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 whimper became a whine as I realized that the leather felt warm. Warm, the way the rowing bench had been warm, the way my grandmother’s pendant was warm. Somewhere in my mind I understood that the warmth came from my perception of what was happening, rather than from any real heat—let alone some supernatural effect. But it felt to me as if the terrible saddle had been waiting for a feminine body and now expressed something very close to welcome.
I lowered more of my weight onto it slowly, the way I might make my way into water of unknown depth, one hand on each of the curved handles at the front. My knees found the padded rests that were spaced with an exactness that suggested the craftsman had known precisely what the average young woman’s body looked like and how it bent. He or she had clearly cared about the comfort of the girl who must ride the saddle. I found that notion, given the context, both touching and terrifying.
The central ridge of the saddle pressed against me where I could feel myself to be shockingly, helplessly wet.
I made a new sound. A very quiet sound, but in the acoustics of the stone chamber it came back to me from the walls.
I gripped the handles harder and breathed through my nose, and in my mind—because I could not seem to stop my mind from doing this any more than I could stop my hips from doing what they were now doing—I heard a voice.
Ride.
Not my voice at all: a man’s voice, very deep. Low and unhurried, speaking in Old Norse. The same voice from the longship vision, but closer now, filling the chamber the way the warmth filled the leather beneath me.
Ride, girl. Move your hips. Learn what my saddle teaches. You will need to be open and ready for the tool when I take what belongs to me.
My hips moved. I moved them. I did this deliberately and then I did it because I had lost the ability to stop. The ridge of the saddle fit the shape of my body with a thoroughness that seemed designed rather than accidental… and of course it was designed… which somehow represented the most overwhelming thought I had yet managed in this cavern full of overwhelming thoughts.
Someone… some Northern craftsman… had built this thing to do exactly this.
Someone else… a captive girl… had sat where I was sitting, rocked the way I was rocking, gripped these handles with whitening knuckles while a man stood behind her and watched.
That’s it. Open for me. Your røvhul must be ready. I will take you there very soon, and you will learn to welcome me.
My face burned so furiously that I could sense the interface of the heat radiating off my own cheeks with the cool air of the cavern. The degradation of the fantasy—the specific, terrible degradation of it—was doing something to me that I had no language for, because no words I possessed had ever been used for this particular circumstance.
Naked on my master’s bride saddle. Riding… rubbing… my… my fisse… back and forth… so slippery down there… so needy…
There was a knob under the padding, right below my clit. My pussy couldn’t seem to get enough of it. I rocked, and the saddle rewarded me with a slow, building pressure that gathered at my center and began to climb.
I was going to come. I couldn’t help it. How could I help it? My little fisse needed it so badly. The girls who had ridden this saddle before… they had had the cock in their mouths and their pussies already, hadn’t they? So much luckier than I, with my body untouched by a man’s hardness… unopened… unused…
I kept my left hand on the handle. I moved my right hand back.
My face, if possible, burned hotter. My fingers, shaking now in earnest, found the cleft of my bottom. I understood from the carvings exactly what the bride saddle was designed to present, to position, to offer up—the specific part of a woman that a Viking warrior on his way home from a successful raid had apparently considered his particular and personal prize. I touched myself there with two trembling fingertips and let out a cry of shame and need and pleasure that echoed off the walls.
Good girl, the voice said, in the language of men who had sailed cold seas and taken what they wanted without apology. The praise seemed to land in the center of my chest, and I came apart.
It started low and rose. It rose past anything I had managed on the rowing bench or in any private moment of my entire adult life, which had not included many private moments of that kind because I had been extremely busy with my academic career and also, I now understood, had simply never had the correct stimulus.