Title: Shadow of a Man
Author: The Wingèd Fetus 
E-mail: BlueComaEyes@aol.com
Pairing: Gríma/Saruman, Saruman/Gríma
Rating: NC-17 
Summary: Hm, what to say without giving too much of the plot away? 
Saruman puts his powers to a . . . twisted use. 0_o
Disclaimer: Fetus no own characters, Tolkien holds claim to these 
darlings. 
Warning: Hrm, I suppose mild het content (but not really), and 
everybody’s favorite . . . a big helping of non-con. 




Gríma watched coldly from the windows of his Isengard chambers as the 
Uruk-hai marched beyond the horizon, towards Helms Deep. Their 
disciplined marching sounded like a Dooms Day beat, woe to those who 
heard its rhythm, and woe to those it was pounding for. The Uruk-hai had 
been departing from Isengard for a handful of hours now, an army of 
10,000 strong did not move quite so quickly.  Unsuprisingly, Gríma found 
himself thinking once more of Éowyn. Her fair face floated in his memory 
. . . what would become of Éowyn? Would she be slaughtered by the dark 
army? Her brightness forever snuffed out? It would not matter now, she 
was gone, whether she lived or died he would not see her again—his 
thoughts halted. 
    
The air around him suddenly grew thick and heavy. His eyes felt as lead 
weights as an overbearing heat stole over his body. Suddenly, as quickly 
as it came, it was born away by a swift cooling summers breeze, moving 
like a ghost across the dim musty room. It swirled about his head and 
filled his nostrils with a mysterious, unexplained sweetness. Gríma’s 
heavy eyes rolled over his chambers, seeking the source of the breeze. A 
fine sheen of sweat misted his sallow forehead. Swollen strings of ebon 
hair hung in front of his face. And there, in his doorway, like a pale 
specter, a woman stood there swathed in silks so virgin white it almost 
burned his eyes. Gríma’s mind processed her ghostly skin, her lake-blue 
eyes, and her hair. . . her hair that spilled down her back and ran over her 
shoulders like a river of gold.  It was. . but no. . could it be? Why of all 
places would she be here in Isengard, and in his chambers no less? But it 
was. . she was here. . 

Éowyn. His Éowyn . . . 

Éowyn . . . whose face he haunted his thoughts on those cold nights alone 
in Edoras. Éowyn. . . who he watched from the shadows, in secret, in the 
dark.

Gríma’s mind tried to reason with him. No . . . this must be some elaborate 
trick, he thought. Sudden, incredible heat throbbed behind his eyes and all 
thoughts of trickery were washed from his mind like waves ebbing from 
the shore. 

She was here, it was her.

“Éowyn?. .” Gríma ventured. She graced him with a smile as soft and pink 
as rose petals, her blue eyes glittering like the sea. The sweet breeze 
seemed almost to drug Gríma. As though in a dream they moved towards 
each other. Éowyn slinked prettily beneath her cream-colored silks. 
They were now close enough to kiss. Gríma blinked, and heat swam 
across his vision. “Why do you not speak, Éowyn?” he said. “Shhh. . . .” 
she purred and placed a slender white finger to his dry, black lips. Gríma 
lost himself in that one tiny gesture, his shivering flesh bloomed with 
goosebumps. He found himself gently sighing against her soft finger. 

With that she pressed her lips to his, cupping his face with her slim hands.
Gríma felt her sweet mouth opening like flower. Her small wet tongue 
worked against his . . . Tears stung and threatened to fall from his eyes.
Growing suddenly bolder, Gríma timidly reached up and ran his fingers 
through the golden lambs wool of her locks . . . 

Saruman felt Gríma’s fingers grip his stiff white hair, his hand moved to 
the back of his skull, deepening the kiss. Saruman responded in kind, 
moving his hands from Gríma’s face to run his fingers into his greased 
hair, and Gríma let a moan escape his lips, before he broke away from 
Saruman to kiss down his neck, to flicker his tongue like a serpant behind 
his ear. All the while muttering,

“Éowyn. . Éowyn. . Éowyn. .”

Saruman smiled to himself (making Éowyn smile) and snickered softly 
(undoubtedly sending bell-like laughter through the mouth of Éowyn). It 
was obvious that his spell had worked, Gríma had at first resisted, trying 
to tell himself it was impossible for Éowyn to be in Isengard. 

But it was easy to persuade him otherwise, Gríma’s mind was as weak as 
his inhibitions.  Gríma, still muttering his mantra, had grown daring with 
his advances as his hands had strayed to the collar of Saruman’s robes, 
suckling his collarbone. Grinning, Saruman pushed Gríma away from him 
for an instant to grasp the other man’s forearms and led him, walking 
backwards to the bed.  Saruman watched a look of wonder and 
dumbfounded ness cross over Gríma’s clouded eyes. 

Gríma moved as though in a daze. He was in awe of her boldness and she 
led him towards his own bed. She was so willing to be taken by him, and it 
was beyond Gríma to pry away from her advances. She pulled him down 
onto the mattress with him on top of her, she grasped his hair and their 
mouths met beautifully again in a deep kiss, more forceful that before. 
By now Gríma’s arousal was more than obvious. His erection twitched 
painfully, straining against his tattered raven-dark robes and grinding into 
her belly as he writhed atop her form. Gríma’s hands flew like birds to the 
strings drawn taught across her breast, holding her dress closed. 

He attacked the bonds impatiently, all doubt and puzzlement gone from 
his mind, he was no more unnerved by her mysterious silence.
 
Even if this were a dream, than he would do with this dream-Éowyn 
whatever his heart desired, she was a gift, a doll, Perhaps . . . his mind 
though absently Perhaps even Saruman had something to do with this, 
perhaps he has bewitched her for me . . . And his body flushed warmly. 
Her dress was now loose about her shoulders, her skin as brilliantly white 
as her gown. Gríma made a small noise in his throat and once against 
resumed kissing her neck, licking and biting with no real rhythm or grace. 
He was trying to taster all of her, to devour her. His lips found her small 
breasts, firm and soft like ripe peaches, her nipples like red berries, he 
wondered if they would taste as sweet. 

His hands became frantic butterflies taking special care to flutter about 
those sweet buds, letting his tongue flicker over them . . .

Saruman watching through slitted eyes as Gríma’s hands roamed the 
hollows of his chest, laving at his flat, brown nipples with a greedy 
tongue. He lay splayed beneath Gríma letting his legs wrap loosely around 
Gríma’s waist the way a woman might. He had Éowyn moan. 

Gríma paused his attention to grasp the loose cloth of Saruman’s robe and 
pull it down the rest of his body, his fog blue eyes shining like an eager 
child’s. 

Gríma stopped only for a moment to gaze at her almost glowing form, her 
golden hair spilling like splash of sunshine over his musty blankets, a 
bursting star in the dusk. The hair at the juncture of her ivory thighs was as 
brilliant as her locks, and beneath them her pink lips here swollen, 
suffused, and most certainly wet and ready for him. 
    
He allowed a nervous finger to whisper over her nether-lips and when she 
gasped softly he pushed his hand forward and sunk into her. She was tight, 
and warm, he slid another digit into her again and the silken walls closed 
in on his fingers, pulling them. 

Saruman winced faintly at the dry intrusion, he has forgotten to take into 
account he was lacking a woman’s natural wetness as he felt Gríma’s 
fingers massaging inside the tight hollow. He let himself moan throatily 
and spread his legs to entice Gríma further, and at this Gríma halted and 
looked into Saruman’s face with a most deadpan look as sweat beaded his 
brow. 

   
“I do not know what fates delivered you here, my dear Éowyn . . .” Gríma 
spoke in a hoarse voice. His thoughts trailed off as soon as he had spoken 
these words, and he decided them useless. Words, words, words . . . what 
use were words? This was now a time for action. 

On that thought Gríma withdrew his fingers (swiftly you see, for Saruman 
gasped at the sudden jerk). Still fully clothed in his tattered garb Gríma 
pulled only at his breeches, which he ripped free and bunched at his knees. 
Gríma’s cock sprang free, it was as ashen skinned as the rest of his body; 
unkempt pubic hairs curled like spiders legs around the base of his shaft.
Without so much as a word, the only warning a lustful glint in his eyes and 
his tongue protruding from his teeth, Gríma thrust roughly into Éowyn, 
causing her to cry out. 

For an instant her face twisted hideously in pain and for that second 
Gríma’s stomach lurched in revulsion but then she grasped at his neck and 
bucked her hips against his, flinty wimpers escaping her lips. 

Saruman could only grunt as Gríma flailed against him, pounding away 
deep inside with as much force as a battering ram. Their bellies bucked 
against each other as Saruman’s own erection was crushed beneath Gríma, 
rubbing across the mottled shirts he wore. Like his kissing Gríma’s 
lovemaking was graceless, it was demanding and starved, taking but not 
giving back.  
   
Saruman smiled wickedly at the misplaced lust of his servant and began to 
laugh. Gríma then sunk his teeth into Saruman’s shoulder, snarling like an 
animal and grasped at the brittle ivory locks again, yanking forcefully 
while he thrust on. His forehead smeared greasily against Saruman’s 
cheek. 

It wasn’t until after he had grabbed her hair that Gríma noticed she was 
laughing. Softly at first but it steadily grew louder. Nevertheless his mind 
was occupied by her intense heat . . . her tightness; sliding into her was 
like coming into some slick warm oil. . . It became too much for Gríma 
she was so exquisite, so delicious . . . It had been so long, so very long. . 
With a hoarse grunt he emptied himself into her. Gríma panted, he 
remained inside her and still held a grip on her hair. Weakly smiling he 
looked into her eyes. 

Éowyn’s eyes opened wide, they were no longer the color of sky, they 
were dark, and glittering with a sinister fire. Gríma reeled back as the 
golden strands in his fist turned the color of old water and grew stiff. Her 
breasts melted into flat planes, her skin grew withered as her angelic face 
grew gaunt and turned up into a nasty leer. 

Gríma gaped like a choking fish as he reeled his body back and stared. He 
was on his knees, buried to the hilt inside his master, Saruman, whose 
body glistened with sex sweat, a drugged look on his face but his dark 
eyes sharp and clear as stars. Gríma’s cock wilted like old fruit, 
   
He chuckled evilly, his lean belly rumbled with laughter. “Ha ha heh, 
what’s the matter, Gríma? Don’t appreciate my ruse?” 
    
“You . . . why. . . I?” Gríma wheezed. 
   
Saruman rose up on the bed while Gríma shrank back. “You should be 
grateful I did this for you, Gríma Wormtongue, you disgusting shadow of 
a man.” Saruman’s eyes remained bright his mouth turned up in a fiendish 
grin. 

“Saruman . . .” Gríma whimpered, like a beaten dog. His tearing eyes 
dropped to his master’s erect cock, it looked very much like a dangerous 
animal. Gríma had a sudden horrid desire to flee. And as he jerked sharply 
backward Saruman seemed to read his mind and shot out his hand, 
splaying bony fingers at Gríma. 

“Ah—!” Gríma choked. His body seemed to come to a boil as his limbs 
tired and went limp, his eyelids grew heavy once more. Gríma flopped like 
a doll back onto his bed, sprawled over the naked form of Saruman. “Ah, 
Gríma,” mused Saruman,

“You’re too easy . . . so easily deceived. Helpless in my hands.” With 
those words he moved Gríma beneath him and stripped him of his 
clothing. 

He peeled off his mottled cloak, his vest, his shirt, and tugged off his 
soiled leggings. Gríma lay naked, shivering and utterly glassy with sweat, 
his waxen flesh looking almost pearlescent. His misty eyes rolled as 
sluggishly as his body. Saruman seized Gríma’s hips and flipped him onto 
his belly. He rubbed his cock between the younger man’s globes of flesh, 
a crimson eye, screwed shut, offered him his challenge.  Gríma groaned 
his helpless frustration into the pillows as he felt Saruman’s tongue 
probing him, opening him up, the way Éowyn’s mouth had—Gríma’s 
thoughts screeched to a sickened halt. Saruman was licking him up and 
down, her felt his fingers caressing him further open, then the wizard slid 
in his thumb. Gríma cried feebly again but it was in vain. 

Seconds later he felt the head of Saruman’s cock pressing against his 
protesting flesh. Gríma lay prone, unable to move or scream as the White 
Wizard impaled him, stabbing his gut, and holding his hips in a vice grip. 
Saruman drove into him, grinding without mercy, snapping his hips 
forward and forcing Gríma further and further into the pillows. Gríma 
could only grunt helplessly, sloppy tears escaping his fear-widened eyes. 
It was undoubtedly blood that greased the cock of the great Saruman as he 
continued to drill into Gríma’s virgin cavern. Saruman pulled out and 
flipped Gríma onto his back. He seized his legs and pushed them up and 
out, he dove back into Gríma with only a moment missed and continued 
his onslaught.  Gríma’s cock could not help but jump, and weep slow 
crystal tears as Saruman pounded against his prostate, turning his 
unmoving legs to jelly, and sending shivers down his spine. The wizard’s 
clenched face was within kissing distance, jewels of moisture beaded his 
brow as his long white hair cascaded in curtains over Gríma’s face. 
Saruman gave a great gasp of breath and Gríma felt himself flooded by a 
liquid fire. Saruman kneeled there, unmoving still inside Gríma. He then 
fixed the wimpering man with a firm stare and withdrew, Gríma could feel 
his arms and legs lightening, his eyes opened wide and a high desperate 
noise leaked from his lips. Like the cry of a hurt child. 

Saruman cleaned himself off on Gríma’s cloak at threw it at him, watching 
as Gríma could only pull his clothes to himself and curl into a ball. His 
hair hiding his wet eyes. 

“Why, my Lord?” came the tiny plea as Saruman adjusted his robes. 

“Because,” Saruman answered matter-of-factly, “You are mine, Gríma. To 
do with as I please, and not be questioned by my subordinates.” With 
those words his gripped Gríma by the jaw and tossed him back, just as 
Éomer had done before his banishment at Edoras. 

A slinking underling, a beaten dog, a worm. Nothing more than that. The 
sound of Gríma’s chamber doors banging shut echoed through his skull. 
Saruman was gone, but who’s to say when he would come back? Would 
he dare to wrack Gríma’s mind again as he had just done? Or were their 
new tortures in store for him?  No ... Gríma thought. He would prove to 
the White Wizard that this sniveling dog was not one to be messed with... 

He would see.  Gríma lay back and imagined thick dark blood running 
from a ragged slice in Saruman’s neck. Running slow and sticky and 
burning down his flesh, the same way the wizard’s seed ran out of him 
then. 
    
Gríma smiled, and outside the pounding of iron soles beat on. 


~*Non finire*~