Chapter 4: Exit

[ Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place before the arrival of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli.]

23 February 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

It was the ache in her hand that she felt first. Dangling over the edge of the bed, unsupported through hours of motionless sleep, its tendons and muscles were paralyzed by stiffness, her fingers still curled around a long-absent shaft. Unbending them was a long, slow process accompanied by tooth-grinding pain.

Her other hand couldn’t move at all, for it remained fastened to a bedpost. Her lips were dry and sore. Her legs splayed wide, still strapped to the corners of her bed, and though her sex had closed back to its usual narrow seam, deep inside she felt the bruising aftermath of many rough finger-thrusts. Her thighs and buttocks were sticky with dried effluvia. Worst of all were her breasts, covered in a disgusting crust of...

No. I can’t bear to relive it.

She stared at the ceiling, numb. Her soul felt as filthy as her body. She was used. Violated. Unclean. Ruined.

After many minutes of silent despair, she sighed and began the slow work of freeing her immobilized limbs.

Scalding water coursed down her chest. She’d long since scrubbed the vile remnants of Wormtongue’s seed from her skin, but no matter how frequently she rasped her flesh with abrasives, no matter how many times she heated basins of bathwater to a boil and rinsed herself with the steaming liquid, she couldn’t help but feel that it lingered and clung. I’d better stop before I start losing skin. Anyway, my poor breasts have already taken more than enough abuse.

She gently swabbed the area between her thighs, and in an instant her arousal came alive. Please, please not now! She allowed herself a few tentative rubs, then forcefully shunted away the urge. The need to cleanse herself internally forced her to briefly quest inside her channel, and to her dismay her sex ignored her determination and tingled with excitement and expectation.

Cleansing turned to exploratory caresses, caresses to confident massaging, massaging to resigned capitulation. But it was of no use; her fingering brought plenty of pleasure but no release. Eventually, the water grew tepid and she stepped from the bath, her wet golden locks draping over the curves and valleys of her slender body while she stared blankly at the wall.

After a while, she sullenly wrapped herself in cottons and returned to her bed, shivering. A cold dawn had arrived while she dallied in the bath, and she needed to dress for an appearance before King Théoden, but she was drained of motivation and distracted by arousal. Apparently there’s some sort of controversy involving my brother Éomer, and someone will have to take his side ... a responsibility that falls to me. He’s ever at odds with the King and Council these days, and even I doubt that Wormtongue is the sole source of his conflict. The reason for, yes, but my brother falls into his snares as easily as I. Perhaps we’re both ruled ... or overruled ... by our passions.

Neither the cold nor her responsibilities could erase the persistent yearning in her loins. Her attempts to fight it off or ignore it had proven useless, yet time was passing all too quickly. She’d either need to achieve satisfaction right now or suffer through hours of low-level arousal in the presence of the King and his counselors. Even after a rapid-fire onslaught of new and unwanted experiences, even without the restoration of a good night’s sleep after hours of outrageous assault, I’m still consumed by inconsolable erotic craving. I remain utterly repulsed by what was done to me, and yet I’m horny. I disgust myself.

With sudden decision she flung her wrappings aside, stroking and probing as efficiently as possible. One hand tweaked her soft breast, fingers worrying a swollen nipple. The other gently circled her clit, dipping a finger just inside. Her pleasure grew, but plateaued well short of her goal, and no amount of surface rubbing could coax it along. She closed her eyes and imagined strong, masculine hands doing the touching, but while she felt a mild swell in her heart, her sexual arousal barely increased. She cycled through favored fantasy partners, consciously avoiding any from Gondor lest they remind her of Wormtongue’s tricks, but none of her personal gallery of images sufficed. In frustration she abraded herself harder and faster, and while this did measurably increase her pleasure, climax remained elusive.

Abandoning her nipple, she moved a second hand to her sex and roughly spread her slippery labia. Plunging two fingers as deep inside as she could manage — she was lubricated enough to accept the penetration in one swift motion — she tried to imagine taking herself as aggressively as a partner might. (Which partner was a question she deliberately avoided considering.) The effect was immediate, and her hips rolled with excitement, but once again an unsatisfying plateau was reached.

A third finger intruded, immediately followed by dismay at how easily her scarcely broached womanhood was accepting such ever-deeper, ever-wider intrusions. But I don’t have time to dwell on that now. I need to come. I’m incapable of starting my day without doing so. How have I arrived at this?

And then, a fourth finger. In no sense under her conscious control, but simply willed inward by her greedy sex, it easily slipped in right alongside the others in a moment between thrusts. This is insanity. I’ve never before used, nor even remotely needed, this much of a physical presence inside me to reach orgasm. Though it wasn’t the widest she’d been stretched of late, for her fingers were long, thin, and graceful in comparison to ... to... No, I still won’t think about him. Coupled with an aggressive thumbing of her clit, it seemed that she might finally reach her goal. Faster and faster she pumped, her sore wrist aching anew, and at last, with a small jolt of pleasure, she came.

It was satisfying, and served to calm her jangling nerves, but it wasn’t even close to...

Wrenching her fingers from her sex, she shunted the wretched memory into her determined wake and dressed for Council, eager for the comforting presence of her brother after all she’d been through.

To her surprise, her meeting with the King went surprisingly well. Wormtongue lodged his usual objection that Éomer’s raids ranged too far from Edoras and left the city vulnerable to attack. But to everyone’s obvious relief it was a written objection, for he wasn’t present in Council; in fact, no one seemed to know where he’d gone. The King limited himself to a rambling lecture against leaving the populous heart of the Mark under-defended, but didn’t press the point. Eventually, he even mumbled a few words of praise for his nephew’s tireless pursuit of their enemies, though he immediately undid their effect by impatiently demanding that his son Théodred — of like mind with Éomer and equally overwhelmed by endless skirmishes — be summoned back to Meduseld from his current post at the Fords of Isen.

She couldn’t decide which made her happier: seeing her brother again, hearing the King make a decision without a counselor whispering words of defeat and surrender in his ear, or that Wormtongue was nowhere to be found. She even stole a few moments for a brief but loving reunion with Éomer, though she had to work hard to hide her personal turmoil from his keen eyes.

Perhaps there’s hope for us after all. And I still hold to another.

Locking her door, she plucked a volume of rune-lore from a shelf, then extracted the stolen parchment from her secret nook, leaving the vial for later study. She plopped book, parchment, blank paper, drawing implements, and herself onto her bed, looking for all the world like a school-aged lass about to start her homework ... and began the slow work of translation. She’d already confirmed, in the few brief moments she’d had to study the parchment lifted from Wormtongue’s room, that the runes were indeed Elvish but in an archaic mode; one older than any of the usual references could decipher. Rohan wasn’t a society based on lore or the wisdom of sages, but rather on its untamed Northern spirit, and she’d been lucky to find a useful reference in Meduseld’s meager library. She hoped it would be enough.

Many hours of struggle later, she dropped the heavy tome to the floor, exhausted. If only I could read these runes as easily as I manage the thrust and parry of a sword. The frustrating, often maddeningly fruitless work was taking far too long. Early indications were that the vials were an element in some sort of potion or magic, as part of the text seemed to be a recipe, or perhaps a procedure. But of or for what remained opaque.

Knowing that it could go ill were she caught at this activity, she tucked everything into her hiding place, double-checked that her door was locked and bolted, then prepared for sleep. It was already dark, and though she’d skipped the evening meal she wasn’t hungry. She felt, despite everything, a vague sense that tomorrow would be the day her fortunes finally began to improve, and as she nestled under her covers she enjoyed a blissful moment of forgetfulness regarding the previous evening’s misadventures. Until...

There it is again. That persistent, annoying urge. Finding it absurd and almost slatternly that she’d need to pleasure herself yet again, she rolled to her side and willed herself towards sleep.

It didn’t help. If anything, the yearning grew in intensity the more she tried to ignore it. With a resigned sigh, she realized she’d indeed have to pursue another orgasm before she could rest. Is this to be my life, now? Furtive, shameful assignations or perpetual masturbation consuming my thoughts, my sleep, and my time? It would be less bothersome if I had a willing partner, but who? The same objections as before remained in force, especially given her situation. Still, almost anyone would be preferable to submitting to another minute with that slithering serpent.

But none of this long-view concern over her potential relationships helped mitigate her immediate problem. Removing her nightshift in exasperation, she began touching herself in a rote, resigned fashion. Yet again, the usual methods and make-believe partners didn’t avail, save to elevate her need for relief. She resisted as long as she could, but all too soon she was once again pumping her channel with four stiff fingers, grinding her pelvis against each forceful penetration. This time, however, even impaling herself in this absurd fashion didn’t serve to bring her to climax. Mentally flipping through her most cherished fantasies, she reshuffled them in previously unthinkable ways, even combining several of them into simultaneous, multi-person encounters ... a notion she wouldn’t have been able to countenance just a few days earlier, and the actual logistics of which eluded her due to her vast inexperience. It still wasn’t enough ... or rather, it too increased her desperation for an orgasm that she needed far more than she wanted.

She tried to avoid thinking of Boromir, because she knew that she couldn’t separate that fantasy from the memory of Wormtongue abusing her interest. Unfortunately, the passing thought of him further stimulated her passion, and eventually she determined it was pointless to resist. As she sloshed all but one finger in and out of her sodden sex, she imagined him doing things neither fantasy-Boromir nor even his vile substitute had done. This led to her imagining herself doing things she considered impossibly dirty, and it was no longer entirely clear with whom she was doing them. Faceless men surrounded her, stroking their cocks and waiting for a turn with her pliant body. The mental image alone drove her crazy with lust. As her climax arrived, her mind was filled by the vivid memory of Wormtongue-as-Boromir’s tongue reaming her wet vessel. She desperately tried to cling to the image of the Steward’s son, or even a room full of mysterious onlookers, but as release washed over her she couldn’t deny that it was triggered by the palpable memory of that tongue’s master.

It was a more thorough climax than the morning’s, yet even as she quivered with aftershocks, the niggling discomfort of a lingering, unfocused, unsatisfied arousal continued. Still, she bore enough post-orgasmic languor that she was able to drift into a restless sleep.

“We can’t. Not here. We might be seen!”

“My Lady, there are none to see what we do save the stars themselves, and you can see for yourself that they glow with approval.”

She groaned as his erection prodded between her tightly clenched thighs. His muscular chest pressed against her back, wiry hair abrading her skin, and his hands greedily enveloped and fondled her taut breasts. Though she yearned to reach back and stroke his tumescence, she instead gripped the gnarled oak against which he’d trapped her, desperately fighting the urge to participate in what seemed an unwise erotic escalation.

Trapped? No, I came here willingly. Still, I intended only a few stolen moments of flirtation, or perhaps even some casual foreplay, though with clothing largely intact. And yet here we are, both of us entirely naked, his arrow mere inches from a target far too eager to be pierced to the heart. How easily my body betrays me and gives in to base urges, that I should find myself in this position, losing all belief in my ability to walk away from this encounter with my virginity intact.

But is that what I even want anymore? How far will I let him go if I don’t object? Or if he tries to take me despite my protests, will I let him? Or will I propose another act to avoid the one I crave? To feel a man’s hardness filling me, at long last...

One of her lover’s hands teased downward, attempting to explore her throbbing sex.

“No. Please. I beg you...”

He laughed. “Your lips and your body contradict each other, my Lady, for I can clearly see the evidence of your arousal as it trails down your beautiful legs. How can you deny yourself? Why would you? You want the same thing I want. Open to me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will away the truth of his words. But now Éowyn was troubled for a new reason, for in her lustful haze she was no longer sure who it was that stood behind her, whispering words of danger and seduction. I came here with Elfhelm, didn’t I? Finally giving in to my secret lust for the handsome Marshal ... though I wasn’t prepared for my approach to be rewarded with such vigor. But his voice has changed. Why does he now sound like Háma?

Lost to her confusion, she suddenly realized that her hands were tightly bound together, fastened to an overhanging branch by a sturdy rope. Before she could muster any sort of resistance or protest, her mysterious companion spoke again. “You keep insisting upon delay and escape, yet you clearly wish for neither. And so, it seems that to give you what you truly want, we must make both impossible. Your body cries out for us, my Lady. We will take you in all the ways that you desire.”

We? Us? Who else is here? Though her mind recoiled in fear, her flesh came alive with anticipation.

Rough hands spread her legs — her mind seemed unable to counteract her body’s easy acquiescence — and even rougher fingers probed into her burning sex from behind. She moaned in ecstasy, for there were two more hands upon her mounds, and others caressed the smooth globes of her ass. Yet another finger snaked into her slippery channel, this time from the front. There are at least three of them, and maybe more. Who are they? Where did they come from? Why do I not scream for help? The trio of impaling digits moved in and out, and despite her mental paralysis her hips rocked, begging for the penetration.

I can’t want this. I don’t want this.

But she did. Her body overrode her will, and she quivered uncontrollably as she felt more and more hands on her overheated flesh, stroking and manipulating her breasts, her legs, her flanks, and her dripping cunt, moving within and without as she grew ever wetter and ever more pliant. She was utterly helpless, and they were driving her to a climax she would be unable to resist much longer. A climax she no longer wanted to resist.

A low, sinister chuckle rumbled near her left ear. I know that evil sound. Wormtongue! How can he be here? Don’t they all hate him as I do? No, no, please ... not him too! Her eyes snapped open.

Eyes glowed from the shadows. Her assault had indeed acquired an eager but faceless audience. She gasped in horror as her body rolled into the release it could no longer deny. Though she couldn’t see their expressions, she knew that they were waiting. That they would eventually emerge from concealment to use her body, one after another. That she would be taken, over and over, powerless to flee or fight, until they were temporarily satisfied and she was permanently defiled.

“No!“ she screamed.

Tugging violently but pointlessly at the her bindings, she cried out as an orgasm careened towards her sex...

... and she woke with a start, terrified, pulling at the restraints that left her body open and vulnerable to her nocturnal assailants.

Except that there were none, save in the disintegrating threads of her nightmare. She had full freedom of action, and she was alone. Still, the disquieting sense of being watched remained. She slid off the bed, unconscious of her nudity, and lit her bedside candle, peering into the shadows and listening to the air.

Nothing. No one.

In the confusion of sudden awakening, abuzz with the imminence of her dream-orgasm, her mind was unable to muster sufficient defense against a flood of unwanted memories. The events of the previous night came roaring back; the horror, but also the pleasure. Arousal soon turned to a heady delirium centered deep inside her sex. She was escalating towards a real-life release built on the foundation of her dream, as if someone’s hard cock was stroking into her exposed sex. Without conscious thought, she blew out the candle and returned the bed, hands already buried between her spreading legs.

Passion escalated as scenes from both dream and daydream coalesced and played to their inevitable conclusions. Rotating her hips, she reached underneath and gripped one firm cheek, imagining her fantastical onlookers drawing closer and closer. A tongue lapped her clit and a finger wormed into the tight ring of her anus. Her hands were no longer her own. She gasped as her sex throbbed in orgasm, the vise-like entrance to her ass gripping its invading finger until the contractions passed.

Reflexively collapsing into a fetal position, she started sobbing, for by the time she reached her peak there was no question whose imaginary but well-remembered manipulations had caused it. How can I be turned on at the thought of someone for whom I feel no attraction? No, not just no attraction. I find him repulsive. Loathsome. Physically, and even more so in all other senses. My hatred of Wormtongue — my desire to see him utterly destroyed — can only result in his exile or death; two fates for which I fervently hope. So how can I let him do such things to my body, whether he’s actually here or not? How can the memory of his wretched perversions bring me so much pleasure?

The implications horrified her.

Eventually, she calmed her tears, searching for some sort of cold rationality to salve her trauma. Despite my fantasies, despite everything, he is my only actual sexual partner. She retched at the sickening thought. Surely the touch one knows surpasses the vibrancy of the touch that one imagines, no matter how unwanted. And what other actual experience of sex do I have, aside from masturbation? Whispers and rumors? Watching horses breed?

Still, it has to end. If I must somehow cling to the memory of his abhorrence to slake my needs, then I shall endure it until a better experience takes its place. But memory alone it shall be, and the sooner forgotten the better. Anything is better than letting him touch me again.

Though it was an incredibly upsetting thought, she knew that every hour that passed before she exposed his treachery increased the chance of him finding yet another way to molest her traitorous flesh. Maybe if I satisfy myself beyond the limits of response, he’ll find it impossible to gain advantage by plying his foul tricks.

After all, through all her tangled anxieties, her fingers had never left her pussy, and despite her determination to resist him she was unable to resist herself. Still curled in a tight ball, gently weeping at her lack of self-control and her apparently unquenchable arousal, she started pumping her fingers in and out...

Gríma crept into her room via its secret door. He was fatigued, having ridden long and hard for a clandestine rendezvous with Saruman under the ancient eaves of Fangorn. How I hate that oppressive forest! He had new instructions, for pieces long-withheld were finally being set in motion. The endgame approached.

As for his personal concerns: though Saruman wore an increasingly sour and disapproving expression as Gríma described what he wanted, it was apparently possible. Or so the Wizard claimed, though Gríma suspected his evasive anger when pressed meant he didn’t know how to achieve it by himself. Telling me that the Elves have that power does me no good unless he can locate one that still trusts him. That insufferable Witch in the Golden Wood certainly doesn’t.

His fatigue dissipated in an instant as he breathed the heavily scented air of her chamber. It reeks of sex. Has she ... has the harlot invited another man to... ? No. It’s impossible. She’s unlikely to pursue someone on her own, and I’ve made sure any potential suitors fear the King’s extreme displeasure should one of them dare approach her. I’ve systematically isolated her from family and the company of other men in preparation for this very moment.

Adjusting the shutter, he illuminated the room in pale moonlight. She was indeed alone, limbs akimbo atop crumpled sheets, her hair glowing silver-white under the moon’s cold rays, the curve of her breasts cast in sharp relief between highlight and shadow. Between her thighs glistened a few lingering remnants of her earlier arousal, and more was evident on her fingers.

Ahhh, the slut’s been horny! Dreaming of me, I hope.

He quickly stripped off his clothes, glanced at the items inside his satchel, then abruptly set it aside. I wager that neither restraint nor trickery will be necessary this night. It’s time to take the risk.

With feather-light touches, he stroked her neck. Her arm. The soft curve of her breast (though he avoided her nipples, fearing to wake her before she was too engaged to resist). Her invitingly flawless buttocks, which deserved more dedicated attention than he’d thus far given them. Her muscular but elegant thighs. Her sinewy calves.

He roamed until he memorized, like a blind man, the shape of her exquisite body. Not that I haven’t already dreamed about it on a near-daily basis. Though she sighed at certain touches, she didn’t stir. Holding his breath, he exerted a gentle outward pressure on her leg. It resisted at first, yielding only in flesh (and little enough in that regard; virtually all her actual softness was restricted to her breasts), but finally parted from its companion and moved to the side, revealing her vulnerable center to his lusty gaze. Though she was still asleep, Éowyn instinctively rolled all the way onto her back, the leg he held to the side now flat against the bed. The residual evidence of her earlier self-pleasure was plain to see, her lips still swollen and shining with lubrication. It must have been quite a private session. Alas that I couldn’t arrive earlier to witness it.

Carefully mounting the bed, he separated her thighs until she was completely open to him, then even more cautiously spread her labia with his thumbs. Her folds came apart with a wet smack, and he held himself rigidly still, looking for any sign of consciousness. But there was none.

Bending his head, he began tonguing her sex. Gentle, enticing licks ... feather-light touches to her clitoris ... back and forth, up and down, gently coaxing forth a slow-building arousal that wouldn’t wake her until it was in full bloom. After a few minutes of effort he paused to admire the result: her lips had swollen and parted of their own accord, and the rounded bud of her clitoris stretched outward, seeking its own pleasure. He increased his pressure just a bit, knowing she’d wake sooner rather than later, but wanting her to be on the verge of climax when she did so.

Éowyn shifted, her breath coming in short staccato cadences, yet she still didn’t wake.

The flower of her sex was as open as it was ever going to be, and he pushed his tongue through its folds; at first a shallow penetration, then deeper, and deeper still. While he explored the wellspring of her sweet nectar, his thumb gently circled her clit. With each plunge into her moist depths this became more difficult, and eventually he was forced to remove his hand as he sealed his lips around hers to savor the muskiness deep inside her cunt.

As his tongue increased the speed of its thrusts, occasionally pulling out to lap at her distended clitoris, his hands stealthily crept around her thighs and up to her breasts. He could feel the rapid pace of her breath beneath their swells, and her erect nipples cried out for contact. Lubricating two fingers with her juices, he gently stroked the hard buds, caressing and squeezing the flesh they crowned with the palms of his hands.

In, out, in. Stroke, caress, squeeze. Deeper, harder, faster. Gríma lost himself in his rhythm, in the sweet flavor of her passion, in the extremity of his lust. He was caught entirely by surprise when fiercely strong hands suddenly gripped the sides of his head. He tensed and froze, sure of imminent violence; Instead they crushed his face into her folds, urging him onward.

Éowyn didn’t come to all at once. She’d been reveling in an extremely erotic dream encounter with a mysterious, virile stranger. His hair was long, his visage stern, his musculature expansively developed and scarred by a lifetime of battles. But her attention was compelled elsewhere, for he was prodigiously, frighteningly endowed. Any instinct to recoil at his size was quickly overwhelmed by her curiosity, whence was born an escalating, all-consuming desire. Tentatively, she reached for him, but instead he immobilized her wrist. “Wait...”

Sweeping up the grey, weather-beaten cloak that lay on the floor beside them, he flung it over a bright emerald gem, glittering in the candlelight.

“Now we can be alone.”

She was consumed by fire, and it didn’t occur to her to wonder what he meant. The details of their mutual seduction ... the touches, the kisses, the caresses ... faded together, indistinct. But as he knelt between her eagerly widening thighs and feasted on her cunt with his practiced and talented tongue, she marveled that she’d at last found someone with oral skills to match her hated adversary. As her excitement built upon itself, however, she found his technique increasingly and disturbingly familiar. And then, as she rose up through layers of sleep, the rich tapestry of her fantasy gave way to a cold nighttime reality.

Yet she was anything but cold. She was fatigued in body, mind, and heart, she was in the throes of a lust she could no longer deny, and she was too far gone to fight. I want this. Regret and recrimination can come later. She reached between her legs, finding Wormtongue’s head and forcing him deeper into her throbbing sex, lifting her hips to meet and capture his thrusting tongue.

After a moment’s hesitation at her eager acquiescence, he fulfilled her bluntly expressed wish. His manipulation of her nipples turned aggressive, his impalement of her succulent channel relentless. Mere moments later she climaxed, constellations of stars lighting up the night behind her tightly shut eyelids. She thrust and ground against him as he slowed his ministrations, hissing with the unbound force of her orgasm. And then she relaxed her hold on his head and pushed him away. First with her hands, and then ... when they proved insufficient to counter his persistence ... her legs. It wasn’t a violent motion, nor even an angry one, but it brought a decisive end to their contact.

Gríma sat at the end of the bed, watching. Waiting. Éowyn’s breath slowed. Perspiration glowed all over the breathtaking sculpture of her body. Her sex throbbed with every heartbeat. Her legs remained splayed wide in clear invitation. At length, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. There they remained, in silence, as the minutes stretched onward. But their inertia drifted past the limits of his tolerance, and his impatience grew. His erection, anticipatory and unsatisfied, showed no sign of abating.