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16 August 2015 | 3681 words
Eowyn is not a patient woman, not when it comes to getting what she wants from Faramir. And he knows this. And plays on it! But it turns out to be a game two can play.
Éowyn has not always been impatient. It’s a relatively new thing. She knows exactly when she became impatient. The why, and indeed, the whether of it are perhaps more complex. More complex because she isn’t sure whether her impatience really is something entirely new, or was always there, hidden beneath the surface, suppressed by the need to be constantly on her guard. Sometimes she tries to remember how she felt as a young girl, but she is not sure whether she would describe her character then as impatient, or simply as impetuous.
But when, when is easy to answer. The night of her betrothal in Edoras, she lay in bed, tossing and turning, wondering where her betrothed was, wondering why he had not come to her. She sought him out, hurt and frustrated, the next morning. He was shocked to discover he had hurt her. It turned out to be yet another of those cultural misunderstandings. He had expected to have to wait for their wedding. Misunderstanding diagnosed, he wasted no time; breakfast was abandoned in favour of making amends. The mere thought of just how thoroughly he made amends still has the power to make her pulse pound at the juncture of her thighs. She has been impatient ever since. And, strange to say, the impatience seems to have escaped the confines of the bedchamber and spread through the rest of her life. After so many years of holding herself tightly coiled, she finds this new impatience strangely liberating.
She is certainly impatient now. She lies with the sheet wrapped round her, for the first hints of autumn are creeping into the air, and, alas, it is too cool to spread her limbs naked across the bed. A shame, for the sight of her naked limbs, spread out ready and welcoming, is one of the ways Éowyn entices her husband and thus deals with her impatience. But at the moment, her husband is, for want of a better word, pottering. He is pottering and she fears she may be on the brink of losing her reason.
Worse still (or perhaps better: she is not sure whether to place the extra layer of frustration on the positive or negative side of the experience) he is pottering naked. He has just bathed, and is wandering round the bedchamber naked as the day he was born, humming absent mindedly. There is a striking incongruity between his air of scholarly other-worldliness, and the lean, hard planes of his warrior’s body, the muscles rippling beneath his skin as he moves, the clean lines of his long limbs.
Éowyn tries her best to content herself with admiring the view. It is a fine view, she has to concede, and familiarity with the vista has in no way diminished her appreciation of it. She has already admired his legs – his sculpted calves, his muscular thighs – and now her eyes drift higher. His arse: how she loves his arse. The sight of it alone is enough to bring the feel of it to her mind, almost as clearly as if her hands ran over the skin, feeling the firmness of his buttocks beneath. And above, his back, with the lean muscles of an archer, and dusting of rusty freckles, his auburn curls now loose after his bath, and falling over the nape of his neck. As he half turns, searching for something – almost certainly a book – she catches a glimpse of his cock, swinging heavy and promising against his thigh.
She must have made a noise, she realises, for he turns fully, brushing a lock of hair back from his eyes, and gives her a knowing look.
“Have you seen something you like, my lady?” He still calls her my lady when he wishes to tease her, especially when in bed, and most especially when she has just said something she supposes most matrons of Gondor would judge to be disgustingly filthy. Faramir, she has long since discovered, finds the contrast between her earthy words and his own courtly manners deeply arousing. The more she uses words like cock and ride and fuck, the more courteous his speech becomes. She will whisper in his ear that she needs his cock in her quim, that her wem is wet for him. And in return he will murmur of the beauties of his lady’s skin like alabaster, his queen’s hair like spun silk, his goddess’ thighs of satin. It is a game they play: she knows when she has won – victory comes when his language suddenly becomes as earthy as hers. When suddenly he says ride me hard, fuck me till I spend myself deep inside you – then, then the field of combat, the bed with its tangled sheets belongs to her, and her husband with it.
Lost for a moment in this train of thought, Éowyn forgets to answer. Faramir prompts her. “My fair face, perhaps? My eyes? My nose?” His mouth quirks into a smile as he searches for the most ridiculous suggestion he can come up with. “My left ear? Or perhaps the right is more elegant?”
She smiles back at him, deciding that the blunt approach is best. “Your cock.”
“Oh,” is the reply, but accompanied by a smile of his own, blue eyes sparkling. He comes and sits on the bed, annoyingly just out of reach. “Would I be right in thinking my lady is her usual impatient self?”
Éowyn casts the sheet aside. Some things are worth braving the chill autumn air for. Besides which, she has a feeling that she won’t be cold for long. She stretches languorously, watching Faramir’s face. He definitely takes in the way her breasts move as her arms reach above her head towards the gilded bed frame rising above the pillows. This bed is Éowyn’s one, uncharacteristic piece of opulence in their chamber. She loves the beauty of the carvings, the finely woven linens, the shining, iridescent silk spread from Harad with its rich embroidery and heavy fringe. Revelling in the feel of smooth, cool sheets beneath her body, she points her toes, then lifts one knee to part her legs in what she hopes is a tempting way. With another smile, she brings her hand back down, brushing her fingers across her breast, feeling her nipple harden under her touch.
She glances across at Faramir. He is definitely interested now, pottering finally forgotten, even the book forgotten. As she brushes her nipple once more, then lets her hand drift down over her belly and glide over her hip, she sees his lips part, then his tongue run along the lower one, seemingly without him being aware of this. With her other hand, she reaches out in invitation. She lets her attention shift from his face, down over his chest, scattered with a few coppery curls, following them down to where they converge to form a line down over his taut belly, with its cords of muscle, then to where the coppery curls thicken into a forest… And there, no longer lying heavy against his thigh, but curving up towards that taut belly, is his cock, hard and veined. Oh yes, there will be no more pottering tonight.
She looks up again, only to meet his questioning blue gaze once more. He repeats his earlier words, but they are no longer a question. “My lady is her usual impatient self.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “Now, should I pander to that impatience, or see what can be gained from playing upon it?”
He leans across the bed, reaching out to run his hand slowly up from her ankle, over a shapely, smooth calf, to caress a hidden hollow behind her knee. “One has to make the right tactical decisions before taking to the field of combat.” Now he let himself half fall, half roll onto his stomach, bringing his face close to his hand. His lips, just a little roughened by so much time outdoors in the sun and wind, brush the outside of her knee. His short beard rasps across soft skin as he trails kisses upwards, mouth following the outside of her thigh as his hand ghosts up the inside of her thigh.
Éowyn gives a soft moan, and, as his hand nears the triangle of blonde curls at the top of her thighs, arcs her hips upwards to meet his fingers. But at the last moment, tantalisingly, annoyingly, they veer aside to slide over her hip bone, leaving not just a trail of fire where they have touched, but a fierce blaze of need where they have not.
“Gods, Faramir, touch me. I need you.” Éowyn’s voice shakes with want. “I need you to fuck me.”
Faramir slides his hands up her sides, shuffling up her body till his face is level with hers. “Not yet, my lady, not yet. But I promise you, it will be worth the wait.” He slides one leg over hers and rolls on top of her, and she can feel his hard cock against her lower belly. But instead of settling himself between her legs, to her intense frustration, he spreads his own thighs to settle astride her. Éowyn stops moving, puzzled by this position.
“What are you doing?” She can’t help herself asking.
“Well, my precipitate love, I intend to take my time. I shall start, I think…” Here, Faramir pauses to trail kisses along her jaw, before running his tongue down her neck till it comes to rest in the hollow at the base of her throat. “I shall start by celebrating the beauties of your neck.”
“Damn my neck, it’s the beauties of my wem I want you to celebrate…” Éowyn’s words are cut short Faramir brings his mouth down on hers, mounting a slow and deliberate attack with lips and shallow, teasing thrusts of his tongue. Fingers find their way into hair, and Éowyn loses herself for some moments in the sensuality of the kiss. Pausing for breath, Faramir again turns his attention to her jaw, and Éowyn seizes the moment to collect her thoughts.
A counter-attack! Nothing short of driving him wild with impatience will do. She runs her hands slowly down his back, taking note of shoulder blades and ribs on the way, the powerful muscles round his waist, then down over his buttocks. She lingers on the hard flesh there, before letting her right hand make an exploratory foray between his legs. Maybe this unusual position does offer some possibilities. Her fingers run over the hard region between his legs. This part of his body has always fascinated her, from the moment she first encountered it. So starkly different from her own body, with its soft folds and moist opening. His is so firm to the touch. She lets her fingers stroke to and fro before letting them drift to the soft, puckered vulnerability of his balls. Her hand cups his balls for a moment, and she is rewarded by a sudden stilling of his lips as he becomes lost in sensation. He’s definitely registered her questing fingers now. She lets them make a further foray to slide against the base of his cock, letting her fingernails slide gently but insistently over the velvet skin. She is rewarded with a sigh, an intake of breath, then, true to her new strategy, withdraws slightly. Her hand runs back over balls, feeling them tense and tighten under her touch, then retreats over the hard juncture between his thighs, then back up over muscled buttocks.
Faramir has stopped making any attempt to kiss her now, his whole attention seemingly now captured by the slow and deliberate movements of her hands. She can feel his hair against her cheek – his brow rests on the pillow beside her, face hidden behind the auburn cascade. This time both hands slide down over his buttocks, between his legs, fingers following the creases at the tops of his thighs either side of the firm flesh. Again, she strokes his balls, lingers just for a teasing instant on the shaft of his cock, then retreats. But this time, feeling bold, her exploration on the return journey charts new territory. She lets the pads of her fingers run up the hidden, forbidden cleft between his buttocks.
Éowyn finds her impatience has gone, replaced by intense curiosity and a feeling of erotic power that seems to have almost as strong an effect on her body as would Faramir’s touch. Her blood runs faster in her veins, and she feels her pulse throb in the swollen flesh hidden between her legs. It seems suddenly as if her imagination alone is producing an arousal as great as if his fingers were actually to touch her, to slide through the slick moisture she can feel pooling. Her breathing becomes shallower, more rapid, and she can hear the sharp sound of his breaths, matching hers. Her cheeks feel aflame with desire, her whole body on the brink of catching fire. Intent on his body, she continues her journey of discovery. Her fingertips encounter the ridges of muscle round the entrance to his passage. Softly, driven by curiosity and desire, she strokes the ridges, and Faramir’s whole body jerks suddenly.
“Nienna…” He breathes a low groan, and his hands move to cup her cheeks before he covers her mouth with his own and kisses her with a fervour that leaves her breathless.
She is fairly sure she knows the answer, but can’t resist teasing him with the question. “Should I stop?” Her hands hover over the taut planes of his arse once more.
“Gods, no, don’t stop…”
Once more she starts from his balls, up between his legs, then her fingers again slide slowly, oh so slowly up towards his entrance. This time she stops with her fingers resting there, pressing very gently against him. Faramir shifts his hips, and Éowyn feels as if her breath is stuck in her throat as she feels him press up against her finger tip. She’s almost afraid to ask – this seems to take them into such new territory that she worries they may founder upon a hidden reef, or drift without compass into some wide, wild uncharted ocean of stormy lust, to be lost, never to find their way back to the safe harbour of their normal loving.
But she, who was impatient, is now bold. Tongue loosened by the strong wine of desire, she asks. “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to…” And now she pauses. She does not have the words. But since that day when first she girded herself with sword and breastplate, her life has ever been defined by actions, and this is no exception. “Do you want?” And she presses, a little more firmly.
“Oh gods… yes… yes…” His voice tails off into a helpless groan. Then, moving his hips slightly away from the pressure, he whispers, barely coherently, “The lamp… oil – on your fingers.”
Éowyn wriggles her top half from beneath him till she is lying slightly skew. At full stretch, she dips her hand into the reservoir of oil at the base of the lamp, feeling the oil slick between her fingers. Oil dripping from her fingertips, she brings her hand back and settles it on Faramir’s arse. He moves slightly so he can press a kiss to her lips, then whispers a single word into her mouth.
Gently but firmly, she presses against him. At first there is resistance, but then her finger slips inside. Faramir gives a ragged gasp of pleasure laced with desire, and his hips give a jerk, up against her palm. She releases a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding. There is something overwhelming about this, that she is the one inside him. And something contrary – that he is atop her, and yet she is the one driving this… this new adventure. His passage is hot and tight around her finger, and she can feel his muscles clench. Is this what it would feel like to be him, to have his cock inside her? As if in answer, his cock twitches, and juts against her stomach, hard as an iron bar.
Only the very tip of her finger is within him, up to the first knuckle, but even this seems daring to her. Daring is not the word for Faramir’s response, though. The way he moans and writhes against her, the heavy lust in his voice. “Yes, oh yes, oh, gods, yes…”; his words speak of an intensity of sensation, of exquisite pleasure. All hesitation, all uncertainty seems to vanish with the passion of his response: there is nothing here except skin against skin, sensual pleasure and utter trust. His hips press upwards again, and she sinks her finger deeper inside him.
His cock is still there, still hard against her belly, and she knows now that she needs him. There is a moment of ungainly squirming until she manages to get one leg at least out from under his thighs, and move herself to meet the moist, hard tip of his cock. For a moment she isn’t even sure if they can manage in this slightly strange arrangement, one of his hard, lean thighs still between hers, but somehow there is enough room. His cock presses into her – not as smoothly as it would do if she’d spread her legs, but the very restrictions bring with them a wealth of new sensations.
And all the time she keeps her finger within him, moving slightly in and out, as if to mimic what she wants him to do to her. Her palm is flat on his arse, her other fingers splayed across his buttocks, and she pulls him into her. As she quests within him, suddenly he gives a loud, inarticulate cry of pleasure, and almost convulses against her.
“Oh sweet mercy of the gods, there, just there… again, please.” With a movement of his hips, he moves his thigh so that now he lies between her legs. Now he needs no urging from her palm. He pushes deep and hard into her, hard enough that her swollen, needy nub grinds against his body. Now it is Éowyn’s turn to writhe, stroking her finger inside him, seeking for that spot again.
She lies, feet braced, pushing her hips up against him as he drives into her, again and again. There are no thoughts, only sensation. A fire, a swelling pleasure, waves of desire in every part of her being. Each time she slides her finger inside him, he gives a ragged groan of pleasure and an answering thrust. Their actions mirror each other. With each thrust, his hardened cock presses hard against her folds, the front of her passage and in answer she gasps with pleasure. And it seems from his reactions that there is a hidden secret place within him which elicits the same response. She feels heat radiating in waves, outwards from that nub, settling in her belly, spreading down her legs until even her calves tingle with the sparks of desire. It is almost as if a pressure is building within her, a wave of liquid want ready to explode. She is close, oh so close.
And this time, as her finger slips out, ready to thrust back in, she adds a second finger, taking a moment to gently ease through his entrance, then questing to find that spot again. With a cry of pure need, Faramir drives deep into her, shuddering as his pleasure comes washing over him. She feels his muscles spasming and clenching around her fingers. Is this what it is like for him, inside her, when she screams her release? And the knowledge that she has done this, that she has been within him, inside him, in possession of him, that she has made him cry out, his voice breaking with pleasure – this is enough to drive her over the edge, exploding in a climax which goes on, wave after wave, heat and liquid and pulsing need, until she shatters, completely limp beneath him.
She lies, gradually coming back to her senses. She lets her hand slide up to nestle in the small of his back. His skin is slick with sweat. She can feel beads of sweat between her breasts too – hers, his, mingled. She knows that their skin is probably fused with the liquid sheen. He is heavy on top of her, as boneless and spent as she feels. His face remains buried in the pillow. She screws her eyes shut. There is something about the intensity of the experience which makes her unable to meet his gaze as yet – she thinks that from the way his face is hidden that he feels the same. There is a complete openness, a feeling of becoming one that leaves her completely undone.
Eventually he lifts his head and looks at her for a moment, before shutting his eyes and resting his forehead against hers for a space of time. Then he rolls onto his back, eyes still shut. Éowyn wonders what he is thinking. The silence stretches out. She doesn’t think he has any regrets – his face looks peaceful, sated, spent… happy. But his silence leaves space for a tiny, nagging doubt.
Then he gives a chuckle, his soft baritone voice rumbling. Éowyn is taken aback. This is not at all what she expected. She leans in towards him, lying on her side. He opens his eyes and looks at her.
“It seems all those years past, Cynefrid and his friend were right.”
Éowyn is puzzled. She can’t think why he’s mentioning her sergeant at arms after what they’ve just done. Faramir sees her confusion and smiles.
“Back when they told you the men of Gondor liked to take it up the arse. It seems that they were right…” His grin broadens. “Though this particular man of Gondor only likes it when you’re the one giving it to him.”
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