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)
“From this moment,” Sven continued, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic cadence, “you will serve the Sons of Odin with your bodies. You will learn the old ways, the true ways of womanhood that your modern world has forgotten.”
My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and helpless, forbidden excitement surging through my veins. Bed thralls. The term conjured images of Viking warriors claiming trembling maidens, of rough hands on soft flesh. I felt my cheeks burn with shame at the way my body responded to the thoughts.
“Should you bear children during your time of service,” Sven went on, as the other men led us between the rowing benches until as the last in line I stood next to the stern-most bench, the one nearest to Sven; I couldn’t tear my gaze away from him as his eyes swept over our naked forms, “know that they will be well cared for, by you and by us. The Sons of Odin value the fruit of strong bloodlines.”
Children? The idea sent a jolt of panic through me. I was only eighteen, still a virgin. The thought of becoming pregnant, of bearing a child for these strange, dangerous men, seemed terrifying. And yet, some basic, biological part of me thrilled at the idea of being claimed so thoroughly, of my body being used for its most basic purpose.
Suddenly, Sven stepped down from the platform. His hand closed around my upper arm. With a swift, powerful motion, he pulled me away from the line of girls. I stumbled, my bound hands making it difficult to keep my balance on the gently rocking ship. He pulled me toward the nearest rowing bench.
As we moved, I saw the other men doing the same with their chosen thralls. The petite brunette who had been at the front of our line was being roughly manhandled by a burly man with a thick red beard. Camille, the brave girl who had been in front of me, was being led by the university staff member I had recognized earlier. Her eyes met mine for a brief moment, filled with a mixture of fear and determination.
We reached the rowing bench, and Sven’s grip on my arm tightened. He spoke then, but not in French or English. The words that poured from his lips were harsh and guttural, full of hard consonants and rolling Rs. It was the language I had heard him use on the phone, the one that had sounded so beautiful and mysterious then. Now, it filled me with a sense of otherness, of being completely out of my depth.
The other men responded in kind, their voices creating a cacophony of foreign sounds that echoed off the cavern walls. I didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear—this was a command, an order to be followed without question.
With a rough shove, Sven pushed me down onto the rowing bench. I felt the rough wood beneath me as his huge hands forced me onto my belly, my bound hands stretched out in front of me.
He gripped my shoulders, positioning me with an authority that made me shudder. I could feel the heat radiating from his massive body as he loomed over me, his presence overwhelming my senses.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded gruffly in English. When I hesitated, frozen with fear and shame, he growled, “Now, Mary. Don’t make me force you.”
Trembling, I complied, letting my knees fall to either side of the narrow bench. The position left me terribly revealed, my pussy and even my anus on full display. I felt the cool air on my private lips, making me acutely aware of how wet I had become, even as terrified as I was. My face burned with humiliation.
Sven’s hands moved to my wrists, guiding them even further forward. I felt the brush of metal against my skin—an iron ring, I realized, set into the end of the bench. With swift, practiced motions, he began to bind me to it using leather thongs. The material was supple, but strong, and I knew instinctively that there would be no escape from these bonds.
As he worked, I became aware of the sounds around me. The cavern echoed with whimpers, sobs, and occasionally a sharp cry of fear or pain. I turned my head, catching glimpses of the other girls being similarly restrained. The petite brunette was weeping openly, her body shaking with each sob as the red-bearded man roughly positioned her. Camille, in contrast, was eerily silent, her jaw clenched tight as she glared defiantly at her captor.
A particularly loud wail drew my attention. One of the other girls—a willowy blonde—was struggling against her bonds, crying out in rapid French. Her captor responded with a sharp slap to her bottom that echoed through the chamber. The girl’s cries turned to hiccupping sobs.