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)
Camille followed, her face determined despite the fear I knew she must be feeling. The Nuptae walked behind us, the sensation of slack in the leashes keeping us moving forward across the narrow span, so as not to invite any punishment. I forced myself not to look down into the red-tinged darkness on either side, focusing instead on the far end of the bridge where another chamber awaited.
As we crossed the midpoint of the bridge, I felt a strange shift in the energy around us. The air seemed to thicken, to take on a weight and presence that hadn’t been there before. My völva senses, heightened by the stress and the lingering effects of Sven’s punishment, detected currents of power flowing through this place—ancient, primal energies that reminded me of the way Yggdrasil’s branches had felt in my visions, yet somehow different, shaped by human hands and human desires over countless generations.
My rational mind told me that the idea must have come from my mind’s attunement with countless details unnoticed in themselves. At the same time, I realized yet again that even if such feelings hadn’t originated in anything beyond reality they nevertheless carried essential information: emerging knowledge to which I must lend close attention.
We reached the far side of the bridge and stepped into what could only be the Hall of Mithras Marmareus had referred to. The space opened before us, as vast and imposing as the Hall of Initiation on the other side of the abyss, its ceiling lost in shadows above. Unlike the Hall of Initiation, with its dancing flames and intricate mosaics, this chamber was more austere, more functional in its design.
At its far end, six feet or so from the wall, stood a long table of polished stone, its surface gleaming in the ruddy light. The table was immense, seemingly carved from a single slab of obsidian, so polished I could see the distorted reflections of torchlight dancing across its surface. Behind it stood five high-backed chairs that resembled thrones, their frames wrought from some dark metal, cushioned with blood-red velvet. The chairs seemed positioned for observation of the center of the room, where I now saw something that made my breath catch in my throat.
Two low pieces of furniture stood there, constructed of a wood as dark as the obsidian of the table. I saw leather, too: surfaces padded and upholstered. The raked angle of their tops and the platforms for elbows and knees made their purpose unmistakable, even before I noticed the metal rings embedded at various points along their length. These were not merely benches, of the sort aboard the Sons of Odin’s ritual ship—the Pretorian Guard’s versions were elaborate fucking apparatus, designed to display and position a woman’s body for maximum accessibility.
I couldn’t help reveling for a moment in the difference: my Herra and his shield-brother didn’t need such fancy appurtenances. The Sons of Odin brought a subtly different sort of civilization, I abruptly understood… a simpler one, walking a sort of middle road that kept alive their wild Viking spirit while building on the knowledge the human race had developed over the millennia.
Marmareus stepped forward, his red robe swirling around him. His skin seemed aflame in the chamber’s dim light, his classical features set in an expression of solemn purpose. He gazed at Sven and Erik, then at the enormous men—the Nymphobi, I remembered—who flanked them, before turning his attention to Camille and me.
“Futuamus has columbas una,” he intoned, his voice resonating through the chamber with ritualistic gravity.
I heard Cassandra’s whispered translation beside me, her breath warm against my ear. “The Leo said, ‘Let us fuck these girls together.’”
A shiver ran through me at the words, at their casual brutality clothed in ceremonial language. My pussy clenched traitorously, my body responding to the promise of use even as my mind reeled with confusion and fear. I looked to Sven, desperate for some sign, some clue as to what I should do, how I should respond.
His ice-blue eyes met mine briefly before turning to Marmareus. Then, in a voice that carried the weight of ancient forests and frozen fjords, he replied in Danish, “Lad os nyde deres mund, deres fisse og deres røvhuller.”
The few words of Danish I had picked up in my days of training in the Sons of Odin’s base beneath Rouen were enough to guess with a bit of confidence at a translation of his words. They sent a jolt of shocked arousal through my core: “Let us enjoy their mouths, their cunts, and their assholes.” My Herra, my master, offering me up to these men, agreeing to share me with them—not just my body but, specifically, every intimate opening I possessed.
I should have felt betrayed, should have felt abandoned. Instead, I felt a perverse relief, a surrender of responsibility. If Sven commanded it, then it was right. If he gave permission for my use, then I could yield without guilt, could do as he had given me permission to do at the beginning of this confusing mission: I could enjoy it.