Curiosity

Eomer walked back to his tent with his shirt slung over his shoulder and his breeches unlaced and falling loosely around his hips. His long legged stride belied his weariness, though it told greatly of the tension still gripping his body. He should have been exhausted and ready for sleep from a day spent in the saddle. Rather than exhaustion, Eomer felt tightly coiled. Even the bath in the cold spring had done nothing to abate his overwrought state.

He ducked beneath the tent flap and let it fall closed behind him. He tossed his shirt in the corner, near his bed, and sat down on a campstool to remove his boots. As he tossed them aside, he sighed and propped his forearms on his knees. He had not been in Edoras in nearly a month and the long days of patrol began to wear on him. Getting to his feet, he walked towards the table that had been set up for his personal use. On it was some hardtack and dried meat, the normal Rohirrim fare when they were on patrol, and a flagon of cold, sweet water. His gear rested among the food. His favorite knife, usually tucked into his boot lay beside a whip that was never used on his horse, Firefoot.

Eomer picked up the small implement and whirled it around. He could not remember the last time he used it. Firefoot answered readily to the commands of his master's knees and short, shrill whistles. The whip hissed as it moved through the still air. Distantly, he watched the leather spinning and, without really thinking, struck his thigh. He grunted in surprise as the leather connected loudly with his deer hide leggings. He laughed at his own foolishness and set the whip aside.

He took a piece of the meat and chewed it as he stared at the tent walls. His mind replayed the whistle and the crack of the whip. His hand strayed to the bound handle and he paused. What was he doing? His hand closed over the handle, feeling the stout, tightly wound hide wrappings. He twitched his wrist, watching the leather thong slither along the table, as he gently moved his hand back and forth. Try as he might, he could not drag his gaze from the whip.

He felt his skin ripple as he thought about how the leather applied to his flesh might feel. Part of him felt revulsion. Yet, a part of him was curious. He had heard of those who enjoyed the feel of the lash against their skin; those who welcomed, nay, begged to have a lover apply harsh blows to a tender body. He also heard of those who used the whip and flail to mortify the flesh—to erase from their mind and bodies unclean and unholy thoughts. So, which was it? If the whip was a punishment, how was it that some gained pleasure from its wicked kiss? Moreover, if it was pleasure, how did some find it a way to keep their minds and bodies pure?

Absently, Eomer began to move the whip faster, as if his hand raced with his thoughts. He frowned as he concentrated on the strange tingling in his loins. Suddenly, he raised his arm and flipped the lash over his back. The implement cracked through the air and connected with his body just between his shoulder blades. A sharp smacking sound reverberated around the tent immediately followed by Eomer's cry of pain.

He lowered his arm and stared aghast, as if the hand belonged to someone other than himself. He felt the sting where the lash had crossed his skin and his shoulder blades twitched. He tossed the whip aside and moved to collect his shirt, which he then used to wipe at his back as best as he could. The soft leather pulled at the mark across his back, increasing the stinging sensation. Eomer's lips turned up in a snarl and he tossed the shirt away again.

Still his eyes strayed to the whip. His loins tingled with the promise of the wicked, the forbidden. The unknown.

Taking a step towards the table, Eomer forced himself to stop. What was he doing? He asked himself. Whence came this strange and unbidden desire? What evil spell possessed him?

He had no answers; only need. Once more, his hand felt the whip's handle as his long fingers wrapped around it. He slowly dragged the whip off the table and let it hang, swinging gently beside his leg. Eomer wandered away from the table, passing his neatly made pallet, moving around the lit brazier. He stopped beside his stool and stared down at it. He wanted to sit down and think. But he was too restless. To hungry for something that he could not name. Dared not name. His wrist flexed and the whip began to move lazily against his thigh, just above his knee. The end thwacked against his leg, buffered by his leggings.

He turned away from the stool and again paced a circuit of the tent. Each circuit saw an increase of the whip's sway. And each sway moved the lash to different places on his thigh. He could barely feel the lash as it connected, protected as his leg was by the leather. Nor did he swing the whip hard. Swish and tap. Swish and tap. His mind echoed the whip's sound and his flesh answered.

His cock grew harder without his really thinking about it. The stiffening shaft poked from beneath his loosely laced breeches, and bobbed as he paced. He placed his free hand on
his hip for the desire to touch himself was too great and the temptation unnerved him. Every once in awhile, his glance strayed and his fascination grew even as did his desire and need.

Before he realized it, the whip swung harder against his leg, until he could feel the sharp sting through his leggings. He stopped by the center pole and braced his legs and grasped the stout oak with one hand. Taking a deep breath, he swung the whip so that it connected with his inner thigh. The pain caused his member to whither, but oddly, the tingling in his loins only increased. Puzzled, Eomer laid his head against the tent pole and considered his strange reaction and preoccupation.

Why? What was it about this darkness that so appealed to him? Whence came the need to feel pain? Why did his body respond as though to a lover's touch at the thought of the whip?

He flicked his wrist and felt the sting and grunted. He wiped his sweaty forehead against his arm and closed his eyes. Licking his dry lips, he forcibly shut down his mind, refused to let himself think as he began to rhythmically apply the whip to his legs. Not surprisingly, his cock again stirred, coming to life as if with a will opposed to his as the stinging increased.

After a few moments, he realized that he did not feel the whip as sharply as at first. Disappointment filled him and he glared at the whip, as if offended. He dragged it upwards so that the ends trailed over his jutting cock. The handle glided over his sweat-slicked belly. He groaned behind his clenched teeth as his thick member jerked. He moved the leather so that it dragged up and down his shaft, stroking him with its rough-soft texture. His head lolled back and he had to hold tightly to the pole as his knees quivered.

Whatever madness over took him, he relished.

His arm began to swing again, more strongly now. The whip hissed and whistled and cracked as it slammed against his thighs, his hips. A long low moan escaped his throat and his hand upon the pole tightened until his fingers ached. He did not notice as the whip moved faster and harder, marking and scoring his bare flesh as it moved from his thighs to his torso and back down again.

His knees shook and nearly all his weight was supported on his arm as he clung to the tent pole. The stinging became his world, his whole focus. Everything in his life centered on the hiss, swish, slap of the whip. His sharp cries sounded as sweet in his ears as the clarion call of a silver horn. His cock bulged and the dark blue vein running along its underside pulsed as drops of cum pearled at his slit and slowly trickled down to the base. Sweat dripped down his back and onto the ground.

His back arched even as his hips bucked, rocking back and forth, as if plunging in and out of a lover rather than empty air. He needed to touch himself, but could not release his grip on the pole. Nor could he stop the lash from moving across his body for that, he needed most of all. His cries became a desperate whine as the pitch and rhythm of his strokes increased, reflecting his frantic state.

Coated with sweat, his palm could not longer grasp the tent pole and he slowly slid down to his knees. The raw wood burned his skin and the hard ground bit into his knees. Neither equaled or even abated the fire raging through him as the whip licked reddened skin. His hand stole to his cock, fisted it roughly; squeezed it hard. The whip connected with his wrist and he jerked his hand back in surprise, not realizing that he had swung so close to his sensitive member.

That was all it took to send him reeling over the edge. As he arched his back one final time, hot, salty semen spurted from his engorged head and splattered over his raw and bleeding belly. The cuts burned and stung and he clenched his teeth as tremors of pain and pleasure wracked his body. He lay on his back, with his knees bent beneath him at an impossible angle and tried to catch his breath. His arm fell limply at his side and the stinging that he had not felt before left him writhing in pain.

He lifted his head and stared down at the nasty red marks scoring his flesh from his navel down to his hips. Even the rawhide breeches showed signs of his ardor. He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and used the pole to support himself as he rose on unsteady legs. He staggered to the table and grasped the flagon of water. He drank deeply and then poured the rest over his abused skin, washing away blood and semen. He tossed aside the flask and braced his hands on the table. A frown appeared between his dark eyes. What madness had overcome him to inspire such a hideous act upon his own flesh? Eomer did not know. Nor could he stand to even think about what he had done to himself, how he'd reacted to the whip's seductive kiss.

He spied the whip lying discarded on the floor. With a growl he kicked it away from him so that it rolled away under the campstool. In the morning, he would see it burned.