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)
The point was that I could see it, there, looming over my dreamscape.
I woke with salt on my lips, and it took me long moments to remember that that brine must have come from my tears at my brutal defloration on my new master’s cock, rather than the brine of the sea.
CHAPTER 21
Ilsa
I kept my eyes closed, trying to hold onto the details of the dream. The longship. The three men. The tree at the horizon.
I tried to hold onto it, the way I always tried to keep dreams that felt significant—staying very still, eyes closed, breathing shallowly as if the images were something that might startle and scatter at the first wrong movement. The salt smell. The gray sky. The worn smoothness of the bench against my belly. The way the tree had stood at the edge of the world and simply waited.
The East. Something stirring in the East. Ymir’s body.
I pressed the details flat against the inside of my closed eyelids and tried to fix them there, as if I were pressing rubbing paper against an inscription in the field—firm, patient, hoping the impression would hold.
Then my new master’s hand moved between my thighs, and the dream dissolved entirely.
His fingers worked with a slow, careful knowledge. The idea came to me that he had been awake long enough to decide exactly how he wanted to ready my body for his use. I understood, in that first confused moment of real waking, that his hand had already been there for some time—that the slickness he was finding on his fingertips, rubbing up and down my sensitive inner lips, was at least partly his doing, accomplished while I had slept through the last edges of the dream. The realization brought heat to my face so acute it seemed to radiate off the furs.
“Herra—” I started.
“Shh.” His lips found the back of my neck, a slow press that silenced me even more effectively than the word had. His fingers kept moving. “The need is urgent upon me, lille en. I’ve lain here long enough.” A pause, and his breath was warm against my nape. “It will hurt again. I know that. I’ll try to be gentle.”
The sob that came out of me had no obvious meaning. It didn’t mean yes, it didn’t mean no, it didn’t mean please stop, and it didn’t mean please don’t stop. It seemed to contain all of those things layered over one another in some ratio I couldn’t have calculated. I felt my hips move, pressing my bottom… the bottom he had spanked and told me so much about… pressing that too-important part of me back against him. I understood with a renewed blush that my body had made its own assessment of the situation while my mind was still trying to assemble a vocabulary.
Henrik made a low sound of what I could only describe as satisfaction. I felt him move the head of his manhood up and down, then back and forth. I felt him find the passage he had opened with such authority, the grotto where his rigid penis had thrust in as he bestrode me between the iron posts, so as to make me his. Then he pressed forward with a steady movement of his sinewy lap, and I cried out softly into the furs as I felt my sore vagina taken again by my master’s hardness.
He was gentle. He tried to be.
I could feel the deliberateness of it in the way he moved—the careful, controlled rhythm, the hand that had shifted from between my thighs to my hip to hold me steady rather than to grip me with the urgency he had shown the night before. The pain was there, duller than the first time but present, an ache laid over the deeper soreness already residing at my center, and I pressed my face into the fur and breathed through it.
Then I felt him harden further inside me, and I couldn’t suppress the piteous whimper of alarm and discomfort that rose from my throat.
It was not a decision he had made. I understood that instinctively, the way I had understood the bench, the way the below-threshold part of me understood things before the rest of me caught up. The sheer physical fact of my newly opened pussy around him was doing something to his restraint that his intentions apparently couldn’t fully contain. I felt it in the way his hand tightened on my hip, in the way his breath changed against the back of my neck, in the way the careful rhythm developed a quality that was no longer purely deliberate.
“God,” he murmured, very low, in a voice stripped of its careful construction. “You feel…” He stopped. He made the effort, I could feel it, to slow himself. His hand moved from my hip to my front, his fingers finding the small, aching bud at the crest of me and beginning to work it with a patient attention that seemed designed to apologize for what the rest of him was doing. “You feel so good that I want to take my time with you,” he said, and his voice had recovered some of its patience, though only some. “I want to feel every part of your sweet fisse, lille en.”