Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 05

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Holding on with all his strength, bruising her tits within the tight grip of his fists, he fucked her through her flailing, fucked her through her unintelligible cries, fucked her as she'd always deserved to be fucked by him and only him. A final half-dozen thrusts later his own climax rushed from his swollen testicles, while a desire to brand her as his own overcame his instinct to fill her colon to overflowing.

Rearing back, he yanked his pulsing cock from the steaming depths of her ass as the first crossbow-shot of ejaculate streamed forth. It hit her directly between the cheeks, just above the stretched-open hole he'd been ravaging, and was quickly joined by additional lashings of semen that crisscrossed her reddened ass in lurid white stripes. The thickest gouts gathered near her center, running down her sweat-slicked crack and around her anus — a few drops enticed inside while others perched at its edge — then flowing towards her dripping sex. Mingling with her own juices, his seed dangled from the matted wisps of hair until the collective mass proved too great and a glob of it fell onto the soaked coverlet.

He spent a few minutes admiring the decadent evidence of his victory, squeezing the last few drops from his deflating rod while she shuddered, gasping for breath and struggling to regain physical control of her body. A particularly violent quake made him wonder if she was having yet another orgasm. Then he repeated his silent departure of the previous night, dressing and leaving without saying a word. Though there was nothing he could say or do that could surpass the triumph of this moment.

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Alone at last, Éowyn breathed herself into a queasy equilibrium. The cluster of aftershocks she'd desperately tried to hide from him had been the equal of many of her self-directed climaxes, but what preceded them was beyond all previous imagining. As if compelled by some external will, her hand slid down the bed, quickly encountering the wet pool of her issue. I'll have to launder these sheets myself, for there's no way to hide this evidence from the washer-women. Then her fingers encountered something denser and stickier, and she recoiled while her stomach churned in revulsion. Even more tentatively, she reached back to gingerly probe the flesh of her sore buttocks. She was coated in his thickening seed, and now her hand was laden with it as well.

She wanted to flee to the bath and cleanse herself of him (in more ways than one) but her rear channel burned with tenderness at the slightest motion. Beyond the tangible remnants she was stunned at all that had transpired: the perversion of what he'd done to her, how powerfully she'd responded, and that she hadn't once fought him off despite innumerable opportunities to do so. The latter she could neither countenance nor explain, though bile rose in her throat as her memories spooled backward.

And so she remained in place, face-down and positioned as obscenely as she'd been when Wormtongue left; her exposed ass comprehensively spanked, thoroughly violated, and coated with his gelatinous semen.

The tears began again, gentle and quiet. Long into the night they flowed.