Chapter 17: Facsimile

11-17 June 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

My wrists ache. My elbows are so stiff I can barely brush my hair. My shoulders are tight from constant overextension. Were I to attempt to wield a sword right now the least child could best me with a wooden toy. Yet the objects of all this exertion remain undamaged.

Éowyn dropped the fake phallus to the floor, wringing her hands in an attempt to restore feeling. She was exhausted. Her soaked pussy tingled with the abrasion of long stimulation, but her ass felt incompetently probed and entirely unsatisfied. Pleasuring herself in this fashion was proving increasingly unsustainable.

There must be a better way.

Without warning, her mind again raced back to a time it ever sought to flee: her tortured illusions under the threat of the Witch-king. She saw an audience, mirrors, a pile of possibilities, an elaborate hooked device...

That’s it! I’ll visit the blacksmith tomorrow, for I believe only he can accomplish this task to my specifications.

“Who are you, really?”

“Ah, my handsome yet perpetually hapless Rider, you are forever full of questions but offer me so few interesting answers.”

The guffaws from the their fellow tavern-goers were sufficient to quiet her interrogator’s retort. Feeling slightly guilty about the annoyance written on his face, she playfully dropped her hand onto his thigh. He jumped at the initial touch, but soon flexed the muscle within her palm, inviting further contact. Impetuously, she slid a few inches upward, then stopped.

Not yet.

Offering no obvious indication to the others that anything had changed, she diverted their inquiry by asking, “how goes the hunt for the Uruk-hai?” As she listened attentively to their jumbled tales her hand gradually slid up and down the Rider’s leg, never more pointedly than when he was speaking. His frequent stutters and stumbles were, to her, a secret delight. Hinting, caressing, but never quite reaching his organ, she enticed without promise and teased without release. She could almost taste his building arousal, and the growing tension in his muscles made her wonder if she was on the verge of pushing him over the edge.

Let’s see how close I can get without one of us toppling over.

Her left hand extended to meet the muscular thigh of the Rider to her left, who — to the amusement of all, even though they had no clear idea what had transpired — not only jumped but gasped out loud. Eventually becoming aware that the men on either side of her were suddenly (and uncharacteristically) mute, however, someone from the other side of the table ventured to ask, “what’s going on over there?”

“Gentlemen, I can’t be held responsible if you chose the wrong side of the table for this evening’s most stimulating conversation.” Their eyes grew wide as their banter slowly stilled. The air thickened, light-hearted frivolity giving way to the humid weight of erotic possibility.

That means it’s time to leave.

Standing, she stretched in a way that accentuated every one of her slim curves. Her hardening nipples were visible to the truly attentive, but she knew most eyes had instead dropped to her hands, wondering were they’d been and what they’d touched. In response she suggestively curled her fingers towards each palm, stopping before they touched so they appeared to encompass a pair of invisible shafts. A heavy exhalation broke what was otherwise a stunned silence, and she allowed herself the faintest of smiles and an arched eyebrow.

“Fortune favors the brave, gentlemen. And so do I.”

With that, she was gone.

Éowyn’s eyes snapped open. Moaning, she stilled the fingers she’d somehow worked into her drenched channel as she slept. It was a black night, moonless and starless thanks to the heavy clouds drifting across the heavens, and there was naught to see save her tangled thoughts.

No, not while I slept. While I dreamed. It’s the middle of the night, and despite what’s been filling my head ... and the rest of me ... in my dreams, I’m alone. But...

Dreams laden with orgiastic sensation were nothing new, but they’d never before recurred with such frequency or intensity. More distressing was something that had been growing more and more apparent as time went on: many were more than just dreams.

She’d entertained erotic fantasies long before her regrettable experiences with Wormtongue, though they’d been as indistinct and fumbling as one would expect from someone personally unacquainted with more than the basic mechanics of lovemaking. But at some point around the time she started having sex — no matter how out of her control that sex was — her dreams turned unaccountably precise and instructional. Somehow, her dream self always knew exactly what to do in any sexual encounter, often far in advance of anything she’d done while awake. She successfully navigated even the most outrageous choreography with an explicit assurance irreconcilable with the fact that she’d never considered doing such things in real life. Yet later, when she first experienced in waking hours what her slumbering imagination wrought (as happened with somewhat disturbing regularity), her dreams proved an all too accurate template.

Were her dreams prophetic? It sometimes seemed so. Acts and names bled from dream to reality and back again. (When she’d learned, thanks to a book of lore sent to her by Aragorn while she convalesced in Gondor, that her imaginary jailor and torturer Khamûl was one of the Nazgûl, she’d collapsed in such terrorized disbelief that even Faramir couldn’t calm her until the next day.) Events, too, often proceeded as dreams of the past suggested they might. While little happened exactly as her dreams portended, name-by-name and motion-by-motion, so much from her dreams eventually came to pass that she no longer doubted their strangely precognitive nature.

And therein lies a great portion of my fear. That I might ... or worse, that I will ... do all I’ve imagined is as horrifying as it is stimulating. For if so, I’m doomed to a life of decadency beyond hope. Decadency, dissolution, and even pain. Including the pain I’ll inflict on those I love.

Of late her fantasies dwelled on the two young men she’d trained and then taken advantage of at Dunharrow. Not as she’d known them then, nor even as they were now, but as they might one day be: confident, aggressive masters of sexuality who sought her out to show her all they’d learned. In her dreams she was neither tutor nor instigator but instead a willing vessel eagerly submitting to their whims, letting them take her in every imaginable fashion. And always building to the same climatic act: astride one, grinding against his stiff cock buried deep in her drenched cunt, and the other rhythmically savaging her ass from behind while she screamed in abandoned ecstasy, her loins pinned between them as they pounded her to orgasm after orgasm.

She knew, based on the relentlessness of this erotic tableau, that she was becoming obsessed with being doubly penetrated in this fashion, though only thanks to her Dunharrow dream and (albeit by a machine) the Witch-king’s illusion was she familiar with the act itself.

But how could it happen, in truth? Perhaps I can convince Faramir to introduce one of my toys while he fucks me ... though that would entail revealing their existence and maybe even the inspiration behind them, and I’m not sure I’ve the courage for that. And anyway, what will he think? I’ll be admitting that I desire something beyond the capabilities of a single partner.

Despite her constant self-pleasuring she’d not yet worked her holes in tandem, save with a stray finger now and again. The necessary physical contortions were forbidding and unwieldy, but her hesitation was more fundamental: she was mortally afraid to unleash what might be an uncontrollable urge. If it’s as thrilling as my fantasies suggest how could I possibly resist the temptation to act on that desire? No ... it must remain a dream, never to become reality. I have to find the will to resist.

Still, her erotic dreams churned on, night after night, and the ache grew.

“A wager?”

“I’m not betting against you. I’ve already held the proof in my hand, so to speak. But they don’t believe me.”

“But what do I get out of this, other than unwelcome stares and even more belligerent proposals?”

From across the tavern table a grinning Rider answered, “the opportunity to prove this braggart wrong.” Riotous laughter ensued, but their eyes were eager as ales were quaffed in anticipation.

“Very well.” Her surprisingly quick assent was greeted by cheers, which stilled as she continued. “That seems a worthy outcome indeed, especially given his wandering hands ... for which I still lack an apology,” she said with a sideways wink at the target of her barb. “But gentlemen, know that this display will bring an immediate end to our evening. I won’t stay for your commentary, and even less so for the lechery that will undoubtedly follow. Is an answer to your question worth that price?”

Éowyn couldn’t decide if she wanted them to answer yes or no, but to her surprise there was scarcely any pause. “If what he says is true, most certainly ... for despite our admittedly ill-hidden lechery we’ve hope you’ll not abandon our company forever, yet either way the delightful image will surely remain with us until the end of our days. And if he’s a liar, it’s definitely worth it.” There were chuckles all around, but all eyes remained on her.

Sighing with exasperation, though she secretly found the situation intensely stimulating — undisguised, she’d never had an opportunity to be so brazen in public — she stood and demanded, “well then, what will suffice to answer your question? I’m not letting the rest of you fondle me.”

The Rider across the table answered for his companions. “As disappointing as that is, hiking your dress a bit should suffice. But it’s hard for those of us on this side to see, so perhaps you could stand on the bench. Or maybe even on the table?” It was said without much hope, for even he didn’t appear to think she’d agree.

He’s going to be surprised, then.

Shaking her head at his audacity, she nonetheless managed a smirk. “Standing on the table will draw the attention of too many onlookers. Nor am I a mere statue to be evaluated, least of all by such incompetent critics. But I will settle the terms of your debate once and for all, after which you can decide if it was the outcome you preferred. Though I must tell you, now that we’ve come to the test: your boastful friend may have the right of it. My thighs are likely not those of a ‘lady’ as you ill-educated cretins define such, though I despair of any of you ever knowing the intimate company of same. Anyway, you shall judge.”

Stepping onto the bench, she slowly and seductively raised her skirt, revealing the graceful curve of her calves, her unblemished knees, and finally the supple, rippling muscles of her thighs, stopping at the very last moment before more intimate regions were revealed. There was an intricately carved dagger strapped to her right leg, tucked inside a well-worn sheath that left little question as to how often it had been employed. The men stared, rapt and uncharacteristically silent, at her magnificently exposed legs, but cast frequent and nervous glances at the dagger. She suppressed her mirth; the weapon was a last-minute whim, worn not for protection but for the private thrill of playing the role of a mysterious and dangerous temptress, though until their wager she hadn’t decided when or how to reveal it. It was, in truth, the only reason she agreed to show the men anything at all.

After a pause to absorb their reactions, she admonished, “this theater is at an end, you drunken and drooling louts. I believe you’ve seen enough danger for one evening.” Dropping her skirt, she stepped off the bench and was swiftly gone, barely restraining peals of delighted laughter as she departed.

For a long while the Riders left in her wake sat open-mouthed but silent. At length, one found the courage to whisper a response.

“Aye. Danger.“

She carefully arranged all but one of her newest acquisitions in her chest, tucked it behind a sliding panel at the back of her closet, then shuffled her dresses around until the panel was completely obscured. Not that anyone would have reason to be searching my closet, but still...

It wasn’t lost on her that her journey into sexual decadence more or less began with a locked chest and its hidden secrets. Though mine bears only one secret endlessly repeated. Not for the first time she wondered at the circularity of her experience, and whether coming back to Rohan by herself — even for a temporary stay — had been a good idea. Memories sometimes threatened to overwhelm her, layering themselves one upon another in disturbing combinations. Events and feelings that had surprised or shocked in their time now seemed predestined. Patterns were emerging, and she feared what they portended.

Well, never mind that now. I’ve a new memory to add to the tapestry.

Divesting herself of clothing and draping herself across a nearby settee, she applied oil to the oval end of the device she’d retained, slowly working it against her anal ring. To that oval was attached a long, hook-shaped handle, designed to eliminate the awkward stretching necessary to either bend double or reach all the way around her body to access her nether orifice. (That it was a copy of one of the implements she’d been forced to submit to in the Witch-king’s nightmare realm she did her best to ignore.) As soon as her entrance felt sufficiently pliant she gave the hook a sharp tug. It popped through her sphincter and slid inward until it was rooted as far as the bend in the hook would allow. She groaned at the penetration, for nothing of this size had been this deep in her ass since her final hours with Faramir.

Despite her unquestioned avarice for the act she didn’t often pleasure herself anally. From time to time she’d employ a finger as orgasm approached, but the necessary contortions to introduce anything else were difficult to manage, and as a result her peaks were nowhere near those she experienced when a blood-engorged cock was involved. But only moments after she started to oscillate this device she knew she’d be using it again. It’s still not quite the same, but it will most certainly suffice as long I’m denied the real thing.