Éowyn, Book 2: The Key
Chapter 7: Severance

Copyright© 2018 by Barahir

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 7: Severance - 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: the Ringbearer’s Quest is complete and Sauron is vanquished. All the free peoples of Middle-earth are rejoicing. As the news came to Minas Tirith, Faramir and Éowyn were together in full view of many.]

25 March 3019 (Third Age), Minas Tirith

Her hand tingled where Faramir grasped it. Her forehead burned where he kissed it. But neither could overcome the ominous thudding in her chest.

The Enemy is defeated. The West is victorious.

Éowyn paced her room, warm sunlight streaming past curtains she rarely left open. All windows are open on this glorious day. Mine cannot remain closed, even though I might desire it. Her vision swam and blurred in the same tears that drenched her cheeks. Why can’t these be the same tears of untrammeled happiness that all others shed? How can I possibly wrest despair from a tale of triumph beyond all hope?

Yet it was hope itself she could not find, for she knew the source of her looming desperation.

Aragorn. This is his victory. Not his alone, no, but the renown and the glory will be his. When he returns all shall love him, yet he will only have the mysterious Arwen who holds his heart. Others will love him in their despite and despair, and that number includes me. But he will never be mine, and even though I know this more clearly than anyone who hasn’t shared his mind could, I can’t seem to change how I feel.

She scolded herself for her ongoing folly. The worst part is that how I feel doesn’t matter anyway. How could he, or any worthy partner, possibly desire a wild horsewoman, soul-damaged and irrevocably sullied by depravity?

Soon I will ride back to my gilded cage, honored for one moment of brave defiance but otherwise forgotten, living out the rest of my life as the King’s sister in an unimportant land of aimless warriors, rough stables, and untutored farmers. A decoration without purpose, never to ride nor fight again. Just as trapped by the chains of duty and position as before, yet burdened by the extra weight of my vacuous role. For henceforth I will be watched by more than just one foul-hearted traitor.

All those eyes will make my plight worse, for I will be expected to welcome a flood of romantic inquiries and, eventually, choose a suitor. The longer I wait the more likely it becomes that my options will narrow beyond acceptability, or — though the thought is a horror — that choices will be foisted upon me by others. Who would that be? A bold warrior ranging across the fields of Rohan, leaving me behind to do what ... knit? Nay: to rest and wait, forever idle and useless! Or perhaps some dull notable who desires me as a shiny bauble amongst the rest of his possessions, to dote and smile prettily behind the bars of my cage? Elfhelm — who is at least a worthy and attentive man — would, by comparison, seem a carefree treasure that I let slip through my fingers.

And what of my own needs? For who could endure them, relentless and debased as they are? Will I be reduced to furtive self-pleasure, or worse? Will I break my vows to steal secret assignations with willing partners, until I err out of inattention or frustration and set tongues wagging in the Golden Hall, bringing humiliation upon myself, my partner, and the King? Even if I remain un-affianced, will I continue to lend my body to a series of meaningless successors to Elfhelm, knowing that such unions are bereft of love and hope? Shall I allow my sexuality to be exploited for the pleasure of others as I did with Falraven, that I may in turn beg receipt of mine akin to a dog whining for table scraps? Or if compelled to marry for position or power, though they both be far below that for which I once aimed, will I be obligated by decorum to leave those drives that rule me behind?

No. It must never be so. I cannot bring shame to my brother, and I will act within the boundaries of my role to honor the love I forever bear for him, but I will not shackle myself further. Yet I will be watched more closely than ever, and the price of error will be higher. I don’t know if I have the strength to endure a lifetime in such narrow straits. Despite everything that’s happened, no path that I can see leads to true freedom. Not for me.

The thought of living in constant shame and secret fear or forever denying her most basic desires added to her depression.

How can I ever have what I want? Where can I find a key to unlock this cage and, at long last, be free?

She collapsed against the wall, sobbing. Alone in despair while the city rejoiced.


26 March 3019 (Third Age), Minas Tirith

It was an urgent whisper between breaths. “Please, Elfhelm... harder.

The smooth rhythm with which the Marshal was pounding the tight channel of her cunt sent her floating into the delicious forgetfulness of physical bliss. He was grunting with effort, for they’d been at it for well over an hour; their sweat soaked the bedding and she’d lost count of her orgasms. But Elfhelm was yet to experience his first.

She’d insisted on leaving the window open. While the sunlight that brightened the room allowed him to examine her exquisite beauty in detail, he was profoundly uncomfortable with the thought of being overheard and thus a great portion of his energy was being wasted in attempt to prevent unwanted noise. How foolish he is. Those covert encounters on the long ride to war, grappling with each other out in the open ... and then all our Gondorian assignations conducted with naught but an unlocked door delaying the unexpected arrival of a visitor ... nay, we’ve been in danger of discovery all along. And we have had uninvited guests, she reminded herself, shuddering into a series of small climaxes at the decadent memory of being watched and used by anonymous Drúedain.

She was completely lost in her reverie when Elfhelm finally reached his release, pumping a great quantity of thick, hot seed deep inside her sex. She barely even noticed, rolling him to his back and grinding against his rod. Riding to her next pinnacle without regard for his readiness. Riding to lose herself in the relentless flex of muscle, in the never-ending thunder of hooves chasing the eternal horizon. Riding to glorious deeds and, at journey’s end, the ecstasy of blood and the sweet release of death.

He gazed up at her in awe, excitement, and even a little fear as she vigorously impaled herself on his stiff prod, but her eyes were tightly closed.

She wasn’t thinking about him.


27 March 3019 (Third Age), Minas Tirith

Éowyn leaned against the door to her chamber until it closed behind her. Only then did she allow herself to exhale the frustrated sigh she’d held through the increasingly lonely halls of the Houses of Healing.

Will they not leave me alone with my misery? Will they not allow me to wither like a vine clinging to a long-dead tree?

So many worried stares from the Warden and others ... even from Faramir as he busied himself healing the city’s wounds and preparing for Aragorn’s return ... were more than she could bear, no matter how genuine the concern behind them. The only person who truly understood the full measure of her pain — the future King — was unavailable, and after his return would forever remain so.

Well ... that’s not entirely true. There was one other who saw the troubles of my heart clearly enough, though he abused that knowledge. She shuddered, trying but failing to suppress a rush of unwanted memories of Wormtongue.

Idly, she wondered where Elfhelm might be. Another layer of sadness overtook her curiosity as she realized that she neither knew nor particularly cared. She craved the distraction of his cock, it was true, but whether or not the Marshal himself was attached to it was a matter of decreasing import. The coldness in her heart should have filled her with self-recrimination and loathing, for now even the tattered threads of their physical union were fraying beyond repair. She knew that her selfishness in stringing him along for no other reason than her pleasure would soon lead to an unhappy reckoning.

Faramir, though...

She did feel slightly guilty about avoiding the ever-kind Steward, even though she wished she could evade his seemingly endless reserves of sympathy. He had, in their days of fearful waiting, greatly eased her crushing sorrow and loneliness. But now that the war was over, what was there to say that wouldn’t break his heart? And perhaps also mine ... assuming I still have one to break. She’d already rehearsed a peremptory dismissal: “I recognize your feelings for me, but whatever I might feel in return my love has unwisely been given to someone else. Someone I can never have, and someone that you might then consider a rival when you must instead share nothing but respect and honor. I won’t inflict my fruitless suffering on others ... and so, perforce, I will love no one.”

Alas, I probably couldn’t find the courage to speak that harshly to so gentle a heart. But why can’t I simply offer myself to him as I do to Elfhelm? Not necessarily in love, but for mutual pleasure and comfort?

Even as she considered the question, she found her hand questing between her legs.

No, that’s an even worse idea than rejecting him outright. He would never accept such an arrangement. Elfhelm adores me like a lovestruck teenager, but Faramir — older, wiser, vastly more self-assured — would love me with an intensity well beyond mere adoration. But he would also need me to be whole, and whole is the one thing I may never be.

She sighed again, her sex wet with arousal as she traced her fingers around the entrance. At least I can make use of Faramir in the privacy of my fantasies. As for Elfhelm: his time is almost at an end, though he acknowledges it not. Brutal honesty didn’t achieve that end, though since I continue to open my legs to him that failure is as much mine as his. A way must be found to make him see it for himself, yet still he clings. The pain will be greater the longer I make him suffer, and I fear even I will feel its bitter sting.


28 March 3019 (Third Age), Minas Tirith

Today, pleasure indeed came at a price.

Before she let Elfhelm touch her, she interrogated him — at length and with deliberately little guile — about the Steward. It was a minor act of cruelty through which she hoped to avoid a more damaging one, but in the end it failed. Finally unable to bear the increasingly damaged look in his eyes, she relented and went down on him, bringing him to an abrupt and (judging by his strangled cry) somewhat pained climax in her mouth. Any lingering guilt fled the moment she swallowed, as if his semen was some sort of absolving elixir.

Though the truth is, I feel nothing at all.

Hiking her robe to her waist, revealing that she was naked and wet beneath its folds, she pushed him to the floor and mounted his erection. There was no search for meaning or connection, for she knew neither were to be found; just the uncomplicated pleasure of friction ... of one eager organ slotted inside a welcoming other. Closing her eyes, she fantasized that it was Faramir’s pillar filling her sex, and her ardor increased. She was physically aroused, and would reach as many peaks as his endurance would allow, but there was naught but emptiness in their future, and so she needed to think of something else lest it inhibit her pleasure. Not for the first time she wondered at Elfhelm’s inability to recognize the growing hopelessness in their coupling.

Surely a man of his position, vigor, and handsome visage could find willing and enthusiastic companionship elsewhere in this city. My attraction to him was real, upon a time, and its destruction is entirely my fault. But by now he must know he cannot and will not have my heart, and that what we have in these moments is all we’ll ever have. Even though my body responds to every thrust, I care less and less about anything else. Doesn’t he feel used? For to my great discredit I’m most definitely using him. Why does he persist? What victory does he hope to win?

 
There is more of this chapter...
The source of this story is Storiesonline

To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account (Why register?)

Get No-Registration Temporary Access*

* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.

Close
 

WARNING! ADULT CONTENT...

Storiesonline is for adult entertainment only. By accessing this site you declare that you are of legal age and that you agree with our Terms of Service and Privacy Policy.