Chapter 19: Limits

[ Setting the scene: Nahar was the steed of Béma (the Rohirric name for the Vala Oromë) and the ancestor of the Mearas, kings of horses. An Éoherë is a full muster of the Éored of Rohan.]

20-22 June 3019 (Third Age), West Emnet

The hand gripping the inside of her thigh was sliding upward again. He thinks he’s being stealthy. She tucked her leg back and swung it around his head, imprisoning his neck behind her knee and pulling him dangerously close to her sex. He stiffened in resistance ... though neither of them was quite sure why, given the purposeful mischief he’d just been up to.

“Don’t you want a closer look at what you keep trying to reach?”

Her back rumbled with laughter as the man she was leaning against enjoyed his companion’s sudden predicament. His own enveloping forearm had been pressed against the undersides of her breasts — albeit through the soft fabric of her cotton tunic — for some time now, but since that boldness he’d taken no further liberties.

“I do indeed, but right here? It’s rather public, after all.”

Her peals of laughter joined the general mirth. “I’ve changed my mind. It’s a tremendous sight, but you haven’t earned it.” She released her grip on his neck and returned her legs to their earlier position atop his lap. His hand went right back to where it had been, sliding up and down her thigh, moving infinitesimally farther inward and upward with each stroke.

She shook her head. “You’re incorrigible!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Insatiable, too.”

She snorted. “I’ve heard that before, and always to my eventual disappointment.”

From behind her the deeper-voiced of the two spoke, his hand curling to brazenly cup the underside of her breast, his thumb brushing tantalizingly close to her long-swollen nipple. “Ah, beautiful Lady Éowyn of Rohan, that’s where you may be mistaken. For there are two of us and only one of you.”

She’d fled Éothir with no clear destination except away, realizing that she’d eventually have to choose a path but not yet settled enough to do so. She wasn’t ready to return to Edoras ... whatever her purpose in this otherwise aimless flight, she knew it had yet to be achieved ... but some direction had to be chosen while serendipity refused to opine. To the south rose forbidding mountains with dangerous passes that almost certainly sheltered lingering bands of orcs. I’ve no longer any taste for a noble death in hopeless battle, so I won’t go that way. Crossing the river at Entwade meant leaving Rohan, at which point she could chance the perilous Misty Mountains or the no less fearsome Emyn Muil, or slowly entangle herself in the muddy Entwade delta and, eventually, the swampy Wetwang. Neither option seemed particularly appealing. Moreover, all easterly travel drew her tantalizingly closer to Faramir.

I’m not ready for that either. Especially not now.

Éothir was likely to follow her advice and head north. Avoiding another encounter with him was the one and only wisdom of which she could be sure, and so she turned northwest towards the heart of the realm, letting increasingly familiar grasslands roll past unheeded until both she and her steed were exhausted. Sleep — shelterless except for a small grove of stubby, wind-bent trees — was fitful, for she dreamed of a cavern, of Éothir forcefully taking her on the hard ground while fire raged all around, of the heat of their coupling fueling the blaze until it threatened to consume flesh and bone. She screamed as his ejaculate scalded her depths and the flames licked their sides ... but rather than escaping to safety, she urged him to ignore the searing pain and pound her even harder.

The weather was again threatening near the end of her second day’s ride, and she was so distracted by anxiety that it was late afternoon before she realized she’d gotten herself somewhat lost. By the time darkness approached she’d reoriented herself, but she’d gotten far enough off track that she was unlikely to reach the nearest village by nightfall. Nor was there much hope of actual shelter on this broad stretch of grassy plain, on which even trees were hesitant to rest. Lacking any better options, she huddled against a mound of stones, wrapped in a blanket against the surprisingly chill air, her horse looking as miserable and lost as she. Though the rain held off, thunder rumbled in the distance. It paralleled her inner turmoil, for she was troubled in mind, heart, and body.

Her dreams were even more disturbing than before. She was naked in the wilderness, hands bound and secured to a branch somewhere above her head. Éothir wielded a riding crop with which he methodically sliced into her tender ass, punishing her for teasing him and then resisting his advances. She whimpered at each blow, pleading for forgiveness. Red stripes lined and crisscrossed her buttocks, her back, and her thighs, but his only response to her increasingly desperate appeals was to hit her harder. Faramir glowered at her from the shadows, arms crossed and visage stern.

Unable to wait any longer, Éothir let the crop fall to the ground and, eschewing even token lubrication, forced himself into her ass and began violently ravaging her hole. She moaned in intense pleasure despite the scraping rawness, incredibly aroused at being forced to take his cock after all, while Faramir stepped into the firelight brandishing an evil-looking leather flogger. With a savage snap of his wrist he laid it into her breasts, lashing their soft flesh with the same terrible force Éothir was employing to core her bowels. Trapped between the savagery of prod and whip, she wept in pain and blissful release as she repeatedly came under their dual assault, sure that she deserved everything she was receiving and begging them to give her more. The flogging and the sodomy continued, each thrust into her ass a reminder of her sexual dissolution and failure, each strike upon her vulnerable flesh a thunderclap of rebuke.

Éowyn snapped awake to the realization that the thunderclaps were no mere creation of her tortured erotic imagination. A terrible storm was nigh, and lightning threaded the sky. Her horse was nervous and fidgety, eager to be away from this exposed place, and though it was not yet dawn, the relentless aerial pyrotechnics provided more than enough illumination for travel.

Aside from a quick fold of her blanket no further packing was necessary. She remounted and spurred a furious gallop for the nearest village, hoping to arrive before the deluge. She didn’t quite make it, reaching the small hamlet by late morning, just as the rain turned blinding. As efficiently as possible she stabled her horse and sought shelter in the local inn.

Her bedroom was small and plain, but it had a fireplace that filled the room with warmth. On the hearth there was a basin of steaming water, while another approached the boil above the fire. She filled her bath with both, stripping her wet gear and hanging it from the mantel, immersing herself the moment the water was cool enough to touch. It was the first bath she’d enjoyed at any temperature other than frigid since leaving Edoras, and she reveled in its soothing heat.

It’s also the first in many days uncomplicated by sexual tension, or worse.

As they often did whenever she was able to relax in a bathtub, her thoughts drifted to Minas Tirith and the Citadel’s ingeniously replenished hot water, which in turn reminded her of erotic dalliances with the Steward. The thought was arousing enough to interrupt her relaxation and bring on a sharp craving for climax.

Well, why waste an opportunity?

Fingering her sex while the water’s warmth soaked both the chill and the ride from her bones, she nonetheless struggled to reach her fullest pleasure, for given recent events she was hesitant to conjure up one of her usual imaginary partners, and she still felt too guilty to think about Faramir. The water was tepid by the time she was worked up enough to change her mind. She leaned over the side and reached into the bag she’d placed nearby.

“Elfhelm, it looks like it’s you and me again.” Moaning in anticipation, she ran her tongue along the indifferent staff, then slipped the hard piston into her eager channel. Twenty or so thrusts later, she sighed in release.

It’s so much easier when I summon someone’s image. I couldn’t earlier, for the memory of Éothir is still too fresh and too likely to push other thoughts aside. As for Faramir, I cannot envisage how I shall face what now seems an inevitable conflict. I can feel my fragile foundation falling away, and I don’t know where I shall find secure ground.

Supper in the common hall was a sedate affair, for her fellow travelers were a haphazard group bonded largely by relief at having escaped the storm that still surged outside, largely content to concentrate on revitalizing food and drink rather than conversation. Though she was sure that at least a few people recognized her — blessedly, the innkeeper didn’t appear to be one of them — they allowed her to dine in peace. There are some benefits to being sufficiently notable, I guess. As the evening went on and the majority of the other guests drifted towards their rooms, she instead retired to a quiet corner, alone with her thoughts and a tankard of bitter ale ... one that spawned a second, and then a third. To her mild surprise she remained unapproached, for which she was immensely grateful. For the first time in many days her mind was quiet, and as the crowd dwindled to a few lonely stragglers she emptied her mug and contemplated the wisdom of a fourth draught.

Then they arrived.

Rangers. I can tell by their dress and their weaponry. I can tell by the unmistakable combination of deceptively robust youth and ageless wisdom. And, unfortunately, I can also tell by the fact that I started growing aroused the moment they walked in. In part thanks to Aragorn, but more because of that deliciously orgiastic dream at Dunharrow, I can’t help but associate Rangers with the best sex I’ve never actually had. Éowyn sighed. Just what I needed tonight: more temptation.

The two of them walked straight to her table, having recognized her immediately. “Lady Éowyn, it’s a surprise and our decided honor to discover you here. You are far from home, and may we observe without offense that you appear to be alone? Would you grant two lonely voyagers the pleasure of amending that condition?”

“Not nearly as far from home as you, noble Rangers. As for my solitude, I’d thought myself momentarily free from hazards other than those that fall from the sky. Are you here to make me reconsider that belief?”

She meant her words to be challenging and slightly off-putting without crossing over to rudeness, but while they seemed to understand her meaning their response wasn’t what she expected. “Perhaps. We shall see what the evening brings. We’ve water-logged skins to shed, but if you’re still here when we return we will let you decide just how much hazard we represent. At the least we shall prove threatening to this establishment’s defenseless beverages.”

She sighed, the ale dulling her sense of propriety just enough to accede. Why not? There are two of them, which should help keep the possibility of pairing off at bay. My guilt should accomplish the rest. Though I suppose haven’t always acted with sufficient caution in taverns, of late. “I can’t go far in any case, but I make no promises. If I’m still here when you’re less sodden, then you may consider your question answered in the affirmative. But only for as long as you’re amusing.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” she complained as they signaled the innkeeper for another round of ale. They’d downed their first in a furious thirst while she looked on with bemusement.

“Do we indeed, Lady Éowyn? I’ve witnessed the result of your blade-work, and very much doubt that even two weathered swordsmen of the North can stand athwart that.”

Éowyn could never quite manage the pleased smile she knew people expected when referring to her greatest victory, for memories of her physical, mental, and emotional ordeal were still too tactile. And I remain unhealed, as evidenced by last night’s dream. Still, it was necessary to acknowledge the praise in some fashion, and so she usually settled on a firm nod of acknowledgement without further demonstration ... a nod which she now employed. But the Rangers’ insight was too keen to be so easily diverted.

“Our apologies, my Lady. We blithely refer to the deed itself, but it’s all too clear that only you could understand what it’s like to conquer that terror and its aftermath. We shall henceforth honor your bravery in silence, if you will forgive our discourtesy in forcing you to relive it.”

Again she nodded. “You see well, and I both thank you and absolve you of affront. But that’s not the disadvantage of which I speak. I merely request the courtesy of your names.”

“Well, then we will soon lose even that temporary upper hand. For I am Arvegil, named with unwarranted parental grandiosity after one of the forgotten Kings of Arthedain. I do not know what, if anything, I could do that might live up to such a title, but I have fought as bravely as I can. My companion is Celedur, and though his name suggests a devotion to silver his only known interests are the sword, the table, the tap, and chance companionship such as that we’ve found this evening. Have we now restored the balance between us, Lady Éowyn?”

That was a fairly direct proposition. I’ll have to be wary about inviting another. “No, for you must do one more thing. We’re in a backcountry inn tossing back flagons of exceedingly rough beer, and whatever I may have accomplished with sword, shield, or by accident of birth, I would prefer to bear no title in such environs. Pray: just Éowyn. No ‘Lady.’”

“Then Éowyn-who-is-no-Lady, we are well met at last,” Arvegil replied with a wink. They raised their ales in tribute, but Éowyn felt a faint flush at the double meaning in his words. She was sure he intended it, and she was equally sure he knew that it found its mark. All she could do was divert the conversation.

“What brings you to so remote a village, Rangers?”

“The Lord Ara ... well, I err out of long habit, for obviously he is King Elessar now ... has released us from southerly duties,” answered Celedur. “We are traveling — admittedly with no great haste, for we are weary from battle and an even more tedious patrol of the recalcitrant fiefs around Pelargir — back to our home in the North. We do not fear any significant trouble along the road, but just before we left Minas Tirith the Wizard whispered an unspecific warning regarding the homeland of the Halflings. After we’ve set our own in order we’re to turn our attention there, if we can. Though I do not think there’s anything we can do for them in sufficient recompense for what is likely the greatest of all the deeds of our age, save what we’ve always done: watch their borders, turn away threats, and attempt to preserve undimmed a way of life more peaceful and uncomplicated than any we have known. In any case, that is our journey, and we are upon it.”

“And what of you, Éowyn,” asked Arvegil. “Do you ride for sport, for the hunt, or for pleasure? Or perhaps all three at once?”

Is everything he says going to be laden with innuendo? Or is it just that, in my perpetually overheated state, I hear what I wish? “My instinct would be to conceal my purposes, for such is ever the wisest practice of a lady. However, since we’ve established that I’m no lady...” she joined in their laughter “ ... the truth is that there’s nothing to conceal. I rode forth in search of a reason, and while temporary purposes have been at times found and then left behind along the road, all I can say for certain is that my aims have not been met. Whatever they may be, I do not know. Yet.”

“Well,” answered Arvegil, “then we, at least, have found purpose in our evening: to lend purpose to yours.” Again his words bear invitation. Remaining in their company may be unwise, for my resistance is demonstrably weak. And I’ve already admitted to myself that I find them both dangerously attractive. On and on her mind, heart, and body wrestled with the implications of her situation ... her needs, her desires, her guilt, her commitments ... and after many long moments without conclusion, she forcefully abandoned foresight. Let the hours bring what they will. I must exercise caution, but I cannot forever live in fear of what I might do. Suddenly, she realized they’d been telling an intricate tale of hard deeds in the far South and she hadn’t listened to a word of it.

“We’re boring her.”

“Indeed. Though in the service of precision: to have bored her, she would have needed to be paying attention in the first place. Our story was apparently so tedious that she didn’t even attempt its comprehension. Obviously, there is only one solution to this unfortunate turn of events.”

“Innkeeper!” Arvegil raised his hand. “Would this fine establishment perhaps be in possession of any spirits of a more forceful nature? We have need of purpose. Purpose and three glasses. Clean ones, this time!”

Tongues and inhibitions loosened as they drained quaff after quaff of a strong rye-based spirit from misshapen vessels. Éowyn felt more relaxed than she had in a week. Relaxed? Drunk is more like it. At one point, consumed by peals of laughter after an especially bawdy joke, she leaned against Arvegil; a position she didn’t relinquish even when he slipped an arm around her midsection. Eventually, Celedur complained that she’d unfairly chosen sides, and so she leaned farther back and rested her long legs atop his in an artful attempt at compensation. It was only natural for his non-drinking hand to find a resting place upon her knee.

Words flowed as freely as the ale and rye that sustained them. Arvegil’s penchant for innuendo never abated, Celedur had long abandoned any compensatory restraint, and it seemed that the majority of their conversation was an extended erotic proposition. Éowyn threw herself into the sport of it, returning their best with outrageous (and often anatomically unlikely) propositions of her own. Inevitably, Celedur’s hand inched up her inner thigh and Arvegil’s arm pressed upward against her cotton-clad breasts. Though she offered the occasional token complaint as their banter went on, she did nothing to stop them.

But just as Arvegil pressed his advantage and cupped her soft flesh, his thumb approaching a stiff point of no return, the inn’s door banged open, revealing the savage rain and wind that still raged outside. The trio jumped at the noise, but Arvegil was loath to abandon his hard-won position, and so her breast was now fully enveloped in his clutching hand, her engorged nipple boring into his palm. More audaciously, Celedur’s fingers pressed against her sex, which — even through her thick cotton breeches — practically wept in response.

But her immediate concern wasn’t being publicly fondled by two handsome, albeit handsy, Rangers. Instead, her attention was focused on the door through which a small group of weary and very wet Riders were filing. It was impossible to discern faces beneath their dripping hoods, but she knew that she’d be recognized instantly by almost any member of the Éoherë. In a different context she might not have minded their attention; in fact she’d been prepared for its likelihood when she entered the inn. But right now she was somewhere between tipsy and drunk — no way for the King’s sister (much less a titular Lady) to be seen — and accompanied by two men who were groping her in exceedingly unseemly ways.

She scrambled to right herself, dislodging their hands and turning her face away from the door. “Gentlemen, I beg a somewhat urgent favor. May we adjourn these festivities to somewhere more private?”

They didn’t debate her request, even for a moment. Nor did they hesitate. Gathering glasses and bottles they moved towards the hallway that led to their rooms, speaking no word, acting only on her wishes.

Not once did Éowyn interrogate her own unconscious choice to continue, rather than abandon, the course of the evening. Not once did she pause to wonder why she willingly accompanied two near-strangers to their room when hers was only steps away.

Celedur fed logs to the fireplace while Arvegil arranged their beverages on a table. He and Éowyn watched as Celedur knelt before the hearth, kindling a small flame that quickly flared into health. When he was done and the fire blazed anew, she poured three glasses of rye and they toasted each other’s company. Though her gesture was meant in gratitude, their expressions were suddenly unreadable, and an unexpected shiver run through her body.

There was a moment of silence.

Then another.

Taking one long step towards her, Arvegil wove his fingers into Éowyn’s golden hair, wrapped his arm around her waist, and bent her head backward with the searing force of his kiss. He pressed hard into her lips, one hand gripping her locks while the other slid downward to clutch her taut buttocks.

Éowyn was completely taken aback. Whatever she’d expected when she entered their room, however alcohol had dulled her anticipatory wariness, this abrupt shift from teasing to direct action left her surprised, breathless, and bewildered. She whimpered in protest, tacitly accepting his lips and his wandering hands but refusing to kiss him back, until he released her just as abruptly as he’d seized her. She stumbled backward ... right into the waiting arms of Celedur, who wrapped his hands around her torso to squeeze her heaving breasts, ungently pinching her nipples between his fingertips.

Despite the absurdity of fierceness while being fondled in this manner, she finally found her voice, demanding, “what are you doing?“ Even as she protested, Celedur’s hands gripped her curves more confidently, and now she could feel the stiff outline of his prick as it ground against her ass.

Arvegil again stepped closer, his rough hand abrading her flushed cheek and his thumb pressing between her open and vulnerable lips. His voice was a low growl. “Exactly what you want us to do.”

She shook her head, starting to struggle against Celedur’s manipulation. “I most certainly don’t...” she objected, though her words were garbled by his invading digit.

Arvegil removed his thumb and efficiently undid the buttons of her breeches, plunging his hand between her legs and penetrating her soaked cunt with his finger. She gasped in surprise as he moved it in and out, the pressure of her tight clothing forcing his palm against her sensitive clitoris. Then he removed his hand and slid his glistening finger straight into her open mouth. She was too shocked to do anything but react on instinct, and her tongue caressed her fluids from his fingertip as she readied an even angrier protest.

He pushed his finger deeper, sealing off the oncoming exclamation. “You are as wet as we are hard. You can taste the evidence of your desire. You body knows what it wants, even if your words deny it. Is this really not how you imagined the evening proceeding? Our intentions couldn’t possibly have been clearer. When our hands wandered with intent did you attempt to dislodge them? You could easily have gone to your own room just now, but instead you willingly came to ours. What did you think was going to happen when we got here? Maybe you assumed it would happen later rather than sooner, yet you are already drenched with impatience, so why wait?”

Eyes wide, she mumbled a response, but it was incomprehensible around his finger.

“I want you to focus on how this will go. We will join with you in every possible way, taking you one at a time or together, hour after hour, bringing you pleasures previously unimaginable. Have you ever been with two men at once, my lovely Éowyn? Do you know what we can do to you? Can you not, even now, feel both of us moving inside you?”

Éowyn’s protests fell silent, for in an instant her body completely betrayed her. All her most lurid sexual fantasies of late had been centered on this very act, yet she’d been repressing them — even with her increasingly clever facsimiles — with a fury, afraid of what she might unleash. And now it wasn’t just being offered, it was being demanded by these two domineering men. Indeed, she could already imagine the delirium of being penetrated front and back, and her flesh came alive with shattering lust.

Seeing the capitulation in her eyes, Arvegil tugged her breeches down her hips and forced his other hand between them, sliding several fingers into her tight channel while Celedur imprisoned her nipples within an iron grip. As she shrieked around the finger still plugging her mouth — his digits were wide and rough — Arvegil leaned even closer. “Nor is that all we will do to you. I’ve known many strong women in my life, and among them I’ve noticed an unusually common preference for giving up that strength in the bedroom. For submitting to desires both prosaic and decadent in the pursuit of an abandon they would not otherwise allow themselves. I know what such women want and how to give it to them. Both of us do. I sensed this craving in you from the beginning, and I’m convinced this is what you desire. You, Éowyn, are one of the strongest women I’ve ever known, and in turn I believe you may desire the greatest submission I’ve ever demanded.”

“But I need you to make the choice for yourself. Tell me I’m wrong and we can end this play and let you leave. Or we can allow our night to be an exploration of sexual excess, yet no more than that. You can even choose just one of us, if that’s your preference. But I really want you to admit that I’m right, and that you desire everything I have promised. Submit to us, Éowyn. Give us your body to use however we will and for as long as we wish. Give us your flesh and your mind. Give us your pleasure and your pain. Give us everything. I promise you will not regret it.”

I’m obviously far from the first they’ve seduced in this fashion. But why am I even considering allowing myself to become their plaything? The answer came quickly. Because I want to. I want them inside me, everywhere. I want the endless orgasms they’re going to wrest from me, I want them to fill my belly with their delicious seed. I want them ravaging my holes until I’m unable to resist even their most perverted whims. I want to lose myself in pleasure and stagger back to my room bruised and satiated. I want them to punish me until I weep for a betrayal I can seemingly no longer prevent. But most of all I want them both fucking me at the same time. I want this. I deserve this. I need this.

Still she spoke no answer aloud, for her whole body trembled, overwhelmed by conflicts both physical and emotional. Arvegil kept staring directly into her eyes, every moment a challenge, his probing far from the greatest of the enticements he offered. Finally, she nodded, rolling her hips against his fingers. Aiding his penetration. Taking him deeper. Whimpering with need. Beginning a rhythm as ancient as time. It was all the response he needed, and he smiled.

“Good. Let yourself go. Become ours until we have fully satiated ourselves in your magnificent body.” Celedur lifted her shirt, baring her chest and returning to his aggressive yet sensual fondling of her breasts, punctuated from time to time by sharp tugs on her nipples.

Arvegil’s fingers still occupied her mouth and sex, both sliding in and out; a preview of salacious acts to come. Éowyn placidly fellated the finger moving along her tongue, sucking as if it was his manhood, waiting for him to tell her what to do next. How easily I fall into this role, about which — save for one time in Wormtongue’s chambers — I’ve only ever fantasized or dreamed. Yet some of those dreams were instead my blackest nightmares. What does that say about my sexuality? What does that say about me?

“Until we’re satisfied, which may be several hours or several days from now, you will follow our orders. All of them. You will do exactly what we tell you, when we tell you, and you will refrain from doing anything that isn’t our explicit command. Hesitation will be punished. Refusal will be severely punished.” The speed of his thrusts into her sex accelerated, and she moaned in response. “We will push you to and beyond your limits, with pleasure and with pain. You may say ‘no’ all you wish, though every instance will be considered a refusal and result in punishment. However, if you really wish us to stop, say your name out loud. If you’re unable to speak — perhaps because you’ve something buried deep in your throat, which I promise will be quite often — strike one of us three times with your hand or your foot. Do you understand?”

She nodded, already shuddering in the early throes of climax.

“Good. Then here’s your first order: you may not come until we give you permission. Resist the urge. Fight it!” Her eyes grew wider still, and she moaned with the effort necessary to comply. I was close. So close...