An Afternoon in Edoras

Grey clouds hung low in the sky over Edoras that morning. Ainewyn could smell the rain that would come by afternoon on the wind. She stood on the balcony at the top of King Theoden's house, breathing deeply, reveling in the storm that was brewing. Unlike her mistress, Ainewyn had always loved gloomy weather. It made her feel deliciously restless and alive.

She let the wind lift her long, dark red hair, closing her eyes to pretend the soothing sensation was the caress of a lover… She had been feeling restless quite a bit lately, and she knew why. Desire had been growing in her for several weeks now, perhaps since the time which Theoden had grown ill, and would allow no one to attend him save one. That one was for whom she felt this desire.

Gríma Wormtongue had risen considerably in Ainewyn's estimation since he has so easily and so powerfully slipped into the seat of power to gently steer Theoden on his course. No one even seemed to notice that he was doing so. Ainewyn might not have noticed herself, had her mistress not been so concerned about it. Together she and Éowyn often sat, sewing late into the night. During those times, Éowyn held her as closely as a sister -- the niece of the King had no other. She told Ainewyn all of her secrets, and Ainewyn had always kept them.

Of course, Ainewyn had none to reveal them to. Her mother had died when she was small, leaving her in service to the King. As she was near in age to his niece, Ainewyn had been made lady-in-waiting to Éowyn. They had grown up together, and might have been friends…certainly Éowyn believed they were… but never had Theoden allowed Ainewyn to forget that she was a servant.

Éowyn had always treated Ainewyn gently, but it was not so for her brother Éomer. When Ainewyn had blossomed into womanhood, he had taken advantage of her, ignoring her protests. No one seemed to care about the feelings of a serving wench. Éowyn had refused to believe ill of her brother, even when Ainewyn came to her abused and bleeding.

Eventually she grew used to Éomer's demands, even came to enjoy his attentions, and it was because of him that Ainewyn knew what desire was at all. Still, when Wormtongue had banished Éomer and his men from Rohan, she had inwardly rejoiced, despite her lady's tears. Late into the night, Éowyn whispered to Ainewyn of her fears.

"Wormtongue watches me," she said piteously, full of fear. "Éomer was my only protector. With him gone, who will stop him from taking what he wants of me?"

"Master Gríma speaks to you so prettily," Ainewyn had said sensibly. "Perhaps his intentions are honorable."

"Even so, I do not want them! What will I do if he forces himself upon me?"

"You are skilled enough to fight him, Éowyn. You could take near any man in Rohan!"

"And then I will be banished, too."

Ainewyn had held Éowyn close and told her not to worry, but in her mind she entertained the idea of what it would be like if her mistress had to suffer at the hands of Gríma Wormtongue the fate which she herself had met at the hands of Éomer. It would be so easy for her to absent herself, to give him the opportunity to slip in and force Éowyn to his bidding… she daydreamed about it often, so much so that she could not look at Gríma without feeling lust.

Today, standing on the balcony, she indulged in just such a fantasy. Her mistress was out in the courtyard below, practicing with her fencing master. Ainewyn had a few precious spare moments. She opened her eyes and watched Éowyn, knowing that when the rain came they would be cooped up inside together again. Ainewyn dreaded another afternoon of sighing and complaining. No matter how kind Éowyn was, at times she was simply tedious.

She did not hear him slip out onto the balcony beside her. She only became aware of his presence when he laid one pale hand on her arm. She jumped slightly in surprise, then found her heart beating in her chest when she turned to look at him. His long black hair hung lank about his near skeletal face. His eyes were rimmed with red, but they were a brilliant, piercing blue. Ainewyn felt them pierce her to the core. His fingers stroked the length of her arm and she regretted the sleeve that lay between them and her flesh.

"I am sorry to have frightened you," he said in a smooth, oily voice, smiling waspishly at her.

"I rather think that you are not, Master Wormtongue," Ainewyn replied frankly, "But it does not matter, as I am not frightened of you."

His smile suddenly looked forced, as if she had insulted him, and he withdrew his hand from her arm. "What do you out here, girl? Have you no chores to occupy your time?"

"I have finished them. And I am here for the same reason you are -- to watch my mistress."

"Hold your tongue, impertinent chit," he said, his eyes boring into her, "Or I shall order a whipping for you."

"Only order it? Will you not give it to me yourself?" she taunted him.

"I may," he said, licking his lips, "I very well may. It would serve you well not to learn to make accusations."

"I do not make accusations. I only state the truth, as I see it. If you feel I should be whipped for it, then who am I to protest?"

"If I did not know better, I should think you were asking for a whipping."

Ainewyn bit her lower lip, looking at him boldly. Part of her wanted to goad him into punishing her. Pain could wash away desire, that she knew. She let her eyes drink in her fill of him, as she so seldom was able to. He was tall and slender, his long black hair such a contrast to both her own fiery locks and to Éowyn and Éomer's gold. His lips were a cruel slash in a cruel face, and still she longed to know if they could be soft. He dressed in long, black robes, befitting his position. She wondered what his body was like beneath those robes.

"That would be foolish of me, wouldn't it?" she said at last.

"Very much so," he said. He licked his lips. "Why do you look at me that way, child?"

"In what way do you mean?" Ainewyn asked, raising her chin slightly as she stared up at him. He was nearly a foot taller than her. "Do you mean in the same way which you look at my mistress?"

He frowned, but she saw the confusion in his frown. It came to her then. She knew only that he watched Éowyn -- he was never in the company of other ladies, few that there were in Theoden's home. His only lover was power. This was something with which she could never compete.

"What would you say if I told you that soon Éowyn will be mine, and then I will be your master?" he hissed softly.

"I would say that the situation might please me more than it would Éowyn," she said softly. Finally she cast her eyes down from his face in an attempt to be demure.

"You're impudent."

"Then punish me."

"You know where my room is? Go there and wait."

Ainewyn turned without another word and went. Yes, she knew well where his chamber was, so near to Theoden's throne room where the old, failing King dozed day and night. She had never entered it before, but she did so now, proudly. It was dark and musky smelling. He had no window, but one small lantern twinkled on a table beside his bed. The bed was large and grand, made of thick black oak, hung with black velvet drapes. It was made neatly and crisply. It looked far more comfortable than the pallet which Ainewyn slept upon next to Éowyn's bed.

What would he do if she stripped off her gown and lay waiting for him naked in the middle of it?

She went through the room, looking around, but he had few personal artifacts. He possessed only a few more sets of robes, some books, and a very sharp looking dagger concealed in the bottom of his trunk beneath his robes. It had a jeweled handle and sparkled in the dim light of the lantern.

Gríma did not keep her waiting long. She had barely closed the trunk before he entered silently, looking at her with eyes that sparkled just like the jewels on the dagger. She saw hunger in that gaze much like the hunger she had seen in Éomer's eyes before he took her. This pleased Ainewyn. He was Éomer's opposite in every way, and she desired him. She feared nothing he might do to her, even when she saw the long leather whip curled around his hand.

He closed the door behind him, his eyes raking over her. "How strange that I should never have noticed you before, my dear," he said softly.

"I am far below your notice, Master Wormtongue," she said, lifting her chin. "I daresay you would not have noticed me today had I stayed out of your way."

"Perhaps. Perhaps." He moved close to her and trailed his fingers through her long red hair. "It is like fire," he whispered, licking his thin lips.

"You prefer gold to fire," she said.

His fingers slithered over her cheek, down her throat, trembling for a moment over the pulse that fluttered there, throbbing as she ached for what delights he might show her. In a quick motion he grasped the material at the top of her dress and yanked hard. It was thin and tore easily, exposing her breasts.

"You see too much, and you speak too much," he said.

"I think you are seeing much more than I am," she replied, but she did not move to cover herself.

Wormtongue slid his hand inside her torn dress at her waist. His long fingers stroked up her side, over her ribcage, up to her breast, which he palmed in his cool hand. His thumb stroked her nipple into hardness, then he pinched it, twisting roughly until she cried out. The cry was one of pleasure, but he smiled grimly as he mistook it for pain.

"Strip for me, wench," he commanded, withdrawing his hand.

With calculated slowness, Ainewyn removed her torn gown. She turned away from him as she bent to take it off, exposing her naked behind to his view. Whatever he felt, he concealed it well, she thought, for he made no sound. She straightened up and turned back to him, tilting her chin down, looking up at him through her eyelashes. His eyes traveled over her nude body appreciatively. She bit back the urge to ask him how she compared in his estimation to Éowyn, whom he had never seen naked, now. Slowly he removed his long velvet scarf from around his throat with his free hand and set his whip down on the bed.

“Turn around, and seize hold of the bedpost,” he commanded her. “Lift your hands up above your head.”

Ainewyn did as she was told. Wormtongue came up behind her, pressing his body against her back and he used a scarf. She felt his arousal against her rear as he bound her hands securely to the post. She tugged at the bonds when he withdrew and the first tremor of panic skittered down her spine when she realized that she could not break free of them. Ainewyn wrenched her head to the side to look over her shoulder. Having secured her, Gríma took a step backwards to admire his handiwork. The expression on his face was nearly a smile, but it was no look of happiness.

“You cannot escape,” he said.

“I am well aware of that. But I do not wish to escape,” she added, trying to convince herself now as much as him. Why had she volunteered for this torment? Would this really be better than the pawing of Éomer? Wormtongue would not be easy on her.

She forgot her fear as he stepped forward to touch her. His movements were slow and deliberate. She knew that she was offering him a pleasure that he seldom had, even if she was not the one he truly wanted. He slid his hands over her hips first. His fingers were icy cold, and her nipples were already hard and throbbing. Slowly he stroked upwards with both hands over her ribs. It seemed he missed not an inch of skin. She felt his breath at her throat. She inhaled deeply, catching a hint of cloves. Yes, he smelled of cloves -- spicy and sweet and faintly exotic.

His cold hands covered her breasts. He squeezed them slowly, quite unlike the rough way which Éomer would handle them. Again his lean body pressed up against her and again she felt the hardness of him through his robes. She thrust her hips backwards against him. He stood utterly still, so she rubbed herself against him. Abruptly he let go of her breasts, took a step backwards, and smacked her rear end with the flat of his hand. The crack of his flesh against hers rang out sharply in the quiet of the room. Ainewyn gasped, not having expected this.

“Does your mistress know what sort of trollop you are?” he hissed softly.

“I have tried to tell her. She refused to believe me,” Ainewyn said, laughing.

His hand came down on her behind again. She felt a core of heat spiral between her legs to match the burning brand he left on her backside.

“You are sorely in need of discipline. Luckily, I am prepared to give it to you. Before I am finished, you will beg for mercy.”

Ainewyn trembled, but she smiled against the bedpost, hiding her face from him. No, she thought, before he was finished, he would be the one begging her for mercy. Wormtongue picked up the whip and stretched it in his hands. She heard the creak of the well-oiled leather. He cracked it in the air to the left of her head, and she felt the wind of it whipping past. The noise made her jump. It was going to hurt.

“Please...” she whispered.

“So it begins,” he said through gritted teeth and brought the whip down over her back.

Ainewyn closed her eyes and gripped the bedpost tightly, spreading her feet apart to keep her balance. The whip came down again and again, each crack loud and distinct. Each connection was like a lick of flame against her skin. Pain blurred her vision, but it was dulled by the throbbing between her legs. She moaned, whispered his name.

“Gríma...”

She heard the hiss of the whip slithering to the floor, the soft smack of the leather as he dropped it. And then he was upon her, his cold fingers gripping her hips. His lips, as soft as she had dreamed they would be, fluttered over her burning back. His tongue slithered out to lick at the marks left by the whip. She writhed in his embrace. She moaned louder. His breath against her skin was near unbearable.

“Please...” she said again.

He kissed and licked his way from the wounds down to the ripe curve of her behind. Slowly he sank in his teeth, biting her flesh. She gasped again and let out a keening cry. He sucked at the tender spot until she knew it was bruising. It came to her then that he had not whipped her until she bled, and she smiled again. It meant something this, that he had taken this care.

He rose to his feet, his body against hers, and kissed her shoulder. His fingers pressed against the bruise he had made on her rear, then slid down the curve of it to press at her warm, moist core. She throbbed against his hand. She wanted to push down against his fingers, but she dared not. Slowly he began to stroke her, teasing the damp flesh, pinching at it lightly. Pleasure rippled through her. She closed her eyes and rode the tremulous wave.

Wormtongue reached up and untied her hands. She slowly unclenched her fingers from the bedpost and brought her hands down, rubbing at her wrists, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders. He put his arm around her waist and nudged her over a few feet so he could bend her over the bed, her face buried among his soft pillows, pillows that smelled of him, of musk and clove. He pulled up her rear and she felt his robes flowing around her as he entered her from behind.

He bent so that he could fondle her breasts as he thrust against her. She pushed back against him, taking him as deeply as she could. Gríma ground into her, and she heard his breath coming in fast sharp hitches. His flesh slapped against hers. She heard him groan slightly, but he bit back the sound as if he dared not emit it. A moment later, he flooded her with his release. Ainewyn shook and trembled.

Wormtongue collapsed against her. He lay on her back, pressing against the throbbing stripes he had branded her with, but she did not protest or complain. She liked the feeling of his body on top of hers. She felt the urge to roll over, to put her arms around him and hold him, but she knew instinctively that he would never permit it.

After a few minutes, he crawled off of her. He stood up and straightened his robes. Ainewyn got unsteadily to her feet, not daring to lie in his bed. She picked up her torn dress and slipped it on, covering herself as best she could. Hesitantly she looked at him. He was watching her, his expression impossible to fathom.

“You may go,” he said finally.

“Thank you, Master Wormtongue,” she said, trying to sound demure. “I sorely needed discipline.”

He smirked slightly, as close as she had ever seen him come to a smile. “I fear, Ainewyn, that you may need further discipline.”

“You are correct, sir,” she said.

She reached up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth against his for a fraction as a moment. He froze, as if he knew not how to react. Ainewyn turned and left the chamber, knowing this was only the first of many times she would find herself tied to Gríma Wormtongue’s bedpost.

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