Unworthy

Title: Unworthy
Author: Lizzie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Éowyn/Éomer, with a little Gríma thrown in for fun.
Warnings: First and foremost, here there be incest. Also, graphic, slightly kinky het sex with a difference, het lusting on the part of Gríma, and a little masturbation.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. All you'll get is a battered copy of LotR and a collection of my trashy fanfic anyway.
Summary: Éowyn and her random partner for the night think they're alone. They're not.

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Unworthy
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Éowyn wears an oiled, leather-fashioned phallus strapped down over her cunt. She stands naked at the foot of her great oak-framed bed, adjusting the thin leather straps and their fine silver buckles, pulling them tighter. It doesn't seem to bother her when they start to dig in, and that in later activities they'll chafe against her flesh. In fact, I suspect that may be part of the charm.

The man on the bed looks up at her with wide eyes. Before it seemed her favourite was her cousin, Théodred. Since he is newly gone to war, tonight there is quite another in her bed; he's tied down, of course, and Éowyn is seemingly unconcerned by the prospect of the bruising and the marking that his beautiful tanned skin will suffer beneath her restraints. They look to be fashioned from some disused horse tack, the leather strapping from a bridle, perhaps. They pinch at the man's thick wrists and strong ankles, cinching his hands to the bedposts above his head, and securing his knees wide apart. From the look on his face I would say that, like Éowyn, marking seems to be the last and lowest of his concerns.

He shaved himself before he came to her quarters, just as she asked; with a fine blade he shaved the hair from his balls and his arse, even the coarse blonde hair that used to trail from his navel down to the root of his cock. Éowyn looks down now at the smooth, golden, hairless skin, regarding his erect shaft with cool approval. She takes it in her hand and smears the leaking precome over the head with the pad of her thumb. The man beneath her shivers, and she smiles. It's a calculated smile.

She hasn't bothered to gag him. She doesn't think that he'll scream, and even if he does, she knows that no one will come. He couldn't even reach for a sword to stop her, his sword, which lies discarded by the bed, atop the clothing that lies piled upon the floor. He won't move to touch it; he won't even glance in its direction. He may be a warrior - a Rider - by trade, but in this room he has willingly, happily, yielded his control to her.

And that is what Éowyn wants; his submission to her is sweeter than any accolade that a woman can win. Of course, outside this room, by the very nature of her sex, she is subordinate to him. Outside this room he wouldn't let her master him so. If there were eyes to see him now, he would not submit to her. He is far too proud and fierce a warrior to let a woman rule him plainly, even such a woman as she.

But they, of all people, should know... Under the roof of the Golden Hall, the walls have ears. The walls have eyes.

She leans forward and kneels upon the foot of the bed, between his spread legs; she inches closer on all fours, the long pale braid of her hair hanging down over her shoulder, her slight weight rocking the bed just a little, until she's sitting back on her heels between his open thighs. She looks at him, looks him dead in the eye. And he looks at her, but he does not look into her eyes. With his neck strained, he looks down over his own body to the phallus strapped over her cunt. He can see the parting of her lips behind it, how she's wet for him now, almost dripping.

To some the sight of her like this would seem strange or surprising; to him it is, that much is clear. To me, however... I have seen the lady Éowyn naked and ready, this instrument of hers secured and ready for use. Many times. Tonight though, tonight is different. I watch and he watches as her hand moves, over her pale throat, down, raking at her rose-pink nipples, over her navel, down to the hard stuffed leather phallus. She cradles it in her hand, stroking at the oiled surface, gazing down at the body below her with a look of contemplation that I have never seen upon her face. I wonder for a second if she'll not lean forward and part the lips of her cunt with her long fingers, guide herself down onto his thick erection until he's balls-deep inside her. For a moment I am convinced that she'll do it, even after all that I've seen, and he'll take her as I never have.

But she does not. She draws in one deep breath and exhales slowly, her hand snaking from the phallus to push his knees higher. She leans down over him, her thighs pressed up against the back of his own. There is a flush to his face and to hers as she runs her hands over his abdomen, over the hard muscles that we all of us can see there. He groans beneath her touch and seems embarrassed by this, by his pleasure at such a simple touch. It surprises me how many men suffer such embarrassment at her hands, so willing yet so conflicted. Perhaps even more so now, when she rakes her fingernails over his peaked nipples, wringing from him a deep, loud moan as he arches into her touch.

She draws back, tossing her bound hair back over her shoulder. For a moment she toys with his cock, stroking her fingertips over its length as she teases his balls. Then she squeezes and he yelps, jerking helplessly against his bonds. She smiles. I would carve out my hard heart for that cold smile.

When head of the phallus presses bluntly into his arse, he screams.

Though he is prepared - I watched him in his chamber, a blush staining his face as he worked the oil into his arse - it is not enough to render the intrusion painless. Éowyn could have helped this, and once or twice I have seen her do so. Tonight she chose not to, for whatever reason. Perhaps she wished to hurt him, to claim him roughly, but I don't think so, as her entry is slow, giving his all-too-willing flesh a chance to adjust to the size. His breath comes in gasps as she inches inside him, and he clutches at the straps at his wrists. I'd bet my horse he's never felt a thing like this before.

His wild blond hair is spread across the pillow, and with a sheen of sweat upon his brow he seems wilder still. He jerks beneath her. She increases her pace, thrusting into him now, harder, hard enough to make him moan and arch his broad back. She leans over him, a hand either side of his flushed chest, her fine breasts tantalisingly close to him. I see his eyes on them. His hands twitch as if they wish to feel them. She won't let him. She never does.

He's almost screaming now, and I wish I could look away but find that, as always, my gaze is locked. She thrusts into him hard enough to rock the bed, the leather phallus glistening and I can't be sure that glisten is all oil. He doesn't seem to care, and it's not pity but shame that I feel, watching them. Her hand snakes between the two of them and grasps his cock, jerking roughly. He cries out, spasms, and comes over her hand, shaking.

For a long moment she remains inside him, her leather phallus buried to the hilt, before she withdraws. She leaves the bed, and unwittingly he sighs in disappointment that he does not know he feels. She offers him her hand and for a moment he frowns, but only for a moment, before he licks it clean, somehow not disgusted by the taste of his own come in his mouth. Then, without removing the phallus, she pulls on a robe and begins to loose his bonds.

She doesn't let him linger in her bed. She hands him his clothes and without words she urges him to dress. Within a minute he is dressed and gone, surprised that she won't let him stay but knowing better than to question. It is over. For him.

For her - and for me - the real fun is just beginning.

With the utmost care, she unbuckles the phallus, wipes it well with a soft cloth and ointment, and places it into a drawer by her bed. Then she crawls onto the blankets, rolls onto her back and draws up her knees. I unbutton my trousers. Her fingers part her glistening pink lips. I grasp myself roughly. Her fingers slip inside her. I watch her, her hands, her face, her beautiful breasts, and I jerk myself.

She touches herself with skill, knowing just how to wring every last drop of pleasure from it. I wonder as she gasps, arching up from her bed, if she has ever permitted a man to pleasure her, to take her; in the years that I have watched her she has not - she brings men to her chamber, many men, lords and commoners alike, and she takes them hard and fast, but she has always kept her own needs to herself. I wonder what it would be like to go to her, to thrust into her, to bury myself in her virgin heat. I want to come inside her. I want to claim her.

Our climax comes at almost the very same instant. She moans and draws a deep breath; I bite down on my lip, taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, to keep from making the sound that would give me up. I wipe my hand and I look at her just a moment longer, that pale beauty flushed with lust. So delicate yet so fierce. My heart beats strong for her. And then I turn; I slink away through dark passages and return to my empty room.

I lie away at night, thinking of her. I have no doubt that many a man of Rohan has spent a sleepless night over the lady Éowyn, but there will never be a night of unrest such as mine. I often wonder if I hate her, or if I hate her more than I hate myself. She knows what she does to me. She can't be ignorant of it, for all her feigned innocence at court. She takes the Lords of Rohan to her bed and spurns me. She reduces me to this repugnant voyeurism. She takes that golden-ha bro brother to her bed and tells me I am not worthy.

Even her brother had her, the slut, the incestuous whore. But Gríma, faithful, constant Gríma? Oh no, not I. I repulse her, she says. I who would make her my wife, and love her as the rain loves the rose.

He tries to tell himself that he is not fascinated by her power. I see it in him - he's drawn to her as all men are. He tries to tell himself, no doubt, that it is not incest if she fucks him and not the other way around, and with a cock made of leather. And then he rides away from here, making this war which he should know he cannot win. He meddles in affairs he does not understand. In time, though. In time.

And she, all she wants is to feel superior; superior with horse, with sword, with cock. She won't subordinate. She masters men with her pale beauty and her steel will, and loves none. Perhaps in time... when Théoden and Théodred and her precious Éomer are dead, she will love me. Perhaps.

I lie awake in my cold bed, heavy-lidded eyes staring out into the darkness. It does not matter, I realise, if she will love me or no. In the end she will be mine. When the White Wizard rules this land, when all Rohan burns, my master will give her to me.

A smile twists my lips as I think this one simple thing: soon.

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End
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