Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 15

[Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place as the Rohirrim ride to Gondor. Éowyn has defied King Théoden's orders twice: first by disguising herself as a man named Dernhelm in order to join the ride, and second by inviting Meriadoc to come with her. Only Marshal Elfhelm is aware of both Dernhelm's true identity and the order to leave Merry behind. Holbytla is the Rohirric word for Hobbit.]

11 March 3019 (Third Age), Eastfold

That's it. I regret bringing the Halfling.

Hands stilled, clothes tugged back into place, she attempted to keep peevishness from her voice as she answered, "there was nothing yestereve and there's nothing now, Master Meriadoc! Just the faintest of breezes and your own unease. Moreover, sentries patrol our perimeter, and even if they miss something in this foreboding, impenetrable darkness, their horses will not."

"But Lord Dernhelm...."

A cough covered her rasp. "I am no Lord."

"But I swear to you that I heard something last night, and it's the same sound tonight. I...I don't want to boast, but Hobbit hearing is usually considered...well, I mean to say that...."

"Your...ability is indeed becoming known to me," she sighed. "Very well, I will investigate. Again. But you must promise that if I find nothing this is the last night you'll ask." Begrudgingly grasping sword and cloak she trudged up the hill, making for the tangled oak forest under which they camped. Merry, blanketed by the mists that crept towards those eaves, was soon lost to her sight.

Another day with him bouncing and oscillating against my increasingly sensitive sex. Another day of stimulation without fulfillment. Another night's pleasure interrupted by his thrice-damned hearing.

She paused.

I must be more cautious than yestereve. Where's Elfhelm's bedroll? She scanned the dim outlines of the camp. He'd be with the other Marshals, over there. Purposefully, she turned and moved in the opposite direction, eager to avoid pursuit. Tonight I wish only for quick release and the succor of sleep.

Under the cover of a secluded bower of oaks, Éowyn efficiently unfastened her breeches and took immediate advantage of her arousal, thrusting her fingers deep and hard without delay. Her soft sighs were felled by the humid air, and her much-needed climax was soon on its way.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

At least my rise to the rank of Marshal with its frustrating politics and endless strategy meetings didn't deprive me of my woodcraft, mused Elfhelm. Unlike most of the Rohirrim he'd grown up surrounded by forests rather than open plains, and though he was a quick study once astride a horse, he'd never lost the skills of one raised amidst trees and their infinite secrets.

He guessed she'd slip into the woods again this evening...and that when she did, she'd attempt to avoid him. Under the pretext of inspecting their bivouac's readiness for an ambush, he left his bedroll and secreted himself amidst the horses that idly grazed near her side of camp. When she indeed passed swiftly into the forest's darkness, he was entirely unsurprised.

He wondered about the sword slung around her waist. No one would seriously question a rider's wish to slip into the woods for a few moments' relief, but to go armed invited curiosity, or even mockery. I'll have to find a way to warn her about that, sooner or later.

Well, why not now?

Despite the impulse, Elfhelm remained in place for a moment, considering his options. His reputation for practicality was hard-earned, for he knew himself to be all too easily ruled by his passions. It was, he often guessed, the awareness of that tension that had allowed him to rise in rank while retaining the respect of his comrades, but it was also his greatest vulnerability. You know "why not now," he admonished himself, for you know exactly why it is you wish to follow her.

Given her position (and, he admitted, her outrageous display of flesh...against which he was no more inured than any other) he'd had little choice but to accede to her demand to join the ride to Gondor. That said, he most certainly did not understand it, and her stated reasons made less and less sense the more he considered them. A protest against the exclusion of women from their ranks he could at least grasp in theory, despite the (to him) questionable wisdom of such disturbances to traditional order, but even though she'd made her feelings on that issue clear enough in the past, on this occasion she'd barely mentioned it. Instead, she'd spun a vague, aspirational appeal to individual destiny, insisting on the impossibility of hope without the total commitment of all with sufficient courage to defend their ideals. The details blurred in the aftermath, and in any case he'd been a little too distracted to follow her argument. He'd found himself capitulating before his more rational side could muster a sensible counterargument.

Now, however, he was overborne by second thoughts and growing anxiety regarding her behavior. Her skills as a warrior were (at least to him) beyond question, and he was certain that should it come to the test she'd acquit herself at least as well as any in their company. Still, a clear-eyed analysis of their task suggested that they were riding to almost certain defeat and death, and even though he'd stutteringly managed to raise that objection, she'd blithely dismissed it as unimportant. Nor had her subsequent behavior disabused him of the suspicion that there was something very, very strange going on with her. First the surprise addition of the Holbytla. And then last night....

The act in which she'd been engaged before — and after — his interruption he understood well enough. He'd chanced upon Riders engaging in such diversions from time to time, and as long as it remained discreet it was politely ignored by all parties. Rides were long and difficult, and in these times of escalating violence often devoid of opportunities for chance (or serious) companionship. But she's no ordinary Rider. And if she's caught....

Again, self-correction halted his reverie. That's not what you're actually worried about. No one other than me knows what's different about her, so no one else would have reason to invade her privacy. They'd glance at "him," make the obvious assumption, and go about their own business as hastily as possible.

He realized that what still gnawed at him was the role he'd played, in Dunharrow and again last night. Or rather, the lack of a role. She abruptly shifted from hostility to apology, invited me to watch...and then slipped away without a word. And when she left she bore that unfathomable expression, somewhere between lust and utter indifference. Was she again toying with me, as I suspect was the case at Dunharrow? She claims to grasp the vulnerability of my position, and said as much near the end. But neither is she a fool. She has to know that I expect her to do it again, and that I'm keeping a close eye on her as a result. If so, that means....

Realization hit him like a thunderbolt, and the last shreds of rational resistance fled. She wants me to pursue her! Producing the small tallow lamp around which his hand was curled, he touched it to the flames of a nearby sentry fire and followed her into the woods.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Éowyn stilled her hand in frustration. This isn't working. She was in a frenzy of arousal, and felt so very close to the pleasure she craved, yet some piece of her orgasmic puzzle remained elusive.

Is it the fear of being discovered? The shame of having to sneak away...again...to slake my untamable lusts? She didn't know, but tension was growing in opposition to her pleasure. For sleep to be possible on this night, she needed the release of an orgasm. But how?

She closed her eyes, calling up memories both real and fantastical. And then dismissed them, one by one. The real-world consequences and traumas of her past liaisons didn't sufficiently free her mind of pain, guilt, or doubt. There will be no solace there. No release.

Unless....

Perhaps I can make use of Elfhelm.

Though she was relieved he wasn't present to witness a second night's fruitless battle against uncontrollable urges, the mere thought of his voyeurism trebled the tingling in her clitoris. She furiously worked her sex with both hands, remembering and then extrapolating from the events of the previous evening as her imagination wrote a salacious new narrative. Now, despite her orders to the contrary, he boldly moved forward to take forceful possession of her lips...lifted her tunic to suckle her pliant breasts...replaced the hand at her dripping sex with his...kneeled to devour her wet center, his knees crushing and cracking the dried twigs scattered about the forest floor.

...twigs...cracking....

Her eyes snapped open, though her fingers remained buried deep inside her sodden pussy. Oh, no, no, no! He's actually here? How long has he been watching? I didn't want....

Internal muscles pulsed and rippled against her invading fingers, carrying on with her fantasy in despite of her dismay. She was poised on the very brink, yet anchored there by circumstance. I only needed a few more strokes....

His eyes bored into hers, but his small flame illuminated the outline of his straining cock, to which her glance almost immediately fell. He didn't move, yet her mind narrowed the gap between them. Her channel gripped her digits tighter and tighter, begging for climax.

Éowyn whimpered, struggling to control the cyclone within. But it was no use. She had to do something. She had to send him away.

"Elfhelm...."

Was it a rejection? A plea? She wasn't sure.

But he was.

Extinguishing his flame, he stepped quickly forward, bending his face to hers. "No!" she whispered into the onrushing heat of his breath just before their lips met. His surprised expression was lost to the darkness.

She grabbed his head with both hands and forced it downward, violently slotting his face between her widening thighs. Moaning and writhing, weaving her fingers through his hair, she ground her swollen entrance against his lips.

At first, Elfhelm's shock held him at bay. Then, the musky richness of her arousal firing his senses, he gripped her frantically rotating ass, opened his mouth, and plunged his questing tongue inside her overheated cunt. Hers was the most exquisite taste he'd ever experienced, and he eagerly suckled her free-flowing nectar.

If she could have screamed without bringing down ruin upon both of them, she would have. Instead, she bit her cries into her lips until they bled, pumping her sex against his tongue-thrusts. She wanted to hold back, to let him slowly work her into a frenzy until they were both gasping on the edge of unconsciousness, but the danger of discovery and her long-building arousal permitted no delay. With a wrenching series of convulsions she came, gouts of fluid soaking his chin. Long he drank, fluttering his tongue against the oversensitive bud of her clitoris, drawing out her climax.

Able to endure no more, she yanked him away from her sex, her fingers still entangled in his tousled hair. She looked down at him like a triumphant but shaken goddess; breathing labored, sweat coating her brow, undimmed lust flowing from every pore. And then, without warning, she carelessly flung him away, clutching at her disheveled clothing as she whirled and fled, stumbling blindly towards the camp.

Panting, his face and neck coated with the sheen of her arousal, he reclined on the cold ground for a time. Then he stood, extracting his trembling cock. Closing his eyes, inhaling the exotic richness of her lingering scent, he stroked himself towards completion.

He knew it wouldn't take long.