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)
I rose onto my knees more fully without being told. The mat softened the pressure only slightly. My hands came to my thighs automatically, and I looked up at his cock and then at his face.
“Open for your dessert, lille en. Wider than for the bread.”
With a little whine of utter degradation, I obeyed.
He stepped close enough that his erection hovered before my lips, warm and alive and carrying the scent of masculine skin that had already become, to my horror, one of the most exciting things in the world to me. He tapped the head of it once against my lower lip, not hard, just a reminder, and then he slid forward.
I took him in with a little choking sound that I couldn’t suppress. He gave me no time to acclimate beyond the first brief pressure of his hand at the back of my head. Then he began to fuck my face, holding my mouth firmly in place, his fingers twining in my hair.
The first few thrusts were measured, almost demonstrative. After that, they deepened. I had thought, briefly, that the setting might make him restrained. Instead the publicness seemed only to sharpen his intent to enforce his claim. His hand tightened in my hair, not violently but with absolute certainty of his ownership. His hips worked in a steady rhythm.
I heard someone at a nearby table laugh softly under their breath.
“The Viking has no patience,” said a woman’s voice.
A man answered, amused. “Roman discipline. Norse appetite.”
Another voice, low and male: “It seems they like to make ownership look rustic.”
“And we,” said a woman dryly, “prefer bureaucracy with our degradation.”
I heard the little ripple of laughter that followed, and the sound did something dreadful to me. I was there, on the floor, with my master’s cock thrusting between my lips while clothed people discussed comparative traditions over breakfast.
Herra Henrik’s pace increased. My eyes watered. I tried to remember what Nymphobus Oceanus, and then my master himself, had taught me. I breathed through my nose as best I could and let my jaw yield. My Herra made a low, rough sound above me—not polished at all now, not corporate, nothing but male satisfaction.
“That’s it,” he said. “Take it, girl. Be grateful.”
I moaned around him. The vibration made him tighten his grip in my hair.
“Yes,” he said more harshly. “Good.”
The room around us had narrowed to the line of his trousers against my vision, the expensive cloth, the open fly, the tautness in his abdomen beneath the pale shirt, and the wet, helpless work of my mouth receiving him. I could hear cutlery. Voices. A chair scraping somewhere. Giovanna’s heels shifting very slightly on the stone. Every ordinary sound seemed to underline the indecency.
Then Henrik’s hand tightened at the back of my head in a way I had already learned to recognize.
He drove deeper. I gagged. He held me there for a beat, then another, and his breath left him in a rough burst.
“Swallow for your Herra.”
He came with a low growl that seemed dragged up from somewhere older than language. Warmth flooded my throat in quick, forceful pulses. I swallowed because there was no alternative and because he had told me to, and because some dreadful part of me wanted to prove that I could take him properly in any room, under any eyes, according to any custom he named.
He stayed in my mouth a moment longer after he had finished, breathing hard. Then he withdrew.
I bowed my head automatically, swallowing again, my lips wet, my face blazing. He tucked himself back into his trousers with the same matter-of-factness with which he had exposed himself.
“Better,” I heard him say, perhaps to Giovanna, perhaps to the room. “She’s learning. A girl should know how to thank the warrior who feeds her.”
Giovanna made a small sound through her nose that might have been contempt or acknowledgment or both.
“Come,” she said to me. “You will remain on all fours until we reach the Room of Separation.”
She took up the leash and I put my hands out to crawl, unsteady, tasting my master at the back of my mouth. Henrik fell in behind us as we left the refectory. I could feel him there without looking. That proved far worse than if I had been allowed to see him.
Because now I knew he was behind me.
I knew what that meant visually. My belt still framed my waist. The collar still pressed at my throat. The cuffs still circled my wrists and ankles and thighs. And beneath those remaining signs, my body was naked where it mattered most. As Giovanna led me down the corridor and around the turn toward the stair that rose to the Ostia office above, I became hideously aware of the movement of my own hips and thighs. Of the air on my bare sex. Of the fact that from behind Henrik could see everything.