Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
My fingers fumbled with the zipper, pulling it down with trembling hands. The dress—a conservative gray sheath that Takken had approved for ‘casual Fridays at home’—pooled at my feet. I stepped out of it mechanically, my mind still reeling from what had just happened. The pain had been real. Impossibly, inexplicably real.
The phone buzzed from where I’d dropped it. I bent to retrieve it, acutely aware of my near-nakedness, of the wetness that had gathered between my thighs. Another message waited:
Good girl. Now the rest.
Good girl. The words sent an unwelcome shiver through me. When was the last time anyone had praised me for anything? Takken only noticed me when I failed to meet his expectations.
I unhooked my bra with shaking fingers, let it fall. My panties followed, the damp fabric clinging briefly before I pushed them down my legs. I stood naked before the mirror, arms instinctively moving to cover myself.
Arms at your sides. Look at yourself.
I forced my arms down, made myself meet my own gaze in the mirror. The woman looking back at me seemed like a stranger—pale skin flushed pink, nipples hardened to tight peaks, a sheen of moisture visible on her inner thighs under the dark blonde pubic curls that preserved her modesty, if only slightly. When had I last really looked at my body? When had I last felt anything below the constant, numbing anger?
You’ve been very foolish, Lorna. That forum is monitored. Your husband should already know.
Ice flooded my veins. “No,” I whispered. “That’s not possible. I was careful—”
The laptop. The VPNs. None of it mattered if they’d been watching from the beginning. My knees nearly buckled.
But we intercepted the alert before it reached him. You have two choices now. Submit to our training, or face what Takken will do when he learns of your betrayal.
Training? The word brought a deep crease to my forehead. I typed with a shaking thumb: Who are you?
That’s not one of your choices. Choose.
I stared at my reflection, at this naked woman who’d just committed treason against her husband’s government. The smart thing would be to confess everything to Takken, throw myself on his mercy. Except I knew exactly what his mercy looked like—I’d seen what happened to the minister of finance who’d questioned the Russian deals too loudly. A car accident. His wife institutionalized for ‘grief-induced psychosis.’
My thumb moved across the screen: I submit.
The response was immediate:
Play with that sweet little cunt. Watch yourself as you make yourself come.
CHAPTER 2
Lorna
Heat flooded my face. The command was so crude, so direct. My fingers trembled as I moved them between my legs, finding myself already slick with arousal beneath the crisp, curly hair that always stirred such mixed feelings in me. In the mirror, I watched this stranger who wore my face begin to touch herself at the command of an anonymous message.
I’d masturbated before, of course. Quiet, furtive sessions in the shower when Takken was away. But never like this. Never while watching myself, never at someone else’s command. The humiliation of it made my cheeks burn, but beneath that shame, something else stirred. To my dismay, for a moment I had the sense that it had arisen in the same place as my ancient feeling, as if the dormant part of me that had awakened when I had decided to try to act on my husband’s corruption—the Viking feeling it had given me to rebel that way—had led me also to this mortifying scene of forced self-pleasure.
My fingers circled my clit, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan. In the mirror, I saw my hips begin to rock slightly, my other hand, the phone still in it, moving instinctively to rub my nipple with the back of my thumb. When had I last felt genuine pleasure? When had my body last responded to anything but anger?
The phone buzzed, and I looked down at it, a new flash of heat scalding my cheeks:
Don’t be shy. I want to hear you.
A whimper escaped my throat. Whoever was watching—because they were obviously watching, and listening somehow—wanted me to perform. The thought should have revolted me. Instead, I found myself spreading my legs wider, giving my reflection a better view as my fingers worked faster.
“Oh, God,” I gasped, no longer trying to stay quiet. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears—desperate, needy. “Please… sir…”
Sir, Lorna? You may call me Herra.
The word on my phone brought an unexpected sob of need from my chest. Herra: the Old Norse word for master. He—it must be a he, mustn’t it—hadn’t even bothered to ask whether I meant my husband or… him… whoever was commanding my lewd display… whoever had some way of punishing me in my most intimate places.
My Herra.
My fingers slipped inside myself, and I moaned at the sensation. How long since I’d been filled by anything? Takken’s pathetic efforts in the past few months hardly counted.