unified inferno of mind-obliterating sensation residing as much in her mind as in her loins. She found herself craving both, and against all reason started thrusting back against Halbarad's cock as it drove deep, widening realms of her body she'd never imagined anyone could reach. Her screams of ecstasy were indistinguishable from her wails of agony, and the orgasms that fueled both continued to rip through her body, pushing her far beyond any previously understood limits to her endurance.

The fury of Halbarad's strokes increased, and yet her brutalized ass welcomed the punishment. Her hands gripped the doorposts, knuckles whitening as she braced against his hammering. She feared he was ruining her for all others — and possibly forever — but she no longer cared. I want this. I need this. I'd thought to be the master of my own sexuality, to take as much as I give, but to such dominance and undeniable prowess I would willingly enslave myself forever. Her mind-numbing climaxes rolled on and on, transforming what began as an impossible penetration from the physical into the spiritual, each thrust bringing fresh and tearful clarity to the terms of her absolute surrender. Master of sword and spear she might remain in the free air, but behind closed doors she could be ruled not by her own desires, but by the demanding lusts of others. Though perhaps they're one and the same.

At the thought of a lifetime of such lasciviousness she threw her head back and shrieked, untamed and incoherent, through the most monumental climax she'd ever experienced. Her very bones seemed to liquify. Fluid gushed from her convulsing pussy. Her skin flushed, her muscles seized, her legs trembled. Mind, heart, and soul fled her body, and it was only the raw animalism of the trunk sawing in and out of her ass that kept her from collapsing into unconsciousness.

A cold draft crinkled her sore nipples, and the bracing slap of mountain air stung her cheek.

She opened her eyes.

The tent's entrance had opened wide to reveal an audience. Assembled before her were the rest of the Rangers — almost certainly including those who'd earlier probed her depths — and an ever-expanding crowd of Rohan's refugees. All gaped, open-mouthed, at her naked, semen-streaked, anally impaled body as Halbarad triumphantly ravaged it for all to see. Gréor was there, thick arms crossed and a scowl upon his face while her other students watched in bewilderment and growing lust. Eli and Théo held hands, tears of betrayal in their eyes. The Dwarf and the Elf looked on — with interest or impassivity she couldn't tell — while Aragorn's expression was as impenetrable as ever. A few of the bolder men were already drawing closer, stroking their hardening cocks through their breeches and loudly announcing their intention to take their own turn with her. Bitter tears of humiliation streamed down her cheeks as Halbarad pounded her into yet another body-convulsing orgasm.

My life as I've known it is over. Never again will I command respect or authority. This very night won't end until everyone who wishes to has used my body, while the days, months, and years to come will be consumed by others who will greedily take advantage of my cravings and my weakness. But despite her horror at her descent into unabashed carnality being so publicly laid bare she couldn't stop searching their faces, begging for even the briefest sign of kindness or understanding.

With a sucking pop that, to her ears, seemed to echo from the nearby cliffs, Halbarad yanked his cock free of her distended anal canal. Before she could collapse to the ground in exhaustion he roughly spun her around by her hair, positioning her aching mouth at his magnificent pillar. She dutifully extended her tongue, and — with a fierce roar — he seared her mouth with a torrent of semen. Wild spurts painted her face with creamy white gouts, and when she couldn't swallow fast enough the rest streamed over her chin and down her neck, clinging to her breasts. This marking of her flesh should have been a final debasement beyond her ability to endure, yet she felt a strange pride at bearing his seed, and she wailed his name as she shuddered through one final and debilitating climax.

And then, overcome at last, she crumpled to the ground, consciousness fleeing as she fell. But even enveloped in the comforting darkness of sleep, Halbarad's copious ejaculate continued to pour down her throat, an apparently endless river of his cream the totality of her universe. Everything she'd ever believed about herself...every moment, every thought, ever desire...had shattered into billions of dissociated motes, swirling through a maelstrom of raw erotic energy and slowly reassembling, one speck at a time.

I've been unmade. The woman I knew as me is no more. When this is all over I will be someone else. Someone new. Will she still be me? Or will she abandon this useless husk once and for all?

On and on she consumed his essence. Every swallow reshaping a puzzle as yet undefined, each mouthful drawing her away from all she'd been towards an unknown future.

Release....

Release....

Release....

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

It's your turn.

Elladan positioned himself astride Éowyn's head. His painfully stiff cock trembled on the edge of release — watching her masturbate for so long and with such fervor had demanded an agonizing restraint — as he pressed it between her open lips. Elrohir bent to her sex, gently tugging her fingers from its drenched depths as he waited for his brother. A long, slow river of Elladan's magically induced ejaculate filled her mouth, and she suckled and swallowed his juices as greedily as she'd consumed Elrohir's.

With a soft moan, she came. Reluctantly, Elladan slid his cock from her lips while Elrohir collected her fresh spendings on his tongue, then hovered above her face to let the drops drain into her empty mouth. She seized as if in the throes of orgasm, then collapsed into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Is it done?

It is done.

That was....

Yes.

Brother, given that sooner or later she'll wake up in bewilderment, given everything she believes has transpired, perhaps....

We will leave in a moment. But first, let me at least attempt to alleviate one of the mysteries accompanying that awakening.

From a slender satchel Elrohir produced a flask of miruvor, pouring a generous mouthful between Éowyn's still-open lips. Despite her slumber she swallowed it as eagerly as she'd accepted their semen. Almost immediately she stirred, limbs suddenly restless, breath coming sharper and faster. With a gasp she bolted upright, fully awake.

Where are the Rangers? Wait...where am I? How did I get back here?

Her quarters were empty, and she was alone.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Do you think we've done the right thing?

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

A flood of memories, physical and otherwise, threatened to overwhelm her. Their vivid, tactile clarity made it difficult to believe that her lusty companions had never existed. She still burned with the intensity of all she'd felt...the pleasure, the pain, the ecstasy, and the humiliation. Nor did she understand finding herself back where she'd began the night's regrettable parade of decisions. Full of uncertainty and doubt, craving confirmation, she spread her legs to assess the damage to her sex.

Her labia was swollen, glistening with the wet gloss of arousal, but showing only the effects of gentle self-pleasure rather than the endless ravaging she so clearly remembered. Not even the unprecedented stretching to which she'd subjected it while trying to seduce Aragorn was evident. And even though her bedding was soaked, it was with her own juices rather than the flood of excess male issue she expected. She studied the sticky cream that coated her fingers, concluding from the faint numbness in her clitoris that she'd been stimulating herself for a long time. Tentatively, fearing the worst, she probed her other orifice. It remained tightly puckered, showing no sign of breach by as little as a finger, much less a long procession of towering cocks.

Was it all just a dream, then? Every moment felt so real. Every sensation. Every emotion. If it was only a dream, it was unlike any I've ever experienced...and not just because of the sex.

An exotic, unfamiliar heat lingered on her palate, yet beneath its mysterious aftertaste she detected an unmistakable saline residue. If that isn't semen, what else could it possibly be? And why do I feel as satiated as if I've come from a mighty feast, when in fact I've barely taken any sustenance at all? There was no doubting the reality of her lingering, bone-weary exhaustion, but as it appeared to be the aftermath of something she'd only imagined, she decided it was more of an emotional than a physical fatigue.

It really was a dream, I guess. But I still don't understand how I could enter my quarters naked without the sentry taking note. She flushed at the thought of the potential embarrassment. More importantly, what could have caused an orgiastic dream of such overwhelming pleasure and unbearable humiliation? Was it an inevitable aftermath of my failure to manipulate Aragorn into sex? Was it a subconscious warning? For the lesson was quite clear: sex — especially when employed to achieve any desire other than purely sexual — is leading me down a perilous path. My body wasn't the key to Aragorn's heart after all, nor can it be an inconsequential tool to be offered whenever and wherever I might please without first giving thought to my chosen partners.

Éowyn sighed. Here I remain, no better off than I was before. Sure, I've gotten laid, and I've rid myself of the troublesome virginity to which I never should have clung, but all I've left in my wake is damage. I'm more alone than ever. My cage continues to shrink, and I still can't see any way out.

She withered with remorse over a dissolution she couldn't seem to escape, but even more at the memory of her many and rapidly accumulating failures.

What have I done?

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

I do. It was right, and it was necessary. Still....

You did not quite expect that...frenzy.

Elrohir shook his head. How could I? I expected she'd conjure an image of Aragorn himself, or perhaps a surrogate from among the Rohirrim. That she instead chose an anonymous Ranger — unburdened by the potential for future complication in the wake of an assignation — was only a minor surprise. But it was clear, from her murmurs and her actions, that she summoned up more than one partner, and that was unexpected.

Perhaps I have finally seen her mind more clearly than you, brother. There were many Rangers. I guess a half-dozen or so. They were all different save in one aspect: they were all unusually or unnaturally endowed, which can only mean that she was thinking of....

Out of respect for our sister, please do not finish that thought.

Elladan shrugged. As you wish. Still, it was something that figured prominently in her dream. She was taken, for many hours, by a host of men of uncommon physicality. Taken in ways she both feared and desired, in ways both familiar and new. All previous limits, whether she was previously aware of them or not, were utterly obliterated in her vision, and vast new sexual horizons were very likely laid bare. I suspect there is now little of which her mind and body are incapable of imagining.

Do you fear what we have unleashed?

He permitted himself a smile. On the contrary, I most certainly share your plain interest in experiencing what we have unleashed. If we survive this war — and if she does — perhaps it may even become possible one day. What I actually fear are the consequences of her untamed, unbridled lust. We may have saved her from one terrible fate only to condemn her to an ignoble and destructive future.

Surely sex, no matter how entangling or unconventional, is preferable to a pointless and avoidable death.

Elladan fell silent as the memory of the chief trauma of their lives darkened his thoughts.

Elrohir's pain joined with his brother's. You're remembering....

Let us not speak of that, either.

Then we shall not.

So...as the author of this tale, I ask you: were we successful?

True authorship is more rightly assigned to Lúthien, or even more correctly to our honored ancestor Melian. I am but a lesser translator of their art. As for Éowyn: I deem she will not ride to inevitable destruction...or at least she will not do so in a vain pursuit of Aragorn. But she is far from cured, and I bemoan our inability to safeguard her next steps, for I am unable to guess what she will do.

Could we not...?

...cure her? Any cure, if such is to be, is up to her. For us to attempt it would mean breaking her essence without any guide to restoring it save in our image, and that we must not do. I am still unable to see the nature of her potential redemption, but it remains my sense that we would have little part in it whether or not we wished otherwise, even if we were to accompany her every minute of every day. All I can descry is that it will be born of struggle and that she will only come to it through terrible pain. Not just physical pain, either. I have a strange premonition of greatness — of a deed of immense renown — though how this could be while she remains trapped in this redoubt, nursemaiding refugees, I cannot fathom. This conflict between what is impossible and what I foresee enflames my concern.

But she still loves Aragorn.

She both does and does not. She has the potential to truly love him, perhaps, but only once she is healed. Though it is likely to be fruitless if so...for if they both survive, and if victory and peace are achieved, then he will have come into his destiny and will take our sister's hand, as has long been promised. Unless we have misjudged him entire....

We have not.

I agree. At the moment, however, what she mistakenly identifies as her love for The Dúnadan retains too much power over her actions, and this is also among my fears. Though I cannot fully understand what it was that brought her to this pass, he — or at least what he represents — remains the only hope she can clearly perceive. She will not be truly cured until she finds hope beyond that hopelessness.

Or until he returns her love.

You know that will not happen.

I know. And yet, brother, what of the consequences we foresaw?

They will, if she is free to act, come to pass. There is no helping that now. You say her sexual barriers have likely been shattered....

They have.

But something happened at the end that created the potential for a new understanding, should she ever find the emotional solitude to identify and embrace it. In this lies the seed of our success. She may not be able to restrain her desires, or at least I cannot foresee the method by which she might do so, but she has already taken into herself an acknowledgement of their dangers. She has heretofore acted recklessly, as one without any experience of sexuality that is not reckless, and maybe therein lies the reason for and the source of her lack of restraint. But she now knows better, or at least she is capable of doing so. And there is something else, too: she will never again cede control of her sexuality to another. Not even for love. She will, if she survives and can endure the responsibilities of freedom, eventually become master of her desires in a way few have ever contemplated.

But she will not stop? Or at least stay her whims long enough to face what is yet to come?

I doubt it. If anything, she is likely to accelerate that which has already been set in motion.

And if she does?

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Pity! The way to his heart was neither magical manipulation, nor desperate pleading, nor even the friction of aroused genitalia, but pity! How could I fail to understand that?

She felt revulsion and a miasma of self-loathing at the realization. It was all too easy to see how the chief of the Rangers could pity her, for she was eminently pitiable in her current straits. And then come to love me? She didn't and couldn't know, but to her shattered hope was now added a sense of tragic impossibility. Given what I've done, I've almost certainly closed that door forever. She cringed, hugging her tightly folded legs closer to her chest.

I have one more chance. The thread of hope is slender and fragile, but on the morrow I shall attempt to grasp it anyway, before all fades into darkness. And if he doesn't accept...well, tomorrow will bring what it brings. At least my path will be clear, either way.

Barahir
Barahir
35 Followers
12