Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Six strokes,” he announced, his voice stern.
Then I gasped, softly, because I had heard also, somehow, something else: as if the sight of his gorgeous face had activated the völva in me—the seeress he had begun to train.
Feel me in each lash, Mary. Feel our connection.
I nodded minutely, understanding blooming within me like a dark flower. This punishment wasn’t merely for show, wasn’t just to maintain his cover among these men. It was a reclamation, a restoration of the bond between us that had been strained by my captivity, my use at the hands of Leo Marmareus. Each stroke would rewrite the marks left by another man, would replace them with Sven’s own signature upon my flesh.
The first lash fell across my shoulders, the knotted tails of the mastix finding every nerve ending with unerring precision. I cried out, unable to contain the sound as fire erupted across my skin. The pain was clean, honest, delivered by the hand that owned me truly.
The second stroke landed lower, across my shoulder blades, crossing the fading welts left by Marmareus earlier. I felt the difference immediately—where his punishment had been clinical, designed to break down resistance, Sven’s carried an intimate knowledge of my body, my responses, my limits.
The third and fourth lashes fell in quick succession, crisscrossing my upper back, drawing gasps and sobs from my throat. Tears streamed down my face now, but they weren’t tears of shame or despair. They were tears of recognition, of homecoming, of the paradoxical relief that came from being truly seen, truly known.
The fifth stroke landed across the fullest part of my bottom, reigniting the welts left by Marmareus’ earlier punishment. I screamed, sure that at least this violation of the Guard’s rule would prove acceptable to these hard men.
The sixth and final stroke was the harshest yet, the knotted tails of the mastix finding the tender junction where my bottom met my thighs. I howled, my back arching, my body convulsing with the intensity of the pain. But beneath that pain, like a current of molten gold running through base metal, was something else—something profound and intimate that belonged only to Sven and me.
As the initial shock of the final lash faded into a throbbing heat, I felt it—the reconnection, the reestablishment of the bond that had been strained, but never broken. My völva sense opened like a third eye, and I perceived Sven not just with my physical senses, but with something deeper, more primal. I felt his essence reaching for mine across the gulf that separated us, his dominance wrapping around me like invisible bonds far more powerful than the leather restraints that adorned my body.
My breathing came in ragged gasps as I struggled to compose myself. I could feel the welts rising on my skin, my flesh remembering the shape of the mastix, the weight of Sven’s hand. The pain had begun to transform itself already, melting into the familiar warm glow that I had come to associate with my master’s discipline. My pussy throbbed with shameful arousal, my nipples hard and aching even through the humiliation of being punished before these strange men.
“Thank you, Sven,” Marmareus said to Sven, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect. “You are indeed a skilled tamer of your bed thralls. Such mastery of the mastix is rare, even among those steeped in our traditions. You maintain order and civilization with skill and precision.”
I remained kneeling, head bowed, hands still raised above me though Sven had released his grip on my wrists. I could feel sweat trickling down my spine, mingling with the welts left by the mastix, creating a stinging sensation that kept me acutely present in my body despite the dreamy aftermath of punishment.
“The discipline and use of women is the foundation of civilization,” Sven replied, his voice carrying the perfect blend of authority and philosophical detachment. If I hadn’t known him so intimately, I might have believed him truly one of them. “Without it, chaos reigns.”
“Indeed,” Marmareus agreed. “Which brings us to the matter at hand.” He turned his attention to Camille and me, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight. “These Columbae have shown promise, notwithstanding their… unconventional recruitment. The time has come for them to advance in their training, to be initiated as Nuptae.”
Nuptae—like Cassandra and Viola. A new rank in the confusing labyrinth of the Guard’s hierarchy. I glanced at Camille, seeing my own confusion mirrored in her wide eyes. We had seen how Nuptae moved, how they spoke, their apparently perfect obedience.
“It is important,” Erik said suddenly, his voice carrying across the Hall of Fire, addressing Camille directly, “that you accept this initiation without knowing what it will involve or what it means.”
The unexpected statement made me catch my breath. Erik’s words seemed loaded with hidden meaning, his gaze intense as it flickered between Camille and me. Like Sven, he wore the ceremonial robe with a disturbing naturalness, as if he had been born to it rather than donning it as some sort of courtesy extended by the Pretorian Guard.