Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
“Now,” the Russian magnate said, his voice casual as he looked around as if surveying the room for its potential to humiliate me, “let’s find a way to see what Fru Norquist is really like.”
With easy strength, he grabbed Katya by the upper arm and drew her across the room toward a leather chair, one of those expensive modern pieces that looked more like art than furniture. Horakovsky bent her over its back, her hands gripping the seat cushion for support. The position left her bottom raised high, her smooth pussy visible between her spread thighs, thrillingly framed by the garter belt and stockings.
From somewhere—a drawer, perhaps—Horakovsky produced a riding crop. The sight of it made my knees weak. I remembered too vividly the feeling of Aksel’s strap across my own bottom, and watching another woman about to receive similar treatment while I stood naked and restrained sent waves of heat through me that made me dizzy.
“Since we’re being honest about our partnerships,” Horakovsky said conversationally, testing the crop’s weight with a few swishes through the air, “let me demonstrate how I maintain discipline in my operations.”
The first stroke landed with a sharp crack across Katya’s pale bottom. She cried out, her body jerking against the chair, but she didn’t move from position. The second followed immediately, then a third, each leaving a bright red line across her skin.
I thought I might actually faint. The combination of the sounds—leather on flesh, Katya’s gasps—and my own desperate arousal after days of denial was overwhelming. My legs trembled, and only Takken’s grip on my wrists kept me upright.
“Mila,” Horakovsky commanded, not pausing in his steady rhythm of strikes. “Kneel in front of Fru Norquist. Show her how we treat honored guests.”
“Yes, Master,” Mila whispered, dropping gracefully to her knees before me. Her hands settled on my thighs, gently urging them apart, and I wanted to die of mortification. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, not with my husband holding me in place while another woman—
Her mouth found me, and I cried out at the first touch of her tongue. She was devastatingly skilled, I thought, though I really had no basis for comparison. Her tongue circled my clit with what seemed practiced precision while the crop continued to fall on Katya’s increasingly marked bottom.
“Is she wet, Mila?” Brenteuil asked, his voice carrying dark amusement.
Mila pulled back just enough to answer, her breath hot against my over-sensitized flesh. “She’s like an ocean, Monsieur.”
The words made me burn with shame even as I struggled weakly against Takken’s grip. But the movement only pressed me more firmly against Mila’s talented mouth, and she took it as encouragement, her tongue delving deeper.
Horakovsky continued whipping Katya in an almost leisurely way, as if he had all the time in the world. Each strike drew another cry from the poor girl, and each cry sent another pulse of heat through my treacherous body.
I tried desperately to control myself, to think of anything but the building pressure between my legs. I thought of Aksel, of what he would say when he learned I’d come without his permission. Would my Herra punish me? The thought of disappointing him should have helped me resist, but instead it only intensified the burning need down there. The war inside me—shame battling arousal, resistance fighting submission—somehow seemed to propel me faster toward that impossible place I’d glimpsed before.
And then I was coming, almost as hard as I’d come at the safehouse with my Viking Herra’s penis inside me. My back arched against Takken’s chest as the orgasm crashed through me like a tidal wave, and suddenly I was there—among the silver branches of Yggdrasil, rising up through the cosmic tree even as my body convulsed in the conference room.
I could hear them laughing—Horakovsky’s deep rumble, Brenteuil’s cultured chuckle, and Takken forcing out his own hollow laugh to match theirs. But their voices seemed distant, muffled, as my consciousness soared upward through the boughs.
The vision pulled me along one massive branch that stretched northward into darkness and ice. And there—I gasped even as my body shuddered through another wave of pleasure—I saw it. A utilitarian bunker squatting on permafrost, its concrete and steel angles sharp against the endless white. Construction equipment dotted the landscape around it, and I could see the beginning of what looked like a massive excavation. Underground tunnels, perhaps, or something worse. I tried desperately to memorize every detail—the shape of the buildings, the number of vehicles, the pattern of the lights.
“Tell me, Norquist,” Brenteuil’s voice drifted up to me, pulling part of my attention back to the room even as I clung to the vision. “Does your wife come like this for you? Such enthusiasm!”
“Of course,” Takken lied smoothly, though I could feel the tension in his grip on my wrists. “All the time. Lorna is quite… responsive in our private moments.”