owyn Book 1 The CageChapter 9 Him
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Éowyn, Book 1: The CageChapter 5: Dressed free porn video
[ Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place before the arrival of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli. Elfhid was King Théoden’s wife. Théodwyn was his sister, and the mother of Éowyn and Éomer.]
24 February 3019 (Third Age), Edoras
Éowyn knew she was dreaming. How she knew, she couldn’t fathom; she’d never before been aware of her dreams while still within them. Nor did she understand why she couldn’t just force herself to wake. Still, it was comforting to know that her current predicament wasn’t real. Because if it was...
She was clad in shapely, elegant white silks that shimmered as they clung to her curves. Or rather, she had been clad in such silks. At the moment, they were roughly bunched around her waist, leaving her lower half naked to all who would see. Bent over a bale of fresh hay in a vaguely familiar stable, her wrists were entangled by a tightly buckled harness that secured her to a post. She was sure that she could free herself with a little effort, but her struggles were clumsy, halfhearted, and amounted to naught.
Behind her was a man. Behind him, another. And another. Stretching beyond the limits of her vision — the stable seemed infinitely deep — was a long line of men; each naked, each devouring her exposed posterior with lust-filled eyes, each preceded by a rampant cock at full mast. Every one of them waiting his turn with her, expectant and eager.
First in line was her first. Her first boy ... the first for whom she’d ever felt the stirrings of affection beyond simple friendship, though neither her nor his interest had ever amounted to anything more than confusing feelings. He was no longer the eight-year-old he’d been when she first offered him a shy smile, nor the twelve-year-old he’d been when she’d last seen him. He stood behind her fully grown, yet her memories rendered him a strange amalgam of maturity and youth. She turned her head and saw that he was nervous. She was too, but she gave him that same shy smile ... which he immediately returned, beaming with gratitude.
And then, his thin penis slid into her ass. Three or four tentative thrusts later, he withdrew and came, leaving a few wan drops on the floor of the stable. In truth, she’d barely even felt him inside her. But he stepped away, immediately replaced by someone else. Is that ... it is!
Second in line was his older brother. She’d thought him even more attractive than her young playmate, but at the time such age differences had seemed insurmountably immense. He too seemed to have aged into adulthood without really changing. His smallish cock bored into her with a little more confidence than his younger brother’s, though without much more effect. Moments later, he deposited his own handful of wet pearls on her alabaster cheeks.
Another brother. The eldest of the three. He’d been old enough to be an apprentice Rider when she first encountered his youngest sibling, and while they shared a few facial features he was far more muscular. With him she’d shared neither word nor glance in her youth, for he’d relentlessly ignored her; her interest in him had been no more private curiosity from temporally afar. As she reminisced, she was anally penetrated for the third time. His cock was larger than the others’, and she gasped at its abrupt entry. His aggressive thrusts were typical of a young man who acknowledges his lusts but has yet to learn any sense of control, and she grunted in response to each until he withdrew and left his sticky load all over her buttocks.
Gazing down the line, she realized that every single man for which she’d ever had fond, loving, or lustful thoughts was present. Well, not everyone, she confirmed after a moment of panic. There are no members of my family. She scanned their faces, recalling names she knew and the features of those she didn’t, noting with a fair amount of surprise just how many there’d been over the long, lonely years. How am I still a virgin? Why did I waste so many opportunities? If I’d offered, how many of these men would’ve refused me? On the other hand, she was unaccountably unconcerned by the sheer number of people waiting to have their way with her ass. Well, why should I be? It’s only a dream, after all.
The next in line arrived. She remembered his face, but not his name; he’d taught her how to use a spear, a year or so before she was allowed to begin formal training, and she’d thought him handsome. His long cock neatly sheathed itself into her ass, his thighs repeatedly slapping against hers. Later, a gardener’s apprentice she’d once admired while he worked, shirtless, one long-ago afternoon. It was the first time she remembered growing wet with arousal just from looking at someone. He clumsily stroked her a few times, then painted her buttocks with watery semen. The two men who’d been her personal guards in her mid-teens soon followed, one after the other. Their bodies were exactly as she’d pictured them, for the first few times she’d ever self-pleasured to the mental image of a real person, it’d been them she was imagining. Shouldn’t I find it strange that first time I masturbated while thinking about someone else, it was a pair of men rather than just one? I guess it doesn’t matter. The first was gentle and loving, while the second angrily savaged her hole. She enjoyed both.
Gradually, details began to blur. One by one men stepped forward and penetrated her ass. No words were spoken. The only sounds were the staccato slap of flesh against flesh and her occasional grunt or gasp at insertion. No form of lubrication was ever used, yet she felt no rawness or abrasion. While she was somewhat aroused by being taken this way, so often and by so many, her physical pleasure was muted, and any sort of release — at least for her — seemed distant beyond capture. I’m just a vessel for their pleasure. That should bother me, but it doesn’t. How strange.
She tried concentrating on variations between the men’s cocks, at least to the extent she could interpret them through the grip of her anal canal, but she found that it didn’t seem to matter. Thin or wide (save for a few that were wide enough for her to feel uncomfortably stretched), short or long, straight or curved ... they were all interesting in their own way, and to her surprise she had no particular preference among them.
None, however, came anywhere but on her skin, and her buttocks were coated with thick cream. Rivulets of cum ran down her legs and pooled at her feet. Her anus remained exposed enough for the men to penetrate her without having to plunge through a curtain of others’ seed, but her pussy was a sticky mess ... not only from her usual emissions, but from gouts of semen that clung to her wispy hair and nestled among the swollen folds. She wasn’t worried about the danger — it was a dream, after all — but it was a new and curious feeling.
Several dozen men into her ordeal there was nowhere left to paint her. Hands grasped the bunched fabric of her dress and rent it asunder, casting the shredded remains into a corner. I should regret seeing my clothing rent so, for I quite liked those silks. But it is just a dream. Isn’t it? Through the impalements that followed her breasts were poked, prodded, and abraded by the rough hay beneath her chest. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it prevented her from relaxing into the sex. Meanwhile, the relentless procession continued, and now her freshly exposed back was the target for their climaxes. The graceful arch of her spine was obscured by a growing pool of ejaculate, and her hair was heavily spackled by the most enthusiastic spendings. Whenever she heaved against a particularly satisfying thrust, a new reservoir of cum escaped down her sides ... some of it soaking into the hay, the rest flowing towards the junction between her legs and, eventually, downward to join the ever-expanding fertile sea in which she stood.
Some immeasurable time thereafter ... when she felt like she might drown in an ocean of their issue, when she began to think that there might never again be a time without a cock pumping into her ass ... she realized that it was over. She was unoccupied and alone. The chilly night breezes flowed into her stretched hole.
It’s time to go. With a hard tug on her restraining harness...
... she struck herself in the chest, still violently pulling on the sheets she’d somehow twisted around her hands.
She opened her eyes. She was alone in her bedroom, and to judge by the pale quality of the light it was morning. To her displeasure, she was still covered in a clammy patina of the coagulating sexual effluvia in which she’d slept. Disgusted at it and herself, she untangled herself from the vile stew — and the sheets — and swung her feet towards the floor.
Pain immediately made itself known. No, not pain ... soreness. It was the dull, throbbing ache of an overused muscle, and she knew it well from fighting. But in this case, the overused muscle was her ass. Is this some strange aftermath of my dream? No ... it was that which preceded the dream. Memories came flooding back in an a grossly unwelcome torrent. Something that’s been happening to me far too often, these days.
Her hope, as she drifted into a tortured sleep, had been that the morning would find her repulsed and freshly steeled against her latest degradation. Alas for vain hope! For based on the absurdly relentless focus of my dream, my body clearly has very different ideas about what it does and doesn’t want.
It was a sickening thought.
Limping to her bath, she drew it and stepped inside the moment it was ready, ignoring the burn and sting of the steaming-hot water, letting it relax her muscles, then bring ease to her violated rear passage and her much-abused buttocks. Her usual ablutions proceeded with great deliberation, for she wanted to derive maximum benefit from the restorative water. To her surprise, the touch of a warm cloth instantly dissipated her most singular ache, and after gently soothing the focal point of her pain — her abused anus — it felt uncharacteristically soft and pliable, as if nothing untoward or unusual had happened.
As seemed all too inevitable these days, touching any sensitive part of her body brought her arousal to the fore. Of course I’m horny. Of course my hand is moving to my sex. Of course I already have several fingers pumping my cunt. But while she was repulsed by her actions, she didn’t arrest them.
Unfortunately, another recent trend continued: she couldn’t reach the peak she desired, for her own efforts were no longer sufficient to the escalating needs of her body. She tried varying her technique, the number of fingers, what and where she rubbed or penetrated, but it was all to no avail. For a time she stubbornly continued in increasing frustration and no little desperation, but she was incapable of bringing herself to orgasm.
With a shriek of exasperation, she stepped from the now-tepid water and paced, dripping, around the room, many times more aroused than when she’d started. Every so often she attempted a forceful exploration of her wet depths, but other than an increase in her intolerable and apparently inconsolable sexual frenzy, nothing was achieved. Angrily grabbing a towel, she stalked back towards her bedroom.
The public portion of Éowyn’s morning proceeded through its typical pointless drudgery. Insipid conversations about insignificant details of dinners, heraldry, and utterly unimportant neighbors wasted her hours. Her tooth-grinding resentment at being treated as Rohan’s social director grew with every passing day. Serving the realm is a worthy thing, and I know I’ve a ceremonial role to fulfill with Elfhid and Théodwyn both gone. But like so much else, this nonsense only falls to me because I’m a woman. She avoided her scheduled dress fitting, fearing she’d be unable to hide both the physical evidence of the previous evening and her ongoing state of heightened stimulation. An attempt to replace it with an aggressive training session was firmly rebuffed by the Weaponmaster, who reminded her that she’d injured herself through inattention, and he judged her unready to resume training until she’d come to terms with the reason for that inattention.
As if I don’t know. But he’s right. I’m a danger to both him and myself right now.
Back in her room, she continued her painstakingly slow attempt to translate Wormtongue’s parchment. It was now clear that the vial contained some form of potion or medicine, and while she’d discovered its application (on the mouth) and dosage (a fingertip’s worth), she still had no idea what it did. She slammed the book shut, frustrated and still abuzz with unaddressed arousal. She considered another attempt at pleasuring herself, but knew it would be just as pointless as before.
Hiding her research, she fled the room in search of she knew not what, nor who. Something. Someone. I crave distraction. Attention. Anything. Anyone.
King Théoden, the first to come to mind, was either resting or indisposed. Éomer was on patrol, and (somewhat worryingly) Théodred hadn’t responded to the King’s summons, nor even sent word. She wandered the house looking for hospitable faces, but everyone she sought seemed to be elsewhere or occupied to distraction. She passed a few solitary minutes on the porch, gazing intently at the mountains in the distance, hoping without reason to espy some sort of approaching rescue. Instead, all seemed hazy and darker than usual, as if the fume of war was encroaching on horizons she’d once thought limitless. I lost that sort of hope a long time ago, anyway. She even considered the audacious notion of seeking physical companionship, if only to salve the itch in her loins, but putting actual faces to the idea filled her with dread. Maybe I should just find a stable somewhere. She immediately discarded the absurd thought. No, that’s not me, whatever twisted paths my tortured dreams take.
Upon reentering the Golden Hall she was able to steal a brief audience with the King, but he was characteristically uncaring and distant, equally indifferent to her presence or absence. When general inattention turned into obvious dismissal, she left and returned to stalking the halls. She was bored, she was depressed, she was horny, she was angry, she was frightened, and she was incredibly lonely. The walls of her cage grew smaller each day.
Perhaps I should break into Wormtongue’s quarters again. Who knows what I might find? But no. I can’t take the risk of him discovering me there. Not again. Of her enemy and assailant no sign had been seen all day. For all I know he’s hiding his room, concocting some new devilry or scheme with which to abuse me ... which makes it the very last place in Middle-earth I should consider entering.
Resigned to disappointment at last, she turned back to her quarters. At least there’s one useful way to pass the time.
Waking from an unexpected midday nap, her forehead smudged by the scribbles and scratches of the still-incomplete translation on which it had rested, the oppressive weight of her troubles fell upon her shoulders like never before. She felt manifestly alone ... consumed by sadness and frustration, and more trapped by responsibility and circumstance than ever. Even her own body was no longer her ally, instead betraying her at every horrifying turn. And she was still aroused. She’d dozed in the nude — getting dressed without reason seemed more and more pointless these days — and attempted a half-hearted clitoral massage. Other than anointing the chair with a few more drops of her fluids, nothing changed. It seems my traitorous flesh has lost interest in anything I, alone, can provide. But since I refuse to seriously consider the alternatives, I don’t know what to do.
The only thing all day that offered the slightest distraction from her predicament was puzzling through runic translations. And so, to this she applied herself with what she hoped would be one mighty and conclusive effort.
Here it is. The secret for which I’ve searched. But what do I do with it?
It wasn’t quite the devastating proof of evil or collusion with the enemy for which she’d hoped, but it was damning enough. The vial contained a material that rendered a person defenseless against suggestion, albeit for a brief time. The other significant effect was that the victim would remember only that which he or she was instructed to remember, but not the means by which the suggestion was compelled.
That it was implicated in the King’s malaise seemed obvious, for he was perpetually amenable to Wormtongue’s most destructive counsels, no matter how illogical they seemed to others. So focused was she on this that it took her a long while to wonder whether it had ever been used on her. She didn’t recall any attempts — but then I wouldn’t, would I? — and in fact the painful clarity with which she remembered her many degradations seemed even worse. If he’s made me forget something, it’s certainly not what he’s doing to my body. Or have there been other, even worse depredations that I fail to recall? Perhaps something that would justify my inexplicable submission to his perversions? Even as she wondered, she was confronted by doubt. No, he’d want me to remember every humiliating moment.
Meanwhile, the more pressing question still loomed.
I still don’t see how to take advantage of this discovery. Who could I tell? What would I tell them? It’s no use trying to convince the King that he’s been manipulated through chicanery, for his memory of it was almost certainly erased. Worse, I disobeyed his direct orders to acquire the vial; a defense that Wormtongue will obviously seize upon at the first opportunity.
Could I somehow go around the King and convince the rest of the Council? It would require extraordinary rhetorical powers, and in that realm my adversary has me at an extreme disadvantage. Assuming he hasn’t suborned any of the others, that is. Because if he has, it’s hopeless.
If he hasn’t ... if I gather every single one to my side and we put an end to Wormtongue’s schemes ... the King’s still going to be against us, unless Wormtongue’s hiding the cure somewhere. And what then? Do we just replace Wormtongue with a more honorable source of whispers and hope for the best? Or could someone rule in his stead while we wait for a recovery we’re not sure will ever arrive? No, a coup is unthinkable. If Éomer and Théodred were united in support, perhaps it might work, but how could anyone ask a son to supplant the father he loves? Either way, deposing the King for the good of the realm is treason ... the exact crime I’m accusing Wormtongue of committing. I’d not only be a traitor, I’d be a hypocrite for suggesting or condoning it.
The more she pondered and turned the problem around in her mind, the more she realized that the vial and its translated instructions weren’t enough. She needed something else to tie Wormtongue to the devilry at work in Rohan. A way to bring him down without having to involve the King.
A confession? I might be able to extract a confession from him! But how? Force, perhaps ... but given what I’ve already done and the King’s resultant displeasure, it has to be my absolute last resort. Nor is direct confrontation likely to work. He’ll never admit anything, revealing exactly how I intend to expose him will only give him time to counter my accusations, and he certainly won’t cavil at outright lies. No, I need to him to drop his guard enough for me to discover the truth myself. He’s a master of manipulation, but he can be goaded ... into anger, but also into boastfulness. I’ve seen both of late, even in the midst of my trauma. But getting him to spill his secrets requires a subversive approach, of the kind Wormtongue himself might attempt.
Her soul withered and her heart sank, for it was all too obvious what she had to do.
From her closet, she withdrew the most form-fitting and seductive dress she owned. Made of fine white silk woven with silver threads, it was a family heirloom restored and tailored to her shape, waiting for a sufficiently special occasion that had yet to come. How awful that this is the reason it finally finds purpose. The dress permitted no undergarments, and so with no further preliminaries she carefully smoothed it over her naked body.
The result was magnificent. Every subtlety and curve was revealed and highlighted; not only the swell of her breasts, the gentle prominence of her nipples (at the thought, they hardened and accented that swell), and the flawless arc of her buttocks, but also the seam at their center and the narrowing arrow between her legs that ever so slightly drew the front of the dress inward. It was vastly more revealing than her usual formalwear, leaving her graceful neck and a deep expanse of her upper chest uncovered, though it stopped at the last possible point beyond which it would expose cleavage. She looked more feminine than she ever could have imagined, and — more importantly — thoroughly seductive without blatantly compromising her dignity. Well, not too much, aside from the fact I’m doing this at all. Admiringly, she ran her hands down her body, and a powerful throb shot from her nipples deep into her sex, which blazed with renewed arousal.
Not now, damn it all. Not now! With immense effort, she ignored the sudden quake in her loins and turned her attention to her hair. Should I set it in waves, or something more elaborate? No, that would take too long. Braids? Too utilitarian. Long and elegant, then, to match the dress. And entirely unbound, which somehow feels more ... suggestive. At least, I hope it is. She sighed. I really should be better at understanding such matters. Still, I can scarcely believe that such a reprehensible snake is about to benefit from my first true attempt at seduction.
Tingling with eagerness, nervousness, and fear, she appraised herself one last time, then turned on a slippered heel and left the room.
Gliding past his door for the eighth — or is it the ninth? — time, Éowyn wondered if this was a wasted effort after all. She was tempted to knock, the sooner to get the distasteful theater started and thus over with, but knew he’d never believe she’d willingly come to his quarters dressed as she was. The first time she passed she pressed an ear to his door and heard noises within, confirming that he was in residence, but she wanted him to discover her presence rather the other way around. With each lap, she searched for a spot on the floor that might squeak, or crack, or make a sound that would draw him into the hall to investigate. But there was nothing. Meduseld was too solidly built.
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