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Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel (NC-17) 
Written by December16 June 2018 | 18315 words | Work in Progress
Chapter 7.
Her first impulse was to wince, and her hand halted in uncertainty.
This one was a challenge all right.
She frowned and tossed her head. A challenge was not something to shy away from. Perhaps she needed to rub a little harder, work up the appetite to be able to stomach this particular flavour.
She willed herself to keep looking. Go ahead, do your worst, why don’t you. They could try and not let her forget that this was a private club, that the tricks of this passion were a men-only thing. She would withstand, she would prove them wrong, at every turn.
By the hungry movement of Aragorn’s jaw, and even more so from the way Faramir writhed and gasped for breath, she knew that Aragorn’s kiss on him went as deep as it could. So what of it. She may have expected the King to put his cock in there rather than his tongue – but there was no keeping count of the things that had already gone against her expectation.
Given Faramir’s ecstatic response to this treatment, soon it did not even seem that much revolting. The concept itself, viewed in theory, taken out of context – she would have shuddered to think of it, would have struggled to believe anyone would willingly do this. Yet here it was, in plain sight. Aragorn humming as he licked, eyes shut with enjoyment, turning his face this way and that for a better angle – how sweet must it be to have no reservations whatsoever.
As she kept watching this scandalous little indulgence between the two men she knew so well and yet not at all – the barrier in her mind dissolved, and she was veritably leaking, her breath difficult and hot. To make love with the mouth had always seemed rather illicit, this particular iteration being especially unspeakable – and her and forbidden desires went way back.
What also went way back was no one asking her what she wanted, for just as she had settled into the mood, Aragorn drew away. Éowyn was ready to stomp her foot. Not only did she have to tolerate a fixed angle of observation, hold her sword and keep absolutely quiet, the latter of which was no small feat – their manner of jumping from one thing to another was wearing her nerves thin. A little bit of this, a little bit of that – how was a woman supposed to get anywhere at this rate?
As a small consolation, Faramir was with her on this.
“Aragorn, more…”
“Nah,” replied the King with a lazy grin. “That’s plenty enough for you,” and he gave his lover’s upturned behind a slap.
Faramir seemed to know better than to waste breath on arguing further, raised himself up and turned over. Éowyn lifted an eyebrow: was he going to stay like this, on all fours? Surely this horse-breeding position was not for human loveplay – but what other way to interpret him standing there with his rump arched up in invitation?
Good Valar, her husband wanted to be done like an animal – and she had deemed him too prim even for a word of coarse language in bed.
Aragorn was obviously under no such illusions as to Faramir’s excess genteelness.
The King stood up and put one foot up on the mattress, clearly preparing for stronger leverage. In no apparent hurry, he shifted his weight about, ensuring the balance of his stance. The open angle of his legs showed her the inner side of his thigh, where fair skin had never seen the sun and hair grew richer towards the crotch. These personal little details, both sensual and at once strangely innocent, just the make of his body, would be so intimately known to Faramir. The silver scar across his hipbone, the exact way the lines of muscle in his long legs changed as he shifted his weight. The taut curve of the king’s backside, the way his balls hung heavy and full beneath the upward arch of his cock.
Aragorn planted his hand on Faramir’s hip, took his manhood into his other and proceeded to rub the blunt edge up and down between the younger man’s parted buttocks.
Immediately Faramir pushed back at him, already imploring mercy. The King did not seem much moved by his enthusiasm, and he kept teasing the Steward until his pleas turned to curses. Yet another observation, her Faramir did swear in bed. Who knew.
If only she could see into his face, his eyes, to know what it was like – if only Faramir would move away his raven tresses that hid his face from view. Just a glimpse would do as at last their lord ever so slowly, ever so lazily slid all the way into him, as though there was nothing to it, just slicing butter with a hot knife.
Faramir gasped, all his back tensing up, his feet flexing.
Aragorn pulled out, completely. This would have been an opportunity for Faramir to exhale, lower his head, breathe out that tension – but he did nothing of the sort, only crying out for the fullness to return.
The King obliged, entering him anew with the same plunging precision.
Faramir sank in the waist to an uncomfortable looking degree, but his moan left no doubt that the relief was well worth the strain.
How good submission looked on him, and how easily it came. Even she, as a woman, had battled through it at first – on some level, battled still. To reconcile what she knew about her own strength and spirit, what she had done to prove her worth in this world of kings and men at arms – with this strange urge to give herself over for the taking to yet another man, to revel in his strength, his size, his weight. Even with a man she both wanted and loved, it had been no easy feat.
As irony would have it, it was he who had helped her make peace with herself, who had perceived the dilemma in her and offered empathy and patient acceptance. She did not have to overthink it, he had said, sometimes it was the strongest people who wanted to be roughhoused in bed the most, and if anything, it took some courage to trust another to take you and have you.
If she had known how appealing, how intriguing this trust would look on him. In this moment of Faramir’s pliancy she could more than ever relate to the way Aragorn desired him, from a position of control. She liked the feeling: being a lady in laces and silks was nice, but it would never be all that she was, there would always be something that yearned for the other side.
Another slow push from Aragorn, another shuddering sigh from Faramir. The King paused, as though in gentleness, reaching over lightly and tracing his fingertips down the Steward’s spine in a feathery caress. His hips mirrored the touch, leaning back gently, a smooth motion letting him all but slip out.
She could see Faramir shiver. He knew what this meant.
No more games.
Without warning, Aragorn slammed back in to the hilt.
His expression turned hard, almost unkind, and as he punctuated each thrust with an upward jerk of his chin, he seemed to be making a point of being ungentle.
Faramir hardly complained. As Aragorn beat into him, he only bowed his head, as though obediently accepting his lot, and uttered only small, strangled sounds through clenched teeth. These little noise, so helpless, so strained and yet so full of pleasure…
The King shifted to put both feet firmly on the floor, bent forward, gripped his lover on the thighs – and yanked them up and towards himself. Faramir cried out as his legs went up in the air and he was left supporting his weight on his hands only.
Faramir’s whole body rocked violently with each thrust, the propulsion of Aragorn’s hips going undeterred through all of him. His arms visibly strained to keep him from collapsing onto the messed up sheets, and he was practically shouting, with what sounded almost like pain.
This was not something she could ever give him.
“Harder!” he growled, bucking backwards against Aragorn. “Harder, damn you! Are you King or what?”
This degree of uninhibitedness in him frightened her. He wanted to be treated with far less respect than he unfailingly displayed towards her. With Aragorn he smoothly and naturally allowed the game to descend far into the depths that with her he did not even begin to tap into.
Never had he asked of her what Aragorn asked of him, and what he was so willing to give.
His dedication seemed to know no limits, and as he grew delirious and overwhelmed, he let go and slumped face-down onto the mattress, abdicating the last vestiges of any physical control over his body. His back looked almost unnaturally bent at the waist as Aragorn still held him up at the hips, and the motion dragged him mercilessly back and forth along the bed.
There was no slow build-up of pleasure here, and his sudden cry of release was high-pitched and desperate.
Éowyn was not too far from desperation herself. Aragorn was sure to soon follow into bliss – but she? This was great, but distracting also, and she was not quite there yet. Keeping up with someone else’s passion in real time was proving hard work. First, they were too tender, then too strange, and now too rough – what next?
Faramir had promised to not lie idle. He was often the one to finish first – and was in habit of making up for it straight away.
Aragorn brought himself to a halt, and the younger man took only one long ragged breath to collect himself, and then slid off the King’s desire, which stuck up in the air still hot and demanding.
Aragorn stepped back a pace to let the younger man move down to kneel on the floor, turn around and –
Éowyn ran her tongue over her suddenly parched upper lip. Nay, he would not take it in his mouth, surely not, not after it had just been right up his –
Visibly rapturous with gratitude, with great zeal and obviously with some practiced skill too, in a single gulp Faramir swallowed up all of it. As though that was not quite enough, he gripped the King on the buttocks and pulled him forth, so that not half an inch of the regal length would be left out of the loving heat of his mouth.
He kept his eyes closed at first, too concentrated on the process. Once they had a rhythm in place, he looked up at Aragorn and held the older man’s gaze, confirming his willingness to do anything for his liege, to bring him pleasure in whatever way Aragorn chose to take it.
She saw Aragorn grin, and the King’s hands snaked into her husband’s dishevelled hair and snugly cradled the back of his head. She thought she saw Faramir shiver again – and indeed Aragorn pulled away, only to swing forth and slap into him to the hilt. Then again. And again.
This, too, was hard on Faramir, but he endured patiently – savoured it, welcomed each thrust as a most generous of all royal gifts. In a way, so it must be, for it was no mystery as to exactly what sort of gift he would be receiving shortly in reward for his loyalty.
Her face was burning.
Come on, she mouthed soundlessly, come on, come on, come on. Each escalation of pleasure made her wince and stifle the treacherous high-pitched whines in her throat. She was too used to indulging herself in this department, and, if anything, she usually moaned even louder than was strictly necessary – for Faramir’s benefit. When she was atop him, riding like she would a fresh vigorous steed, he would often grip her hips and urge her to give him her battle cry. She would always gladly oblige.
Not now.
Éowyn bit back a gasp, stifled a moan, swallowed a whimper.
She would make it. She would, she just had to.
Just a bit more, oh, just a little bit…
Éowyn twisted her hand, the thumb remaining on the outside, the next two fingers going in – then hunched over a little to be also able to rub her nipple against the inside of her upper arm. Another gasp, another little shudder, almost there…
Breathing heavily through her nose, nostrils flaring, teeth gritted, she no longer needed to watch and allowed her eyelids flutter down. Maybe she ought to try and fit the blade’s handle in after all – a lusty warrior secretly making love to her trusted sword, utterly self-sufficient, no bastard of a man required…
This proved a fruitful fantasy, hold on to it, keep it in her mind’s eye. The rounded knob, the ribbed textured shaft of the hilt. So thick, so solid, sliding into the swollen, ravenous wetness between her legs, parting open the deceptively narrow slit…
The edges of reality softened around her, began to melt. Imagine if while she was doing that, with the sword – imagine that Aragorn were there with her. He would kneel behind her, and part the cheeks of her arse with his hands, and do that thing that he had done to Faramir, work the wetness of his hot tongue right into…
One last convulsion, and the familiar tidal warmth rose and began to unfold in her thighs. Finally. Oh, thank the blessed heavens, she made it.
Another second, and she would lose her grip on this wretched reality –
Ker-KLANG!
Éowyn jolted back on sheer reflex – and froze. With a sinking heart she realised her other hand was empty, sweat-slickened fingers grasping vainly at thin air.
Her sword.
The bloody thing.
She had lost grip all right – on it.
There the blade lay at her feet, glinting dully in the light that seeped through the door crack, behind which all sound had ceased.
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This is simply fantastic! I really do have a soft sport for Eowyn and you’ve written her wonderfully, I love how she goes from anger to disbelief to curiosity right through to arousal!
— Eora Monday 13 September 2010, 19:35 #This was very hot ;), and beautifully written, and I can’t wait for this to continue (I want to know what happens when Faramir and Aragorn realise they were being watched!)