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)
He pulled me off the slick shaft of his penis.
“My bottom,” I cried. “Please… my… my bottom—”
He struck me again and the pain opened the words fully.
“Fuck my røvhul,” I begged him. “Please, Herra, please fuck my bottom, please…”
The chamber went still around the sentence. I heard myself panting. I heard, beneath it, the distant sea in the stone or perhaps only the rush of blood in my own ears.
Henrik thrust himself into my mouth one final time, then withdrew his manhood with deliberate slowness. My lips felt swollen and empty at once. He stood. The stool scraped softly as he moved it aside with one foot.
I looked up at him through tears and heat and could barely endure the expression on his face. It held satisfaction, yes, and triumph, but also something darker and more solemn: the gravity of a man in the midst of an ancient ritual, at a point where the victim had just declared herself a willing sacrifice.
He moved around behind me.
I could not see him. That made everything worse.
I heard him spit into his palm. The intimate ugliness of the sound sent a shock through my whole body. Then a different sound: his hand moving on himself, wet and practical, preparing his cock. My breath came faster and faster. I felt the bride’s consolation still present where my body had frantically used it; felt the leather at my thighs, my wrists, my waist; felt the fresh, burning marks all over my skin. I felt Giovanna and Mateo still there, still silent. I felt the cavern, the longship, and all the carved women who had gone before me in this posture.
Then his hand came between my whipped cheeks.
His fingers spread me. One callused thumb pressed briefly at the small ring I had offered him in my frantic words. My whole body clenched. He made a low sound behind me, almost approving.
“Hold still, lille en,” he said.
As if I could have done anything else.
Then I felt the broad, slick head of his cock settle against the tiny bud of my anus.
The contact alone seemed almost unbearable. He waited. Only the weight and heat of my master’s cock placed there, as if claiming the place in advance, teaching it to expect his possession. My mouth fell open on a whimper that had no words in it.
Then a whisper emerged.
“Please.” Language had reduced itself to this one shape. “Please.”
He pushed just enough to make the ring of my anus first resist and then begin to yield.
I thought for one suspended instant that the chamber had begun to change around me, and then I understood: my own mind was opening, under pressure, the way my body did. That realization didn’t change how it felt at all, though, and I welcomed the fictive supernatural quality of my vision with no less wonder than if it had come from some real magic in the earth.
The stone around me seemed to deepen, somehow. The imaginary darkness into which the carved chamber roof mutated did not feel like a ceiling at all but a canopy. Branches, I thought wildly. Or the possibility of branches.
Herra Henrik did not thrust. He held the head of his cock against the unopened flower. He worked its lewd pressure with terrifying patience, making my body learn the dimensions of the masculine authority it was about to receive. I rocked helplessly against the bride’s consolation, and that tiny movement changed the angle enough that he gave a short, rough laugh behind me.
“Yes,” he said softly. “That’s right. Ride the saddle while I open your sweet little røvhul.”
The obscenity of the phrase, and the feeling of deep inevitability I could hear in his voice, broke through another layer inside me. I moaned and obeyed, not because I chose to pleasure myself but because my body had accepted my master’s power over me much, much faster than my mind could object. Each helpless movement rubbed my clit and pressed my anus more insistently onto the broad crown of his rigid cock. With each movement, I felt the pendant with its rune swing as if in emphasis.
Pain bloomed through me in a white, unbearable ring that seemed to be made equally of violation and invitation.
At the edge of my hearing, Giovanna’s voice filled the chamber with its usual cool exactness.
“Sven confirms from Rouen,” she said. “He is mounting Mary now.”
For one dizzy instant I could see nothing but my imagination of it: the other girl, somewhere far to the North, bent and bound on another saddle, another man behind her, the same shameful, ancient rite taking hold of her body at the very moment mine opened beneath my master’s hand and cock.
I had never seen Mary. I knew almost nothing about her except the name, the implication of youth and submission like mine. Yet the idea that she and I were being used this way together—two women hundreds of miles apart, both with our masters thrusting into our smallest, most embarrassing place—made humiliation flood so hotly through me that I nearly fainted with it.