Chapter 3: Entrance

[ Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place before the arrival of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli. Warning: the sex in this chapter is largely, but not exclusively, non-consensual.]

21-22 February 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

[This chapter dances with the temporal. All will become clear as the narrative coalesces, but it may be somewhat confusing until it does.]

Sunset streamed through the open window, setting afire the spread of her golden hair with its glistening, ice-tinted highlights. From outside came the early evening noises of Edoras: the snort of a horse, the ping of a hammer, the call of a parent to a child beckoned home for the evening meal.

But Éowyn heard none of these sounds. In fact, she heard nothing at all save the thunderous pounding of her heart. And she felt nothing but tension and abrasion as she violently struggled against the restraints around her wrists and ankles.

Gríma woke in darkness, silence, and pain. She’d kicked him with such force that he wondered if he’d ever breathe freely again. Nor was there opportunity to seek healing among the Rohirrim’s few leeches. Questions would be asked, for he was never known to engage in physical altercations, and he couldn’t afford the scrutiny. He would have to recover by himself.

It was the avalanche of his own books that caused the most visible injury. He touched his head, wincing at the tenderness of his swelling bruise. Damn that woman and her uncontrollable violence! But at this thought the slow unraveling of his agony gave way to the rebirth of wicked malice, for her violence and her passion came from the same source.

He considered the day’s events a success, despite his wounds. He’d reached her without deceit... well, without much deceit ... by appealing to her greatest vulnerabilities. The spell in the fire had worked splendidly, and into her heretofore hidden sexual fantasies he’d walked with only token resistance.

Granted, she had rather painfully resisted him once she discovered his deception. I’ll take full recompense for it out of her beautiful hide, one of these days. But there are so many other things I want to do to her along the way, and I might as well start now. He raised himself from the floor, groaning with aches newly revealed, and set the next stage of his plan in motion.

Rousing herself from her crumpled pool of misery, Éowyn looked around the room. It was late afternoon, and she wondered if she’d been missed by anyone. She recalled no urgent knocks on her door, so she guessed not.

That’s how essential I am to the realm, she thought, simmering in bitterness. Absent for the better part of a day, running through the halls in disarray and distress after being sexually assaulted by the King’s favored counselor, and not one inquiry. Just another rewarding day in Meduseld for the King’s beloved niece...

She had no interest in food — the very thought made her nauseous all over again — so she began undressing for bed. From a pocket she retrieved the vial she’d stolen from...

No, I won’t think of him now.

Pulling her knife from its short scabbard and unwrapping the stolen parchment with its indecipherable Elven runes, she stashed both in a secret compartment underneath the wooden floor of her bedchamber. She’d prepared the space for exactly such uses many years ago, her teenaged self mistakenly believing that royal lives were beset by secret intrigues. Until now, it had never before held anything of more than minor consequence.

As the last of her clothes came off, the fullness of her shame came flooding back. Her elaborate fantasy had turned out to be anything but, and her body bore the evidence of its betrayal and her unforgivable blindness. Her nipples were sore, her breasts reddened and bruised where he’d clutched them. Between her legs was the warm, stretched memory of extended probing, and her clitoris tingled from long abrasion. Elsewhere she was more or less intact, though despite the brevity of the intrusion she still felt uncomfortably violated in her rear passage. In fact, her entire body felt like it was coated in an impenetrable sheen of violation. How could I let that monster do such things to me? And how could I possibly enjoy them?

She shuddered, pulling her silk nightshirt around her body. She’d often helped herself to sleep by entertaining and then (with her fingers) acting out fantastical dalliances with imaginary partners, but she felt no such urges now, for the parts of her body she’d usually stimulate already felt used. No, not used. Abused.

Thus commenced a fitful and largely fruitless attempt at sleep.

Gríma closed his chest, securing it with a stronger lock than the one that she’d hacked in half. Despite all reason, he was concerned. He’d noticed nothing absent, nothing molested, though he had a nagging sense he was missing something crucial. He bore little fear that she’d discovered the paper-width seams inside the lid; seams that held both Saruman’s elaborately coded instructions and the minor spells of manipulation and coercion that were the key to his success, but while few of the visible items within the chest were exactly what they appeared, none bore evidence of tampering, only displacement. And the fact was that the majority of objects or substances useful for tricks like the one he’d employed last night were “hidden” in plain sight, indistinguishable from everyday trinkets, books, and so forth, rather than locked in an all-too-suggestive container.

She must have found something, he mused, or at least she thinks she did. When I confronted her, she wasn’t nearly desperate enough. The threat of exposure didn’t frighten her as it much as I hoped it would. But what could it be? Well, it might not matter. Whatever she has or hasn’t seen, my plans will render her knowledge irrelevant.

From the floor of a nearby closet he produced a bulging satchel. Checking to make sure the contents were intact, he turned and passed through his hidden doorway, giddy with the surety of impending triumph. He would discover all her secrets ... not just the ones she’d tried to steal from him ... and he’d turn each and every one of them to his advantage.

Éowyn’s fleeting victories in her punishing battle with sleep were further tortured by disturbing dreams. In some, she stood helplessly by as Rohan was overrun by mighty armies with a oil-tongued devil at their head. Each ended the same way: cornered in her bedroom, she reached for her sword in a last, desperate defense, but suddenly found herself both weaponless and naked, seeing in her enemies’ eyes the certainty that she would soon be consumed by their ravening lust. In others, she fled from room to room — again naked — narrowly escaping the hundreds of eyeless serpents slithering up her legs, some pushing against her nether lips in an attempt to penetrate and impale her. Inexplicably, she dripped with arousal even as she ran. And there was a third, even more unsettling vision in which she sat on the throne with the lifeless body of King Théoden sprawled at her feet. Rohan was safe and secure, but beneath her royal robes — and unseen by her court — an unknown assailant relentlessly thrust into her eager sex. The power of her dream-orgasm snapped her awake, each and every time it recurred.

She was in an agony of humiliation, and despite the overt sexuality of her dreams she tried to clamp down upon her desires with all the power of her shame. The late afternoon sun had long faded and night was already on its way, but she was loath to close the window, lest she feel even more trapped than she was. Once again, she drifted into a disturbed slumber...

Just who’d planned and constructed these secret ways, so long forgotten in the unrecorded history of Meduseld, no living man could say. A paranoid king? A secret cabal? Bored stonemasons? A canny but ultimately unsuccessful enemy? Whoever it was, Gríma doubted anyone but him had walked these passages since the days of their creation. Much of what must have been an extensive network of hidden tunnels had been blocked by decay, construction, and renovation as rooms for the royal house and their retinue were appended to the original Golden Hall, but either their true nature had never been discovered or the secret died with the laborers. Perhaps one of them had even been the source of Saruman’s knowledge. Either way, he’d entrusted an incomplete but largely accurate map to Gríma in the first days of their partnership, and it had been of immeasurable utility ever since.

His powers of coercion, even the wizardly ones, weren’t reliable in groups ... what worked to convince one target might fail to reach, or even enrage, another. The core of Gríma’s skill, the reason he’d been recruited by the power-hungry Wizard and the method by which he achieved the majority of his success, wasn’t his legendary tongue, but rather that he was a master of collecting and correctly interpreting scraps of information that he could later turn to his benefit. But even this mastery was useless without information beyond that which was generally available, and thus he spied, lurked, and — when necessary — meddled in the private minds and lives of competing powers or useful functionaries within the kingdom. On such comprehensive collation was his power based, perhaps even more than the mystical skill with which he directly manipulated the King’s increasingly feeble mind. That was a control obvious enough that its true nature couldn’t be hidden for long, but the inability of anyone... especially that dangerous rogue Éomer ... to mount a serious challenge to his authority was a result of Gríma’s tireless work destabilizing others. Sometimes it took no more than anticipation and preparation — a whisper in an unwary ear, a long-awaited parcel gone missing — and in more extreme cases it required outright blackmail. But should devious methods fail there were always offers of coin or authority, for not all hearts in Rohan were so pure that they couldn’t be sullied by greed.

Certainly mine wasn’t ... and now here I am, on my way to claim what was promised so long ago.

Luckily, for Gríma’s purposes, not all the passages were closed off. He’d not yet fully explored all of them, wary of the risk of creeping into the wrong room at the wrong time, but he’d memorized those he deemed most useful. And at the moment, he had both need and desire. He lifted his lamp, matched the dusty and cobwebbed passageway before him to his mental map of the house, and plunged forward. Soon he came to a iron panel ... hinged like all the others, but rusty and long-fixed in place. How many times have I stood before this very barrier, yearning to pass beyond yet deeming the time unripe? I’ll need to lever the door open with care and in silence, for a noisy entrance would delay all my plans. Removing a trio of tools and a bottle of oil from his pack, he set to work.

Fully awake, Éowyn once again bemoaned her fate. I can’t believe this is happening to me again. Enhancing the sting of her humiliation was the knowledge that, for a third time in three days, she — the allegedly great warrior, full of pride in her skills — had been caught unaware and unclothed. At least the first time she’d been responsible for the latter. This time it had been removed by another without waking her. How can this happen? And how dare I call myself a warrior yet be ensnared over and over again? Ensnared ... and worse. She groaned, gripped with fear over the degradations sure to come.

Éowyn was tangled in knots of her own creation. Her breath came in sharp fits and starts, and it didn’t require any dark arts to perceive how troubled her dreams were. His immediate task was clear, though after that he no longer wanted rely upon special gifts; he hoped to convince her in other ways. Though I’ve certain skills upon which to rely there, as well...

He closed his eyes, raised his hands, and murmured a brief incantation. Her breathing slowed and her manic tossing stilled. He had only a few minutes until the calming words failed, and when they did she’d be considerably more agitated than otherwise. His ribs ached at the thought, but it was a risk he needed to take. Though he wasn’t quite ready to abandon all forms of mystical control, he wanted her to submit to her lusts, and then to his, willingly. Eventually, even enthusiastically.

And so, he moved quickly ... pulling bedsheets to the floor, divesting her of her sweat-mottled nightshirt (her naked body was an exquisite distraction) and securing her limbs to the posts of her bed with tight leather straps. She was beautiful, she was spread open to him or any other who might happen by — now there is an intriguing thought ... though for another time, after I’ve first taken her in all the ways I wish — and she was his. She didn’t yet realize it, and she would likely fight to her final breath, but she was. Tonight, he would prove it to her.

He touched, kissed, and licked her body as he exposed and then bound it. He had very little time left before the spell ended, but he expended all of it in exploration and arousal, for when she came out of the trance she would be unlikely to countenance his casual manipulation of her flesh unless she was consumed by her own arousal. For that to happen, he would need to be well into his most convincing argument.

Hard nipples, firm ivory-hued breasts, rippled abdomen, muscled thighs ... all these he reluctantly left behind. He placed a final kiss on her rosy lips, then settled between her widely stretched legs, excitedly removing his own clothing along the way. His cock was, as ever in her presence, rigid to the point of breaking. But he had patience, and it was not yet his time. When I finally penetrate her, it will be because she begged me to, not because borrowed wizardry manipulated her into it.

Unlike last time, she felt only that of which a single tongue was capable, rather than a multi-pronged, fantastical, anatomically impossible assault on her genitalia. This time, there was only gentle lapping at her widening folds, each stroke grazing her pulsing clitoris, occasionally plunging deep inside her sex, then returning to worry her exposed bud. Despite her revulsion and shame, she couldn’t deny the intersection of her need and his skill. It didn’t lessen her disgust — if anything, it increased it — but she was tied to the bed and her choices were constrained. Grudgingly, she chose to accede to the pleasure while the rest of her continued to plot and scheme.

For pleasure it indeed was. She might not come as violently and as often as she had yesterday, but she knew she would eventually be consumed by orgasm, despite her resistance and despite her loathing of her pleasure’s author. From this knowledge — that while her body might be helpless, her mind was not — was born a raging rebellion. And the beginning of a plan.

She fought, at first. Oh, how she fought. To come to consciousness with his tongue moving inside her, but no way to stop or dislodge him...

“Wormtongue!” she’d raged, shrieking in protest, and thereafter came a stream of vituperation and invective unimaginable in its furious eloquence. She’d even yelled for help, despite her nudity, sure that her restraints would condemn her molester should anyone come to investigate. But no one could possibly hear her through the thick stone walls, nor even through the heavy wooden door unless their ear was already pressed against it. In any case, she’d bolted the door against just such an intrusion ... and yet, the very person she hoped to keep out was the one whose head now quested between her legs. Little good that did. How could he possibly have entered? There’s no way to open the door from outside when it’s bolted, save by beating it down ... and that he assuredly isn’t strong enough do. Maybe he climbed through the window?

The unfortunate truth was that only an armed and forcible intrusion into her bedroom — a risk no soldier of the realm would take unless Meduseld itself was under attack — could save her now. Of such an unlikely event Gríma had no fear, nor Lady Éowyn any hope.

Fine wisps of light hair highlighted the entrance to her cunt, and there was a clear sheen of moisture easing its breach. I wonder if she’s always wet, and how much of that is due to my efforts yesterday? Unwilling she might be in mind, but her body knows what’s coming, ready and eager for what she’d prefer to deny. He leaned forward and extended his tongue...

Her screams of frustration and cries for help died a lonely death. Can no one outside hear me though the open window? Nay ... for it’s well past the dinner hour, none are afield save in the noisy quarters where taverns or inns would block out any competing sounds, and even this mild breeze could easily carry my voice away. Even were there no wind, the thick walls of Meduseld would pass neither calls of passion nor agony unless there was a listener already close at hand. If no help came from the hall, then no help will come at all.

She fought with her muscles as long as she could. Then with her voice. Now, she had only her wits and her will. She resolved to fight on, to win the longer war, even though she already knew she’d lose this particular battle. This would be the third time Wormtongue had, in some fashion, forced his sexual will upon her without her permission, and by now she knew that, no matter how non-consensual or unwanted the encounter, her body would eventually respond and, in the end, betray her, for it wanted things she most certainly did not. Though this understanding filled her with humiliation and wrath, there was little she could do about it.

Still, she could fight. Knowing that he would, at some inevitable point, bring her to orgasm and beyond — the warrior within practiced a brutal realism regarding matters of the flesh — was horrifying, but the longer she clung to her denial, the more easily she could forgive her ultimate surrender. What mattered now was surviving the encounter beyond the mere continuation of existence.

Gríma’s fingers tugged at her breasts, roughly mauling them and (aided by dollops of lubrication he’d drawn from her pussy) rapidly stroking her sensitive nipples to hardness. His tongue delved deep within ... twisting, curling, fucking her as she’d not have believed a tongue could ... then receding to caress her throbbing clit.

As a dam broken beyond repair, her wetness flowed freely and without reserve. This was his favorite and most surprising discovery so far: the uncontrollable liquid emissions that presaged and paralleled her increasing arousal. That she was so clearly embarrassed by the volume only increased his excitement, and he eagerly consumed all that she could provide, reveling in the intriguing salinity.

He pressed on, aggressively laving her sex, greeting its blossoming need by plunging one, then two knobbed fingers inside as his tongue abused her clitoris. He returned to worrying a nipple as he slid his tongue inward alongside his fingers, stretching and widening her channel while she gasped in near-pain but undeniable pleasure. Exerting a furious and distracting assault on her clit, he gradually added a third finger. Her scream caught in her throat, her discomfort and helplessness itself a form of ecstasy. Sliding his digits in and out ... slowly at first, then with ever-increasing speed and vigor ... set her on the familiar climb towards orgasm. She was on the verge of welcoming its arrival ... for no matter the foulness of his violation, no matter how much she loathed the man — no, the snake! — behind the tongue, she could no longer deny that he gave her exactly the pleasure she’d secretly desired for so long. His skill in building and layering sensation, then pushing her into a mind-numbing climax had already been demonstrated to her (immense) satisfaction, and denying that he could do so again was pointless. Whether she acceded or not, he would easily wrest that from her. Given that she had no choice, she surrendered to the feelings and enthusiastically embraced her pleasure, aggressively thrusting her hips upward, fucking her own pussy onto his impalement. Her revenge could wait, and she reserved a quiet corner of her mind to continue the necessary strategizing as the rest of her body writhed in ecstasy.

Her breath came quick and sharp while his tongue danced, striking its targets like a viper. Her sex clenched, reluctant to let go of every outward motion of his fingers. She was on the precipice of a bone-rattling orgasm when he stopped, yanking his fingers from her sodden depths. The wet, sucking sound of their release echoed around the room, and rivulets of liquid soaked into her already drenched sheets.