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)
Then Henrik stopped being patient, and drove his rigid shaft deep into my whipped, broken bottom.
The entry tore a cry from me so raw it scarcely sounded human. The broad head of him breached me and kept going, splitting me open by degrees too large to comprehend, each fraction of an inch bringing a fresh sob. I felt my whole body seize against the straps. I ground my clit mercilessly against the bride’s consolation as my back arched and my mouth fell open in a sob.
“Oh, God… oh, God…”
My Herra didn’t stop. With one relentless thrust he buried himself to the root. I felt the hard, final weight of his lap push into my battered cheeks, skin to skin over the fresh welts, and the shock of that contact seemed to complete the outrage. He was all the way inside my anus. All of him. My master had filled the place he had promised to make his own.
I thought the world inside me would shatter from the stretch alone. Instead it opened, the way my anus had on his manhood.
“Come,” Henrik said behind me, his voice thick and commanding and somehow far away already. “Climax on my cock, little vǫlva. Go up into the boughs.”
The order reached me through roaring blood and burning nerves. My body obeyed before my mind could understand. The pressure of him inside my bottom, the tortured friction under me, the exquisite wrongness made right by the terrible ritual and my degraded need—it all surged together at once.
The orgasm swept through me so violently that I forgot the reality of the chamber.
Or perhaps I forgot that it was only a chamber.
I still rode my master’s bride saddle. I still felt the straps. I still felt him lodged impossibly deep in my anus, holding me open around him. At the same time, though, I was no longer merely there. I felt myself lifted, my consciousness rushing upward through the metaphor my unconscious had chosen and made real enough for me to inhabit: trunk, bark, vastness, the cold and living immensity of Yggdrasil.
Branches spread in all directions, larger than roads, larger than cathedrals. Light moved through leaves that seemed made of memory and instinct and hidden knowledge. I clung to nothing and yet I stood, hovered, or existed there in a way the rational mind could not diagram.
And then, almost at once, I saw her.
She was not far from me at all.
It shocked me so deeply that the remains of the bridal chamber seemed to give a little lurch around the edges of my awareness. I had expected distance, difficulty, symbolic obscurity. Instead it was as if she and I had climbed up the trunk by neighboring paths and emerged onto boughs so close that only a narrow gulf of shimmering air separated us.
Red hair. Red hair loose around a pale face turned toward me with the same stunned recognition I felt in myself.
Mary.
I knew it with the instant certainty of dream logic mixed with the feeling of a breakthrough in scholarship; the same certainty with which one recognizes a script one has spent years studying the first moment it appears out of the dust, under the brush. She was my counterpart, my fellow vǫlva, her presence at once strange and intimate. She didn’t speak, and I sensed that if I tried to form words, only silence would emerge. But recognition passed between us anyway, immediate and undeniable.
At the same time Henrik’s cock remained in my body, buried in my bottom, somewhere else… somewhere below. A duality opened, between two parts of my consciousness.
I was in two places. No, not two places: in one experience with two forms. In the bridal chamber my body writhed atop the saddle, impaled and climaxing around my master’s manhood. In the branches I faced a woman I had never met and yet knew with impossible certainty. The two realities did not cancel each other. They ran in parallel, each illuminating the other.
Herra Henrik’s hand came to my hip below, grounding me and possessing me. I heard him say something—perhaps my name, perhaps another command—and found that the part of me still wholly inside the chamber could answer.
“I’m with her,” I whispered, and then louder, because I needed him to understand. “I’m with Mary.”
Silence followed for half a beat, thick with attention.
Then Henrik made a low sound I felt as much through his chest against my back as heard with my ears. His grip on my hip tightened.
“Tell me what you see,” he said.
I tried. On the branch, Mary’s face swam with the same effort. She seemed to be trying too, trying to bridge the gap, trying to speak across whatever medium this was. Nothing verbal came. But impressions gathered around her: fear, astonishment, submission so acute it had turned incandescent. And behind her, or below her, or threaded through the same impossible architecture, I sensed another presence with the cold steadiness of male authority. Sven, I thought. Or the idea of Sven as refracted through her.