Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 96271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
My face burned so hot that I wondered how the penis could still feel warm to me. I had never been so close to a man’s private parts, let alone felt a man leave trails of his lubricating moisture across my eyelids.
I breathed through my nose and thought about nothing, because thinking had become impossible.
“The Sons of Odin,” he said, his voice unhurried, as though he were beginning a lecture, “have kept the old ways for a very long time.” The head of his cock traced the line of my jaw again, downward toward my chin. “Longer than the Pretorian Guard has kept theirs, though they would dispute this.” He paused. I felt the pressure of him against my lower lip, not insistent yet, simply present. “We are not Romans. We do not speak of civilization and its impositions.” A soft sound from his chest. “We speak of the sea. Of the tree. Of what a man takes and what a woman yields.”
My lips had parted again. I wasn’t sure when that had happened.
“Open further,” he said. Quietly. As if it were the most reasonable request in the world. “Put out your tongue. You will receive your Herra now.”
I opened my mouth with a whining whimper. With a surge of helpless need between my thighs at the sheer submissiveness of the childish gesture, I stuck my tongue out and curled it over my lower lip.
He introduced his manhood slowly, a degree of consideration in it that I hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure how to receive. He laid the knob on my tongue and left it there. My jaw stretched around the blunt head of him and I remembered what Nymphobus Oceanus had told me about breathing. I breathed through my nose, my fingers gripping the iron posts hard enough that I could feel the cold of the metal in my knuckles.
“Good,” he said. His hand came to the back of my head, not forcing, simply resting there with a weight that communicated direction without coercion. “That’s very good, lille en. I am your Herra. I am Henrik Magnusson. You will call me Herra Henrik.”
I tried to think about breathing.
“The Sons of Odin were founded,” he continued, his voice carrying the slight roughness of a man making an effort at composure, “in the way that all brotherhoods of consequence are founded. By men who understood that something essential was being lost.”
Herra Henrik moved, a shallow, slow push over my tongue and into my mouth that made my eyes sting at the corners.
“In our case, the old understanding of what men are and what women are, and what passes between them that makes both of them more fully themselves.”
His hand on the back of my head held me still. He thrust his hips forward, though with a gentle pressure. I took him in better than I had supposed I might, because the posts under my hands were steady and I could grip them and breathe and receive him. To my intellect’s horror, some part of me that had been building toward this since the bride saddle found the motion almost natural, though the stretch of my jaw and the weight of him on my tongue remained extraordinary.
“We have kept the sanctuaries. The longships. The bride saddles.” A pause in which his breathing changed, just slightly. “The knowledge of what a vǫlva is, and what she can do, when a warrior is there to discipline her and to use her fisse and her røvhul properly, and to guide her that way to her true potential.”
He withdrew enough to let me breathe, and I drew a long, grateful pull of air through my nose. I felt him rest the head of his penis against my lower lip. The heat from his manhood radiated against my wet mouth.
“You had a vision on the bride saddle,” he said. His thumb moved along the line of my jaw, tilting my face up toward his. I looked at him. His eyes were pale, I realized; a gray that in the torchlight looked almost silver. The scar above his eyebrow caught the light. “Without a Son of Odin present to witness it—let alone to fuck you up into the branches of the Worldtree. Without anyone to hold you through it.” Something moved in his expression that seemed very different from the possessiveness I had seen a moment before. Compassion? Care? “That tells me something very important about you.”
“What?” I whispered. The word came out before I could stop it, and I braced for his response.
But he didn’t reach down and around me to spank my bottom, as I had instantly feared. He looked at me for a long moment, the head of his cock resting warm against my lips, my hands gripping the cold iron posts, my knees on the kneeling stool of an ancient cell beneath a Sicilian city.