Chapter 4: Satisfaction

[ Setting the scene: Aragorn is leading an army to the gates of Mordor. Marshal Elfhelm has just defeated an enemy force near Minas Tirith. Éowyn continues to recover in the Houses of Healing.]

18 March 3019 (Third Age), Minas Tirith

“Elfhelm, yes!!!“

He was pounding her cunt rhythmically and relentlessly, and his thighs slapped against her ass with stinging force. It was a thrilling counterpoint to the intensity of his powerful thrusts. “Every time I sank my spear into one of those savage Southrons,” he growled as he pummeled her slick hole, “I imagined that I was fucking you. Just. Like. This!“ She squealed with ecstasy, coming for at least the tenth time since he first penetrated her. “I spent the entire battle as hard as a rock, knowing that when I returned to Minas Tirith you would be here, begging for your own turn at the lance.” He grunted with the effort required to stay his climax and prolong their pleasure.

She thrilled at the bludgeoning masculinity of his strokes, gasping out a few words at a time. “You must have ... been awfully ... ineffective... ahhh ... given the ... barely... ugh ... satisfactory way you’re... yes! ... poking around ... in there. Can’t ... you send... ohhhh ... someone more skilled ... to take care ... of my needs?”

“You filthy slattern!” He pressed her into the bedding, his momentarily unsheathed cock dripping with her juices as he folded her legs backward and reentered her; his hand now falling crisp and hard on her unturned cheeks. But this was no ordinary spanking, for he was fresh from the field and still wore his leather-lined chainmail gloves. Each blow hurt, and she yelped at the abrupt onset of metal-jacketed shocks of pain. Energized by her cries of defiance he increased his pace, and soon the bruising of her tender buttocks transformed into the writhing ecstasy of pain-as-pleasure.

“Yes, spank me! Punish my ass! Harder! Harder!!!“

His enthusiastic pummeling sent her spiraling into her biggest orgasm yet. In the midst of her peak he again withdrew, then forced his rampant erection into the tight pucker of her unprepared ass.

“Elfhelm! What ... no, it’s too... wait...”

His shaft felt uncharacteristically massive. He’s never been this big before, she thought as his cock brutally widened her entrance.

He bent downward, hissing, “your ass belongs to me, slut,” directly into her ear.

She moaned in agony as his enormous phallus drove past her barrier and into the steaming heat of her rectum. “No ... NO, Khamûl, don’t ... no ... n ... ugh, yes, yes, please... YES!“

Éowyn’s sex contracted around her fingers as she rooted them as deep as they’d go, thumb fluttering over her clit until she exploded. A small geyser of fluid erupted around her hand while she pumped herself through climax, and she impulsively brought her drenched fingers to her mouth, greedily lapping her nectar.

Why Khamûl? Why, by the end of my sexual fantasies, is it always him? And why does his memory make me act in such a depraved manner?

She’d spent much of yesterday resting, healing, and brooding, but by the afternoon familiar urges began working their sinister will. Resistance proved impossible, and though she tried her best to ground her fantasies in reality, eventually they all turned as troubling as the one she’d just experienced. But they were nothing compared to the visions that haunted her sleep: a vivid recounting of sexual excess and torture that was, to her horror, no longer just a replay of her Witch-king-induced nightmare but an extrapolation thereof. In one, Elfhelm approached her brandishing a glowing iron. In another, Aragorn swung a cruel whip from each hand. In still another...

No! It’s all too awful to contemplate. I don’t really desire such things. I can’t.

There was a soft knock at the door. Hastily rearranging herself into presentability, she realized with dismay that there was nothing to be done about the thick scent of sexual heat filling the room. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t interrogate the aroma too closely.

“Come in.”

Merry poked his curly head into the room. “Lady Éowyn, may I speak with you?”

“Of course, Master Holbytla.”

“How are you feeling today?” he inquired, clambering onto a bedside stool that was just a little too high for him.

She sighed. “My healing proceeds ahead of schedule, for which I must thank Aragorn’s art, but I will forever remain restless while imprisoned in this bed. And you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s kind of nice to rest for a bit, and everyone here is so polite. But I’m lonely, and I miss my companions.”

“You are always welcome to visit, my heroic and great-hearted warrior ... though I’m afraid that comforting speech has rarely been counted among my skills, so you may be disappointed with the company.”

“No. No! My Lady, I’d never burden you so. And the truth is,” he blushed, “I’ve been ordered to let you rest as much as possible. Hobbit tongues can weary anyone if given free reign to wag.”

Desperate to avoid thinking about tongues, she answered, “then I appreciate your generosity even more than your brevity.” She’d intended to say it with mirth, but the joke fell flat, and he looked uncomfortable.

“Um ... well, anyway, I have news. The Rohirrim were victorious against the Enemy’s reserves. They’re returning as we speak. I’m told that the battle turned into a rout when they realized our... your ... Riders galloped fresh from victory. I guess none of them expected that.”

Smiling, she laid a hand on his round, ruddy face. “Our Riders indeed, Master Meriadoc.” His nose wrinkled, and she abruptly yanked her hand away.

Oh, no ... are those my ... on his cheek? What’s wrong with me?

To her relief, his expression was one of confusion rather than awareness. “I thank you for the compliment, my Lady, but as I proved when ... well, you know ... I’m more useful on two legs than four, though of little enough competence over either. Anyway,” he added as he stood, “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you, Master Meriadoc. I’m extremely pleased to hear this news. I wish you rest — or whatever type of healing best suits you — and I hope you find companions to ease your cares. Don’t mind the warnings of the healers too closely; you’re welcome to visit me whenever you’d like, though I’d ask that you knock first. And would you mind calling one of the attendants? I’ve need of...”

“ ... a bath,” he nodded. “I know the feeling. It was one of the first things I asked for, too.” He bowed as he departed.

I feel unclean in so many ways, but perhaps a bath will help with at least one of them. If I can take a bath without remembering Khamûl, that is.

Pillows: arranged just so.

Coverlet: lowered to just below the gentle swell of her breasts.

Hair: washed and brushed, flowing in golden layers about her shoulders.

Nightshirt: unbuttoned just enough to tease, promising without revealing.

Nipples: firm with anticipation and noticeable through her thin nightshirt, should a sufficiently interested guest seek them.

Soon Elfhelm will walk through that door. He’ll be swollen with pride over his victory, and I’ll encourage that swagger to entice him to be more aggressive than usual, the better to drive these dark fantasies from my mind and my sex. Perhaps he’ll even...

A knock...

“Come in.”

Was it really necessary to say that so throatily? The invitation is already blatant enough, you harlot.

But as he entered she fell silent with surprise, for Elfhelm had spawned a twin.

No, not a twin. In fact, neither is actually Elfhelm. So who are these men?

Clad for battle, though obviously cleaned up enough to become presentable before hastening to her chamber, the two young Riders — consistent with her first impression they were largely indistinguishable — gaped at the sight of the beautiful Lady Éowyn in repose. Whatever they intended to say died on their lips.

Though she knew she should be embarrassed, she instead felt a measure of naughty delight in their discomfort. There’s no point in covering up now, for they’ve already seen what there is to see. It would be improper of me to acknowledge it, but at least I can amuse myself for a few moments.

The situation became increasingly absurd as their uncomfortable silence dragged on. Trying (with limited success) to repress a wicked smirk, she finally broke it. “I welcome you, unexpected guests, but please don’t feel you must both speak at once.”

Blushes of vivid russet were her reward. “Um ... uh ... my Lady, my... our apologies!” they responded in a confused, stuttering jumble. She noticed that they were having trouble keeping their eyes from her chest, and realized her nipples had expanded to their stiffest peaks, tenting her nightdress in an entirely obvious display.

Oh no ... I’m actually aroused. This is undignified.

“Is there news you wish to deliver, brave Riders, or are you here to observe and report on my convalescence?” That wasn’t particularly nice, she scolded herself as their attention flickered to her breasts, then back to her face.

“No ... no! We’re terribly sorry, my Lady. It has been a long day and fatigue has slowed our tongues.” They were recovering some of their equilibrium, spending at least half their time looking her in the eyes. Well, it’s an improvement. Or is it? “The Marshal is delayed with Lord Húrin, but at his bidding we come to report news of victory. He thought you’d wish to know as quickly as possible.”

Who’s Lord Húrin? Well, it matters not.

“Victorious Riders, I’m grateful for your news and praise your courage.” I’m getting turned on. I’m already wet. This is ridiculous. Her memories drifted to the callow young trainees at Dunharrow, but instead of the requisite guilt she instead remembered tremors of anticipation as their bodies were revealed to her hungry gaze. Maybe I should ask the two of them to ... NO! It’s unseemly, it’s wrong, and I have to focus. Clearing her throat and her head, she responded with quickly summoned propriety.

“Tell me more of the battle.”

Time grew interminable as the focus of her thought drifted lower. Though she tried to remain riveted by their account her libido had other ideas. Lurid tableaux — pinioned fore and aft by two wildly thrusting cocks — punctuated their words and grappled mightily for her wandering attention.

The sheets beneath my sex must be soaked. Can they really not smell my arousal? I feel like the aroma suffuses the room. My nipples are sore from being engorged so long without contact or relief. If this continues much longer I might have to surreptitiously touch myself while they talk. And if they happen to notice, perhaps we can...

Their narrative was finally drawing to an overdue close when a third shape darkened the entrance to her chamber.

“Marshal Elfhelm,” she called, a little too eagerly. “I’ve had the privilege of hearing the full tale of our Riders’ triumph. I salute your leadership.”

Everyone looks uncomfortable and overdressed ... or perhaps it’s just my lust talking. Oh, but if I could just have all three for an hour or two...