Éowyn, Book 2: The Key
Chapter 6: Stability

Copyright© 2018 by Barahir

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 6: Stability - Pursued by erotic curiosity into darkness and ruin, defiled in the aftermath of an unfathomable trial, will Éowyn’s uncontrollable desires encage her forever? Is mastering those desires the key to unlocking her future, or is love her true path to freedom? 4th place, 2018 Clitorides, Best BDSM Story.

Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Mult   Coercion   Consensual   Magic   Reluctant   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   Fan Fiction   High Fantasy   Sharing   BDSM   Light Bond   Rough   Spanking   Group Sex   Anal Sex   Analingus   Cream Pie   Double Penetration   Exhibitionism   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Sex Toys   Squirting   Voyeurism   Public Sex   Royalty  

[ Setting the scene: Éowyn continues her recovery in the Houses of Healing. Mundburg is the Rohirric name for Minas Tirith.]

24 March 3019 (Third Age), Minas Tirith

Elfhelm won’t be coming today.

Via Merry he’d sent word of a rogue band of orcs spotted trying to escape into the mountains. But both of us know that’s no more than a convenient excuse; pursuing such a small group doesn’t require the leadership of a Marshal. He was justifiably upset when he left yesterday, and thinks to exact a little revenge by denying me today.

The sad truth was that she didn’t care. About Elfhelm, about herself, about getting off ... about anything. Her world was darkened by a thick cloud of impending doom, though she knew not what the darkness portended. Her fate remained as elusive as ever. Even her usual morning walk with Faramir passed mostly in silence, despite his best efforts to the contrary, and both the sexual attraction and genuine affection she felt for him were oddly inaccessible. She was indifferent to his kindness and unaccountably annoyed by what she perceived as unspoken pity. The moment they exchanged uncharacteristically stiff farewells she retreated to the safety of her bed.

I’m hungry. But the midday meal is hours away. Am I just going to stare at the ceiling until then? I suppose I could beg a few extra scraps from the Guard, but in their livery they remind me too much of Aragorn. She sighed. I wonder where he is right now? How I wish I could be at his side, sword in hand. Or perhaps with his sword in my hand...

Her hand crept between her legs.

No! I must not continue to entertain such inappropriate fantasies. My only thoughts of him must be for hope, victory, and safe return.

Though she spent a few minutes idly exploring her sex, her interest in self-pleasure was as minimal as her interest in anything else, and she drifted into a troubled sleep.

Her dreams were immediately beset by relentless violence. Hands, crops, belts, canes, clamps, whips ... even brands ... punishing her body from all sides until there was no escape from an unending barrage of pain. The sensations were so overwhelming that she couldn’t even reach orgasm, yet juices streamed down her legs as she begged her tormenters for respite and release.

She awoke with a start, realizing that she had three fingers buried deep inside her pussy. Without waiting for full consciousness she worked herself towards the climax she’d been denied. Even as the terrible memory of her abuse faded she strained for the pinnacle, ignoring the tears staining her cheeks.


I’m bored.

Éowyn paced the length of her room, gnawing her passive defeatism into a jittery, foul-tasting tension.

I hate waiting. I hate helplessness. I hate inaction. I hate that every time I discover a moment’s peace my apparently insatiable sexual hunger betrays me, with increasingly unwelcome consequences for me and for others. I hate that my dreams are not only no respite from the tedium of my waking hours, but actually make them worse. And I hate that the one distraction to which I’ve looked forward now fills me with anxiety, for I’ve no wish to let Faramir see me in this dissipated state. He’d judge me as infantile and petulant as a child denied a favorite toy, and he’d be right.

Her pacing accelerated.

My arm isn’t yet healed enough to do anything constructive, but there must be something that could occupy my time, and in turn my restless mind. Were I back in Rohan, I’d...

She stopped.

A horse! I doubt they’ll allow me to ride with enemies about, and I don’t think I’d be physically able right now, but just being in the company of horses might help ease my cares. Her arm was in no condition to wrestle with tight-fitting riding gear — not that I know where mine’s been stowed — and so she contented herself with donning sturdier footwear, bustling out the door in search of the Warden.


Her path grew wider but more precarious as she descended. Éowyn tentatively picked her way down the mostly empty street, musing on the roughness of the stones beneath her feet. Some of this is unquestionably the aftermath of armies’ rough-shod passage, but not all. Even mighty Mundburg submits to the inexorable decay of time. What hope is there that the young might endure, much less prosper? Suddenly, her toe caught on a crack and she hopped sideways, righting herself and grimacing in frustration that she’d let her mind wander. Should I stumble I’ve only one healthy arm with which to break my fall. I must be more cautious.

Pausing to regain her equilibrium, she looked around. I’m in the first circle of the city. The Warden said that if I come to the Rath Celerdain I’ve gone too far. But where can the stables be? For I neither hear nor smell horses. As if in response to her unspoken wish a muted snort came from a ramshackle building to her right. Smiling, she abandoned careful footwork and hurried towards the entrance.

The interior was considerably better-maintained than the exterior, and smelled as if it had been cleaned recently. A task, she mused as she looked around, no doubt made easier by a near-total absence of horses. Though it’s likely many that once resided here were pressed into service to replace those lost beneath my countrymen.

One lone grey palfrey stood in the corner, mournfully eyeing her from beneath somber lids. By his musculature she knew he’d been bred and raised for endurance rather than speed; now he looked to possess little of either. Back home, this retired worthy would be roaming the grassland whither he would, having done his fullest duty in service of the Mark. Though I suppose a city constantly besieged by war might be condemning horses to death — or worse — should they be allowed such freedom. Even Rohan has lost more than its share of wandering horses to the Enemy, she recalled with a shudder.

She approached the palfrey with caution, but whether from fatigue, indifference, or intuition he immediately accepted her as friendly, and soon she was gently soothing his back and his flanks while his tail flicked at phantoms only he could see. He’s been kept reasonably well, but whoever’s maintaining his coat doesn’t quite know what they’re doing. Espying the necessary tools on a nearby shelf, she set about grooming him with the easy skill of a people brought up believing their steeds akin to family. The horse quivered and whinnied in delight, seemingly pleased to be pampered for a change.

She was close to finishing when she heard a polite cough from the entrance. Startled, she looked up and confirmed that they were no longer alone. An equally surprised man clad in arboreal riding gear gripped the reins of a sleek black stallion. The horse’s breathing was measured — he obviously hasn’t been ridden hard — and he studied Éowyn and her equine companion with unmistakable hauteur before allowing himself to be loosely harnessed to a thick iron ring bolted to the wall. With a measure of dismay, she noted that the knot was insufficient should the horse turn recalcitrant.

“My apologies. With the city largely emptied, I didn’t expect to find anyone here.” His voice was dusty, but quickly turned bold. “Certainly not someone as lovely as you.”

With a raised eyebrow, Éowyn stopped grooming to assess her new companion. Well, well, well. This could be interesting.


Putting down a growing urge to intervene in the disaster unfolding before her eyes, Éowyn bit her tongue and attempted to concentrate. Her mind, however, had other ideas.

Initiating conversation will only lead to more complication. Is that what I want? Is that what I actually came here seeking? Not the comfort of four-legged companionship, but the excitement of four legs entwining? Not the tranquility of a gentle beast, but vigorous rutting with an ungentle stranger?

Mentally shaking free of such absurd fantasies, she applied herself to her charge’s mane. Her thoughts were an uncertain jumble. Hasn’t sex — even thinking about sex — caused me more than enough problems already? I should speed my task and leave before I do something unwise. She stole a quick glance across the stable, noting with disapproval that he was still brushing his horse incorrectly ... but also that he was no longer staring at her like a delectable morsel of meat. It’s an improvement, at least. Though, she blushed, I admit that it’s been so long since anyone new has appraised me in that fashion that I find it a little flattering. The last to do so would’ve been the trainees, I suppose; after that I was either disguised as a man or in recovery. Faramir’s too refined and mannered to be so obvious in his attentions, and Elfhelm is ... Elfhelm. Well, whoever this stranger is, he’s attractive enough. Despite his injury.

Thick bandages wrapped around his forehead turned a wild tangle of brown hair into a mushroom-shaped bloom, but her companion was otherwise lean, sun-browned, and in the first flower of manhood, with all the brash and unfiltered confidence that implied. I don’t know if he’ll make the first move or not, but I guess that if I give him the slightest opportunity he’ll pounce. Well ... whatever else I do or don’t have the will to resist, I’m afraid I’m going to have to say something to him after all. His grooming technique is tooth-grinding, and though he doesn’t realize it, his horse is annoyed and about to kick him in the shin. Setting aside her own brush, she called across the room.

“I apologize for intruding, but you’re doing that wrong.”

Without looking up, he raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, I’m always eager to learn something new, though I usually learn best from a hands-on demonstration. Perhaps you would come over here and show me what you know?”

Ducking her head behind her own horse for a moment, Éowyn allowed herself a private smirk.

Interesting indeed.


“So,” he continued as he intently watched her brush the stallion, “what’s your name?”

“Shouldn’t you tell me yours first?”

He snorted. “I seem untrustworthy to you, do I?”

Offering him an insouciant sideways glance, Éowyn answered, “while that remains to be determined, it’s how such things are done in polite society: gentlemen introduce themselves to ladies. Unless you mean to claim that you’re no gentleman.”

With a knowing chuckle, for her challenge hadn’t gone unnoticed, he quipped back, “Whether or not I’m a gentleman remains to be seen, I suppose ... though it might render the case moot should I remind you that we’ve not yet proven that you’re a lady, either.” As her expression turned incredulous, he laughed to dull the edge of his barb. “Nay, I’ve no doubt that it is so, and despite my words I would not wish to be a contributor to an impolite discourse. At least not yet.” His smile widened as her eyes twinkled with mirth at his well-placed riposte. “My name is Falraven, though more than a few wags back home shorten that to Raven ... a burdensome diminutive full of implications that I admit I find somewhat grating. I arrived with a force from Lossarnach, certain that death was our fate yet called to fight nonetheless. Alas, I was struck in the head by a projectile flung from the Enemy’s foul catapults before taking the field, and fell into unconsciousness before drawing my sword for even a moment’s defiance. To my surprise, I awoke in the nearby guesthouse — they’d turned it into a makeshift recovery area for those not severely injured enough to require the Houses of Healing — and found that despite the untimely death of our brave Lord Forlong, we’d won ... or, at least, achieved as much of a temporary victory as is possible against such limitless evil.” He watched as she changed the pattern of her brushing and mimicked it on the other flank; the barely suppressed tumult on her face escaped his attention. “Anyway, that’s my tale, such as it is.” Looking up, he added, “I’m going to guess, from your skill with this beast, that you’re of the Horse Lords who arrived to turn the tide of battle. Am I near the mark?”

For the first time in unremembered days Éowyn burst into laughter. Confusion grew on Falraven’s face, and eventually she took pity on him.

“I suppose you’ve no way to understand the cleverness of your wordplay. I’m indeed from the Kingdom of Rohan, which at home we refer to as the Mark.” A slow grin crept across his face as he grasped the joke. “And it should also be said that we prefer Rohirrim to Horse Lords ... though in any case, as I hope you’ve realized via your unstealthy study: I’m no Lord.” Falraven had the courtesy to blush a bit, but his eyes again flickered down her form before returning to his work. “As for my name...” She hesitated, already keenly aware of the spread of her renown and unsure if she wanted to put them on unequal footing. Well, let’s see what happens. “I’m called Éowyn.”

If he recognized her name he offered no sign. “And so, Éowyn of the Mark, what misfortune brings you into the heart of battle and war, so far from home?” She gave him a hard stare, but quickly realized that he truly didn’t seem to know who she was. As she was in no mood for a defense of her purposes and actions, even though one seemed unnecessary at the moment, she dissembled with an evasive distillation of the truth.

“I was searching for something.”

He took this vague answer with surprising equanimity. “And did you find it?”

“It remains to be seen.”

He opened his mouth to reply when, suddenly, his stallion lurched backward, shaking its head and snorting a noisy and repetitive complaint.

“What did you do?” Éowyn demanded, coming around to his side. “Oh, I see. You did exactly the opposite of what I showed you. You have to do it like this...” Grabbing his brush — his hand still gripping the handle — she taught him the correct motion, keenly aware that their hands were in constant contact. Though neither spoke the thought aloud it was clear that they’d reached a moment of choice.

He has the motion by now. I should let go of the brush.

Falraven’s breathing quickened ever so slightly.

I should let go.


Éowyn suppressed yet another roll of her eyes at his innuendo, which grew ever more pointed as they conversed. Both horses, seemingly content with their grooming, had settled in for a nap.

“Your hands are excellent guides. I feel like I’ve learned much under your patient tutelage.”

“Indeed? For that patience was severely tested on more than one occasion. You claim to be a solider, with the presumed skill to wield a weapon, but your manual dexterity seems ... lacking.”

If he was wounded by her barb it didn’t show in his shrug. “Good at some things, less good at others. Though perhaps I secretly wished for your instruction all along. I admit that I do like to explore boundaries and test limits.”

I need to make a decision. Do I linger because our banter distracts me from my troubles, or because ... despite reasonable sexual competency ... flirting is something of which the overly earnest Elfhelm seems incapable? Will teasing and possibility be enough for me on this day? Or do I remain because I actually want to have sex with this man? She studied him with a critical eye. Despite the head wound he’s handsome enough, though in truth that means little to me. He overestimates his cleverness and his purposes are entirely transparent, but I bear more than enough conflicted motivations for both of us. And I have to admit that I am aroused at the idea. Still: I need to think before I act, for a change. Instinct and untamed lust have too often guided me ill.

Stalling for time, she wondered out loud, “what pressing need caused you to require a horse? I would think that aimless cantering around the Pelennor would be discouraged in these perilous times.”

He frowned, for this time her teasing hit closer to home. “I’d like nothing more than to ride for relaxation and the restoration of spirit, as I occasionally do at home. But almost all my companions — at least the ones that survived — are among the army that marched to...” he gestured eastward, as unwilling as many who lived in its shadow to name the place “ ... while I was left behind to recover. Dishonored and restless, I sought for something constructive to do. The Rammas Echor needs repair, and to that task I’ve applied myself with as much diligence as possible, though I’ve not the stamina of a man in full health. It’s no substitute for battle, but...” He shrugged.

We have much in common, then ... though explaining that commonality to him would take more effort than I’m willing to expend. The question remains: what effort am I willing to expend? I’m not yet convinced I wish to bed this man. But neither am I willing to depart just yet.

She realized he was staring at her, challenge in his eyes. Though her question had been meant as innocuous banter while she waited for clarity, it seemed to have enflamed his spirit. “Speaking of constructive things to do, it strikes me that there are more interesting ways to pass these idle moments. I trust they’ve occurred to you as well, or you wouldn’t still be here.”

He stepped towards her as she gaped at his abrupt and unexpected audacity. “What are you... mmmmphf!“ In a single rush of motion his lips moved against hers, an arm curled around her waist, and a hand gripped the back of her head, holding her in place. Her immediate instincts were to struggle, to fight, to flee. But there was more than one urge at work, and as he pressed against her body she realized that — save for her anonymous encounters with the Drúedain — it had been far too long since she’d not been the aggressor, or at least the instigator.

 
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