Chapter 30: Role

[Caution: this chapter contains violent and semi/nonconsensual sex.]

Éowyn moaned. At the moment it was all she could do.

But she could move, she realized. Despite the fire that seared her body, despite the throb that suffused every muscle, joint, and patch of skin, she was neither restrained nor hanging from the ceiling. Movement was, in theory, possible.

Reasons to move were obvious. She lay in the disgusting residue of her own long-dried emissions, half-adhered to the cold dungeon floor. The instruments of her most recent torture still occupied her aching orifices, and dislodging them would be its own form of painful self-punishment. She knew that at some point in the near future she’d be subjected to yet another session of torments, both physical and psychological.

But she didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. What they’d done...

No. What I’ve done.

It was a truth she couldn’t bear to face. She’d committed acts beyond imagining in full view of her captors. She’d theatrically masturbated for their pleasure and caused herself pain for their amusement. And she’d reached innumerable climaxes just from having her sex savagely beaten. Worse, she knew that — if offered another opportunity — she’d willingly subject herself to even greater perversions to achieve orgasm. For she also knew with grim certainty that this wouldn’t be the last time she’d come in direct response to pain. They’d tuned her body like an instrument that could only be plucked by their malevolent will.

I can’t live with who I’ve become. But neither do I have any choice in the matter.

She tried to cry, but found that she couldn’t.

Who am I?

Her eyes refused to open lest they see the answer.

When at last she forced them to do so, hours after falling back into dark nightmares of despair, she was surprised to find that she remained unmolested. How much time had passed since her performance and the subsequent beating she didn’t know, but her sudden sense of purpose was driven by an odd practicality. I need to cleanse myself. To prepare. Not for my own good, nor even my own reasons, but because it’s expected of me. Maybe that’s why they left me alone.

Her body hurt in ways scarcely imaginable, yet her damage was as much psychological as physical. She tugged the flogger from her ass, ignoring the scraping pain of its removal, but was shocked to find her sex not only well-lubricated but tingling with stimulation as she slipped its companion outward and tossed it away.

Reluctantly, she dragged herself to her feet, eyes instinctively closing in ongoing refusal to look at her body, and felt her way along the wall until she passed into the corridor. It was only when her nose breathed the lurid humidity of the bath that she again opened her eyes.

It’s empty. Thank goodness. I’m terribly worried about what they’ve done to him, but I couldn’t face Khamûl right now.

Gingerly, she eased herself into the water. Today, its usual soothing warmth was accompanied by a terrible sting, and she hissed with pain, nails digging into her palms as she tried to avoid crying out.

They must have lashed off a layer of flesh. No wonder it hurts.

Finally, the pain receded to a dull ache. Cautiously, she attempted to clean herself, dabbing small patches of skin at a time and stopping every few minutes to breathe through the burning as every new foreign substance made contact, until she was free of dirt, sweat, and other unsavory residues. However, she couldn’t avoid shrieking at even the gentlest contact between her legs, and only pure desperation allowed her to overcome the searing rawness. Her hair — the one part of her body that hadn’t suffered more than some stray fluids — received a thorough washing, further delaying the moment of reckoning. Holding her breath, she at last stood and looked down to assess what they’d actually done to her.

To her surprise, her body looked far less damaged that it felt. Nearly all of it was an angry pink, but her beating had been so comprehensive that it was more or less uniform. A few marks stood out here and there, though it was possible that they were remnants of earlier punishments.

Yet it was not so for the three targets of their most enthusiastic beatings. Her ass was thoroughly bruised and mottled, its smooth curves marred by violet welts. Even attempting to sit on the ledge was impossible without tooth-grinding discomfort. Her breasts were close to the same color, nipples swollen to several times their usual size. Her sex was almost literally on fire, her entrance an angry red blossom amidst a field of darker purple, and her labia and clitoris a perilously swollen terrain.

She closed her eyes again.

I wonder if the damage might be permanent. Well, what difference does it make? I’m never leaving. It’s not like they’re going to stop whipping me, and unsightly bruises aren’t going to keep them from fucking me however and wherever they want.

Re-immersing herself in the waters, she soaked as long as she could, wondering if (despite their threats) Khamûl might come to her again. She no longer believed with any confidence that he could deliver on his promise of freedom, but despite the absurdity of wishing for anything in this seemingly eternal hell-scape, she found herself actively craving his cock. It was the only form of freedom in which she believed anymore ... the freedom to worship his manhood, to offer her body for his pleasure, to make him come, to drink his seed as her reward and then sufficiently reenergize him to pound her into oblivion.

Lazy minutes stretched into an idle hour, and eventually she decided that she wouldn’t return to the dungeon. They’ll lead me there anyway, if that’s what they want. She pulled herself from the water, and — still careful to avoid her tenderest areas — laid on her side and fell into an uneasy sleep atop the hard stone.

When she woke for a third time, still in the same position and with no signs of renewed abuse, she was both surprised and concerned.

I should be happy for every single moment through which I pass unmolested, shouldn’t I? However hopeless my situation, however unspeakable my own actions, I was brought here against my will, and I’ve been repeatedly subjected to horrors sexual, physical, emotional, and mental. She did her best to ignore the unmistakable tingle in her sex at the mere thought of more subjugation. But what I fear is that this long silence is mere preparation for an even more unbearable form of abuse.

She shuddered with revulsion, yet it was tinted with an anticipatory curiosity; an unwanted emotion she also tried her best to ignore.

Though her body had been left untouched, someone had brought food and drink while she slept. Greedily devouring enough for several meals, she again lowered herself into the bath. The sting was gone, the steaming waters once again refreshing and restorative. A careful study of her body proved cautiously heartening; bruises still raged across her buttocks and breasts, but her nipples were returning to their usual form and the rest of her body seemed nearly healed. She could even sit with no more than minor discomfort.

Her sex remained a curiously over-sensitized landscape of damage and delicacy. With immense care she touched, moved, and prodded her swollen folds and what she was beginning to fear was a permanently distended clitoris. Sensations raced through her body like lightning; sexual desire interwoven with a raw memory of pain as delineated as if fresh and new. Tearing her hand from between her thighs in dismay, she stepped from the bath and strode, dripping and defiant, into the corridor.

Whatever they have in store for me, let’s get it over with. That such thoughts now emanated from her own mind no longer shocked her, but what she dared not admit — not yet — was that the growing buzz in her loins was exactly what drove her back to the scene of her greatest torments. For she also knew, albeit subconsciously, that it was the only place she’d been allowed to climax. No matter how twisted the means, her cravings were passing beyond the ability of reason to suppress them.

But the dungeon was empty, and she was alone.

She paced, restless and increasingly beset by yearning. She idly ran her fingers along the tables, benches, and platforms that had supported, trapped, and displayed her through so many degradations. At the memory of each the tingle between her legs crescendoed.

This is ridiculous.

Back down the corridor she went, searching for purpose. The usual secretive cleaning she expected hadn’t taken place in her absence, and the empty vessels of food and drink remained untouched. She sat on the ledge, dismissing the lingering ache in her buttocks, swirling her feet in the water and contemplating her options. Escape has proved a pointless illusion. The doors and that terrifying hallway are unknown dangers I won’t willingly face. There’s no purpose to more bathing. I’m not tired. But I need some way to pass the time.

The throb in her sex suggested an obvious and much-desired alternative.

Dare I? My climaxes don’t belong to me, after all. Wasn’t that their warning?

But it was too late, for in her helpless rut she’d already abandoned caution, sliding four fingers into her wide-open pussy and circling her clit with her thumb.

When did taking four fingers into my sex become so easy? Will I eventually require an entire hand? And why do they never penetrate my channel with anything other than fingers and foreign objects? Or is that what’s coming next? The empty room bore no answers, yet one thing of which she was sure was that she’d have to act quickly. And she did, though the omnipresent threat of punishment prevented her from achieving as immediate a release as she hoped. The pain in her abused folds eased, and so she practiced a rougher form of self-pleasure than was her norm, throwing her head back and closing her eyes as she pummeled her squelching cunt towards a much-needed climax. Even as the initial throes took her she was still expecting to be interrupted. But she couldn’t stem the tide for long, and with a high-pitched squeal she thrashed her way into a triumphant orgasm.

Both vision and breath were immediately obstructed by a huge, calloused hand, but she didn’t stop pleasuring herself until her fingers were forcefully levered from her crotch. The moment she’d expected all along had finally arrived. Whatever they intended to do to her, she was sure it would be painful.

“I knew abstinence and obedience were beyond your ability. But we have just the corrective for a disobedient whore like you. Bring her.” A blindfold fell over her eyes and she was dragged from the bathing area, unresisting.

She heard the clang of a bolt slamming into a metal plate and the echo of heavy chains clanking through metal rings. A gust of warm, fetid air rushed past her naked and trembling body. It stank of sweat, violence, and evil. She knew she stood in an open portal to one of the previously closed rooms, and she braced herself for the onset of pain.

Instead, her blindfold was removed, though their grip on her hair immobilized her head so that she couldn’t turn to identify her captors. Still, the view that greeted her made her cringe and struggle in an utterly futile attempt to escape.

Long wooden tables littered with haphazardly strewn dishes and tankards filled the room. An enormous hearth surrounded by battered cooking equipment dominated the far wall. In front of the hearth were some sort of raised platform and an elaborate mechanical device, though at this distance she couldn’t make out any details.

But though she was sure the platform and its unfamiliar machinery were meant for her, they weren’t what sent Éowyn into paroxysms of fear. For the room was occupied. A large crowd of savage looking men in well-worn but tattered clothing of the type worn beneath armor quieted to a rumbling murmur as they stared at her with undisguised, ravening lust.

“No,” she moaned. “No, please ... please, not this...”

“I should think an insatiable slut like you would welcome the chance to serve all these men.”

Éowyn could only shake her head in terror, despite the lubrication that seeped from her traitorous sex.

“Unfortunately, they will not be using you today,” the Voice warned, sliding a finger through her dripping labia while she whimpered and squirmed. “At least not in that fashion. Hunting down the scattered remnants of your people is hard work, and you will be a fitting reward when their task is completed. For now, however, you are here for a different sort of entertainment.” Suddenly as tense and rigid as a stone she fell silent, awaiting the pronouncement of her fate.

It didn’t arrive. Instead the Voice turned his attention to the occupants of the room, each sentence first delivered in an unfamiliar, guttural language, then repeated in the Common Speech. “Remember: once she is in place you are not to molest her further. The penalty for disobedience is death. You can do whatever you must to yourselves, if you wish, but do not sully her flesh. You can beat her if you find it amusing, but do not interfere with the function of the Machine until I return.” At this ominous declaration she was roughly shoved forward into the waiting arms of the men. The door slammed shut behind her.

Though she knew it was pointless, she struggled anyway. They dragged her frantically resisting form across the room, their vile, unwashed hands grabbing, squeezing, and probing every step the way, and by the time they arrived at the other end nearly every one of them had twisted her nipples and explored her sodden pussy or unprepared nether orifice with a filthy finger or two, mocking and jeering in a language Éowyn still couldn’t identify.