tagCelebrities & Fan FictionEowyn: The Cage - Ch. 19b

Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 19b


[Caution: this chapter contains consensual, nonconsensual, and violent sex.]


The ache was intolerable. Everything hurt. Even — perhaps especially — her sore inner flesh. Bruised, battered, and violated, there was no specific focus to her misery, only the bitter totality of it.

Voices surrounded her. Indistinct. Muttering. Care and fear were beyond her strength. Nor was there much purpose in either, as she still couldn't move. Could not, in fact, do anything at all except suffer in immobility and silence.

She felt activity between her legs. The giant pillar that had spent unknown hours lodged in her cunt, and which was still the author of a significant portion of her discomfort, wiggled under the guidance of some unseen motivation. But its insertion had been achieved when she was both well-lubricated and under the encouragement of a leather belt. Now she was dry, and every motion caused her to wince with pain. She saw no way it could be extracted under these conditions. Unless....

Two things happened. The restraints that held her immobile evaporated — she still couldn't escape, but she could move — and a probing finger began manipulating her exposed clit. At first she refused to acknowledge the contact, and when that was no longer possible she fought against the indignity of arousal. But then cold rationality set in. Don't you want this thing out of you? Acquiesce! Having been given permission, her body relaxed into the stimulation. Slowly...too slowly...her natural lubrication seeped forth, and the pillar started to slide back and forth. Just a hair's breadth at first, then a bit more, each motion accompanied by a sharp snap of pain until her juices could work their way around its mammoth circumference. Eventually, withdrawal became a possibility.

However, whoever was controlling the gigantic phallus had interim motives other than removal. Back and forth it moved through the taut walls of her obscenely stretched cunt. Having allowed herself the balm of pleasure she was helpless against its escalation. She could only grind, twist, and moan as she was fucked, widened, and ruined.

Her orgasm was no epic climax — she was far too tired for that — but as she began twitching in surrender to her release, the plug in her ass started moving in turn. Though she hadn't noticed at the time, at some point they'd managed to work a little bit of oil around and into her anus. It was barely enough, and the violent tug as it snapped through her entrance brought a sharp yelp of protest. Again, they torture me at the moment of pleasure. Why? Both holes were, at last, unoccupied, though they throbbed with terrible soreness in the aftermath of their ordeal.

As the tensions within slowly fell away, so did the rest of her bindings (save for the hood, which continued to obscure her sight). Motionless for so long after being subjected to such brutal treatment, she was temporarily incapable of moving under her own strength, and so her captors guided her. On unsteady legs she was led to a tepid basin of scented water, and as in her dreams she was cleansed inside and out. The biting sting where the lash had fallen hardest and most often was impossible to ignore, but otherwise she barely acknowledged the hands, cloths, and unguents that moved around and within her. The final humiliation was an impatient scraping that abraded the tender flesh between her legs while, as ordered, the last of her hair was removed with a razor-sharp blade.

Denied the comfort of a towel, she let her captors move her back to some sort of canted bench. A click announced the refastening of her collar to hold her in place, but this time she was on her back.

And then came hands. Many of them, all at once. Prodding, squeezing, mauling. Her tits were roughly handled, her nipples subjected to renewed abuse. Fingers forced themselves into her mouth, probing into her throat and rekindling the ache in her jaw. More entered her tender pussy, pushing and twisting, punctuating their assault with cruel pinches and tugs at her clitoris. Against any one of these manipulations she might have maintained some form of equanimity; in her weakened state and against all of them at once she could only whimper, moan protestations, and (to her continuing shame) respond. Eventually, a small orgasm was wrenched from her unwilling sex. And then another. And another. With each her already weary body succumbed to numbness and her tortured mind lost its grip on reality, her very will ebbing away to nothingness.

When they were done, her collar was again unshackled from its restraining bolt, and her hood was untied and removed. She blinked and rubbed her eyes against the flickering flame of a sputtering torch, dim to others but dazzling to her long-shrouded eyes, unable to focus on the blurry shapes of her molesters as they exited the room.

She was alone.

Groaning, she sat up, pulling her legs close to her torso and sitting like that for a while, hunched over in misery. As blood slowly returned to her limbs she gingerly slid off the bench and stood, trembling with weakness, to inspect the damage to her person. It was worse than she could have imagined. Her breasts were a patchwork of marks, her back was a thatch of welts, and her ass....

A fresh bout of sobbing burst forth at the sight: bruises piled upon bruises, streaked with purple lines, some of them already darkening to black. It filled her with a despair beyond any she'd yet known, at least since her capture, for she knew that no matter how bad it looked it was only the beginning of her ordeal. She'd seen enough wounds before...both the trophies of victory and the stigmata of defeat...to know damage when she saw it. These are scars I might forever bear. But does it matter? Only if I can escape. And I can't see how I will.

Surrender suffused her every thought, increasing the intensity of her weeping. Where is my will to fight? To deny, even if it's ultimately futile, the degradations being visited upon my body? Where is my desire for freedom? Was the death I sought so intensely pursued that I've forgotten how to yearn for life? Or has my once-proud strength been broken so easily? And if so, was I really ever that strong?

To this harsh interrogation she had answer. It was if an unseen force was gnawing away at her very self. She couldn't understand why she was already on the verge of giving up, and her nonexistent response to halfhearted internal pleas to resist left her crushed.

As delicately as possible, she probed her sex. The damage already seemed recoverable, despite a lingering ache in the deepest limits of her channel. Her rear entrance was much the same; nearly as raw to the touch as the rest of her buttocks, it burned with the aftermath of friction and unprecedented intrusion, but otherwise appeared intact. She tried to sit, found she couldn't without intolerable pain, and settled for leaning against the bench and nursing her despair.

I'm hungry. Thirsty, too. When did I last eat or drink? She couldn't remember.

With a harsh grinding noise the door slammed open. Blinding torches streamed in, held by an unknown number of figures, and instead of attempting to fight or flee she cowered in resignation. The light overwhelmed her eyes, and before they could adjust she was once again blinded by the hood.

"We will continue your punishment."

It was the Voice.

She found just enough strength to back away, feebly grasping the edge of the bench and attempting to put it between her and his resonant threat. All her defiance was gone, in its place a pathetic pleading. "No. Please, no. You can't. I can't bear anymore. Please...."

"Whether or not you can is irrelevant. You will."

It was only a guess that the bench stood between them, but she — who had shied from no fear nor bowed to any foe — cowered behind it like a child. "No! Please! Haven't you caused me enough injury? I might never recover from what you've already done. My body can't withstand more without breaking; skin, blood, and bone. I thought you weren't going to kill me."

"You will not die. Injury to the flesh is but one means to an end, and fleeting in comparison to the others at our disposal. But injury is not the purpose of punishment. Submission is."

Strange feelings welled within her. As before, comprehension of his cruel words hovered just beyond her reach. "Then I submit. I submit! Just please, please don't hurt me anymore. Not again. Please...."

"You disappoint me, and so your punishment will be even more severe. You desire only escape, if not by deed then by false word. You refuse to understand. There is, for you, no escaping the physical manifestation of your punishment. Those will continue for the rest of your life, and in fact what you have thus far endured is a pale prelude to what you will suffer in the future. When you embrace your agony you will have learned the power of submission. If you can still deny our will you have not yet learned the required lesson. You must beg for pain, live for pain, find pleasure in pain. Only then will you achieve the freedom of pain."

His words are beyond reason. They're pure madness! But does he mean that if I absorb enough punishment, I'll be released? For a moment, a tiny spark of hope was born...and just as quickly extinguished in anticipation of the brutality that would unquestionably be involved. I don't know if I can survive that long. With this new layer of hopelessness came an unexpected, albeit dark, clarity. Escape is the opposite of submission. They mean to drive that hope from me forever. Bowing her head, she realized it was as he'd said. They'll never let me go.

Unmoored, Éowyn lost herself to atavistic fear of the unknown. Her breathing grew labored, as if an iron hand was slowly tightening around her neck, and she scrabbled at her collar, her words panicked and desperate. "No...no, I...please, I'll do anything you want. You...." She choked back revulsion. "You can have my body, any way you wish. Just please don't hurt me any more. I can't...."

The laughter that interrupted her pleading was as black and empty as the Outer Void, and as before held no mirth, only mocking cruelty. "Of course I will have you where and when I want. So will many others. You are an object that we will use, but no more than that. Your desires are of no importance. Your submission must be total. Your defiance will be broken. You will learn obedience under hand, lash, and whip, and your holes will serve more cocks than you can possibly imagine. You will plead for pain, you will beg to be used for the sexual pleasure of others, and you shall willingly be forever enslaved to both, for you will learn that they are the same."

She gasped, shaking her head as she fell to her knees, stunned. This drew another chuckle. "On another occasion that position would be a good beginning. But fear is not enough. It is only a shield. You must first be undone."

Éowyn was yanked violently upward by her hair and slammed, face-forward, onto the bench. Reflexively, her hands moved to protect her ravaged buttocks. "Please," she begged. "The pain is already more than I can bear. Please, please, don't harm me further."

There was a pause. Hard fingers probed her bruised flesh, brushing aside her own. "The damage is considerable. I suppose it will take a while for you to become accustomed to such treatment. It may be that the fullest ecstasy of pain cannot be achieved until you have learned the pointlessness of recovery."

She held her breath.

"I accept your alternative. Do not cling to a pointless hope that this is a permanent decision, but I will not punish you here. Not today."

Her relieved exhalation caught in her throat as she mulled his words. My alternative...?

The next moments were a blur of cruel hands and unwanted motion. By the time her focus returned she was again restrained, facing the ceiling with her back against the cantilevered bench. Her head dangled over the end, bent backwards by chains attached to the back of her collar and tightly shackled to thick leather cuffs around her wrists. Her legs were elevated, forced open by an iron rod that separated her ankles and then levered upward by ropes. Her tender sex was more exposed than ever, and when she felt something thin and hard poking her vulva, she tensed for the worst.

Whatever probed her was restless, scraping along her inner thighs, tickling the backs of her knees, and tracing figures around her calves. Figures and runes it seemed to draw on her tense stomach, followed by a series of sharp prods to her labia. It even slipped an inch or so inside her sex.

The contact ended. She held her breath, waiting. She could neither feel nor hear anything aside from the throb of her heart, and her muscles tightened in fear. Minutes stretched until they became an unbearable buildup. She wanted to plead for mercy, but she feared the consequences. Her mind roiled with turmoil, begging for an end to the tension, wishing for whatever awaited her to be over.

Please, whatever you're going to do to me...just do it.

A sinister chuckle echoed through the chamber.

Did say that out loud, or did they read my thoughts?

A slashing blow cut into the arches of her feet, as sharp and clean as a knife. She shrieked.

Again something sharp and hard snapped into her skin. And again. And again. And again. And again. Each strike redefined her misery. She was being struck by a thin wooden cane, narrow and strong, that bit into her tender flesh. There was no delicate line between correction and brutality to be found in such an instrument when employed with this level of force. There was only pain.

Methodically, the cuts moved up the inside of her legs. Despite the shock of each excruciating impact, her terror escalated, for each blow drew closer and closer to her vulnerable sex.

There was a brief interregnum, and her stomach took the next impact. It heaved in response, and she felt as if she might be sick. Her sides then bore the brunt of a series of clinical strikes. No amount of wailing or pleading sufficed to stem the tide of punishment.

Nor could anything prepare her for the first whip-slash into the soft flesh of her breast. Animalistic howls escaped her throat. The blows came faster now, covering each breast in a ladder-shaped pattern. And then came the cruel finale: a perfectly aimed strike across both nipples. Never in her life had she imagined such an intensity of pain...until the next few impacts fell exactly the same way, doubling and trebling her agony. Between her screams she struggled for words that might end the unendurable agony as her raw nipples were caned, beaten, and tortured, until....

"PLEASE! STOP!! STOP!!! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, please, please, please...please...please...."

The litany went on, a deafening surrender to abject terror until her voice failed, softening to moans and then falling into silence, but her mouth continued to shape the words even as sound abandoned her. Her tears flowed like water.

Finally, the abuse stopped.

In her agonized haze she barely noticed when her restraints were undone. She slumped to the floor and sobbed, and when there were no more tears she rolled to her back, legs splayed open, lying there like a dead thing, able to face neither her pain nor her reality. She heard the shuffling of feet and the rustling of cloth, and though her hood was removed she lacked the strength to open her eyes and look upon her abusers.

More rustling. Grunts of exertion. And then....

The first splatters seared her bruised and beaten flesh. They — she knew not how many — released their seed onto her unresisting form. Over and over she was targeted, her body painted in ropes, globs, and smears of ejaculate. Her freshest wounds burned at the contact, but when she reflexively cried out in pain the flood was enthusiastically redirected at her open mouth. She quickly snapped it shut but lacked the energy to expel, and so it slowly trickled down her throat as the rain of sperm continued. What's one more degradation among so many? At least this one doesn't add to the hurt. The humiliating shower continued until she was practically covered, head to toe, in their issue.

One last weak spurt dribbled onto her face, and then it was over. She heard the door grinding shut, and then naught but stillness. But even though she lay in a vile pool of rapidly cooling semen, torn to shreds by cane and strap, she couldn't move. Her mind gave up its weak grasp on the tenuous threads of sanity and she fled into the horror of her darkest nightmares...visions in which she was taken repeatedly and with neither remorse nor respite by beings of pure evil, bringing her to one screaming climax after another. Each time losing a little bit more of her soul.


Bathed in more than just self-hatred, Éowyn awoke to numbness. And worse. Foul issue encrusted her body and adhered her to the floor. With disgustingly filthy fingers she pulled her eyelids apart and lifted her head from its resting place, losing a few strands of hair in the process. Despite the filth, she could finally see where she was being kept.

Her windowless prison — her cage without bars — was full of tables, benches, and strange platforms. Many bore openings in their surfaces, and most featured hooks and rings through which ropes or chains could be threaded. More of the latter dangled from the vaulted ceiling, well out of reach. It was a dungeon designed for only one thing: torture. Her torture.

But at the moment she was alone...and to her surprise the door was open. Groaning, she pried herself from the floor and tried to shuffle toward the hall.

She didn't make it. The painful cuts on her feet seared like lightning with each step. Her legs gave out, and she fell to her knees, forced to crawl in pathetic misery across the hard stone floor.

The hall was empty. There were two heavy iron doors to her left, closed and bolted. Better not. Might be someone in there. There was a dimly-lit corridor ahead, and another to her right that led to impenetrable blackness and filled her with mindless terror.

Forward it is.

Slowly, strength returned to her legs and she was able to claw herself to a semi-upright position. Leaning against the wall, trying to relieve the pressure on her feet, she stumbled forward into the unknown. Escape was far from her mind, only a dull, defeated curiosity. About halfway down the long hallway the air turned humid and fragrant. Could that be water? I'm so thirsty. Through a carved archway she entered into a world of thick mists and lurid aromas; the scent of flowers, perhaps, but unlovely ones full of decay. It was a foreboding, almost deathly smell. Still, it's better than the stench of my own body.

And there was indeed water. A wide pool of it, lapping against broad stone benches. Its source couldn't be guessed through the impenetrable fog, but somewhere in the distance a steady chorus of drips echoed. She tested the water; it was hot, but didn't burn. Ignoring the potential for some sort of aqueous evil given her desperate desire to cleanse herself, she lowered herself into the bath until fully immersed, reveling to the extent possible in its soothing warmth.

If only it could wash away everything else.

Careful to avoid exacerbating her injuries, she washed her body as gently she could. While she ached everywhere, the sharpest stings and throbs were indeed gradually salved by the water. Scrubbing her eyes clean of dried semen, she reopened them to find that either the mists had subsided or her vision was clearer, for she espied neatly folded cloths piled on a nearby shelf. Combs, brushes, and abrasive pads were lined up beside them. There were bottles of scented oils. And could that be soap?

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