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)
I looked down, breathless, and saw only fragments of the straps disappearing into the workmanship of the saddle. I had been here before and had not seen them. That fact did something strange to me. It felt as if the chamber had withheld things even from my hyperattentive mind until I had grown ready to understand what they meant.
Henrik gave the strap at my hip a final pull, making me cry out softly as the pressure of the wood against my sex, through the leather, increased.
“These are not your Ostia leathers, lille en,” he said. His voice had settled into its grave, rough register. He put one palm on my bottom and held me still there, as if to emphasize the distinction.
“Those leathers are to quiet a girl. To civilize her and to teach her not to struggle. These…” His hand moved to the leather binding my thigh, then to the curve of my breast, then back down between my spread legs where he let one finger brush the wetness he himself had made worse. “These serve a different purpose. A bed thrall is bound here not to suppress her wildness, but to hold it in place so her master may enjoy it as he likes.”
The words sent a fresh pulse of need through me, deep and humiliating. My body answered them before my mind could parse their implications. I tugged once, involuntarily, against the leather and discovered immediately that he had spoken the truth. The restraints did not flatten me into passivity. They held me in a state of heightened, throbbing helplessness, preserving every movement I wanted to make and denying its completion.
He turned away from me then, and I followed him with my eyes in a kind of panic made of need. In the corner of the chamber stood a stool I had not noticed before, ornate and heavy, carved in the same visual language as the ship and the saddle. I had been in this room and had not seen it, either. He brought it forward and set it directly before me, at the precise distance where a seated man could position his lap beneath my face.
To my mortification, my mouth instantly began to water.
He removed his clothes without haste. Jacket first. Shirt. Trousers. The shedding of modern fabric in that room seemed to turn my master once more into exactly what the carvings had prepared me to recognize: not a man role-playing antiquity, but a man in whom antiquity remained fully alive. The scar above his brow. The broad chest. The heavy cock already hard, flushed darker at the head, still glossy with traces of me.
I stared at it, my heart beating. I felt obedient… respectful… reverential… but I also knew I couldn’t have looked away even if I hadn’t feared punishment for meeting my master’s eyes.
He crossed to the wall and took down a strap from a hook there. Something else my mind, it seemed, had failed to take in when I had come here before. I began to suspect that my unconscious had a great deal more up its sleeve than I had ever supposed.
The strap looked simpler and crueler than the Roman mastix; an authoritative length of old leather, shaped for a warrior’s hand. He tested its weight once in the air and the tiny sound it made cut straight through me.
Then he sat.
The simple fact of our relative positions sent a clench through my core so strong that I thought I might come before he even touched me again. I lay bound and spread on the bride saddle, naked and throbbing and already half ridden by the pressure of the leather and the wood under me, while my master sat similarly naked but, crucially, in comfort and at his leisure before me on the ornate stool. He had his punishment strap in one hand and his cock in the other, its hard shaft jutting toward my face like a command that had always existed.
“Attend to your Herra,” he said simply.
I only had to lean forward a few inches. My open mouth hovered over the purple head of his manhood, my brow creasing so hard I thought it would stay that way. My master let go of his hardness, took hold of the back of my head, and drew me that last distance. I could feel the weight of the pendant, tiny though the ivory disk was, as if the wunjo there wanted to make its meaning known.
His thick cock entered my mouth with a taste that made me whine instantly. Salt, heat, and the unmistakable tang of my own pussy from his having just used me over the bench.
My cunt, my mind whispered to itself. I taste my cunt on the cock I must serve.
That knowledge of that seemed to short out some remaining circuit of civilized selfhood in me. He carried my body’s need to my lips and fed it back to me on his manhood.