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)
“Herra,” I whispered, though I tried to keep the word from slipping out.
Tell me what you need.
“I need…” My voice broke as I fucked myself with my fingers, watching the wanton creature in the mirror. “I need to come. Please, may I come?”
The words shocked me even as I said them. Asking permission, as if this anonymous tormentor owned my pleasure. But something about surrendering control, about having someone else make the decision, felt like lifting a weight I’d carried for so long I’d forgotten it was there.
Not yet. Put the phone on the floor. One hand on your fisse and the other on your røv. Play with your sweet little røvhul.
My eyes widened in the mirror. He—my new Herra, because I couldn’t help thinking of him that way—must know I’d grown up in Denmark. That fisse and røv would have the effect on me that only the forbidden words of childhood can have. I don’t know why that surprised me, given that as the wife of the prime minister my life was public knowledge. It did, though, make me shudder with shame and forbidden lust.
I’d never touched my anus, my tiny røvhul, that way—that wasn’t something proper Jaglandic wives did. But then again, proper wives didn’t commit treason or masturbate for mysterious strangers either. Biting my lip, I bent to put the phone on the floor. Then, as if I had no power to stop it, still in that posture where my bottom-hole was so shamefully available, my free hand moved behind me, one finger sliding between my taut hind cheeks and tentatively circling the wrinkly bud of my rear entrance.
The sensation was foreign, almost uncomfortable, but as I pressed gently, working the tip of my finger inside, something shifted. The fullness, the slight burn, the sheer depravity of fingering both my holes while watching myself was overwhelming.
Good girl. You’re learning. Now tell me the truth—you need to be owned, don’t you?
“No,” I gasped, even as my fingers moved faster, deeper. My eyes went from the terrible, debauched reflection in the mirror to the glowing surface of the phone with the obscene commands of a man who called himself my Herra, and who appeared to be demonstrating why he could so easily claim that title.
The instant the denial left my lips, agony exploded through my most intimate places. It felt as if electricity coursed through my pussy and bottom-hole simultaneously, a burning, tearing sensation that made the earlier punishment seem like a gentle caress. I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat without any attempt at control. My fingers jerked away from my holes as if they’d been scalded, and I clutched desperately at my pussy and bottom, trying to soothe the unbearable pain.
“Please!” I sobbed, collapsing to my knees on the bedroom floor. “Oh, God, please stop!”
Thank God for Takken’s paranoia, I thought through the haze of agony. His insistence on soundproofing, on keeping our residence free of surveillance to hide his corrupt dealings, meant no one would hear me screaming, no one would come running to find the prime minister’s wife naked and writhing on the floor.
The pain intensified, as if my mysterious Herra could read my wandering thoughts and disapproved. I pressed both hands between my legs, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down my face.
“I do!” I cried out, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me. “I need to be owned! Please, Herra, I need it!”
The horrifying truth of it crashed over me even as the words left my mouth. I meant it. God help me, I actually meant it. Years of being Takken’s ornamental wife, of having no real purpose, no one who truly commanded me—I needed someone to take control, to make me theirs.
The moment the admission passed my lips, the pain transformed. Where agony had been, pure, liquid pleasure flooded through me. My back arched as an orgasm slammed into me without warning, more intense than anything I’d ever experienced. I cried out again, but this time in ecstasy, my hands still pressed between my thighs as waves of sensation rolled through me.
The phone buzzed on the floor beside me. Through tear-blurred eyes, I read:
That’s my good girl. You need a firm master who will punish you harshly when you deserve it.
Before I could even process the words, another orgasm crashed over me, my pussy clenching around nothing, my bottom-hole fluttering with sensations I’d never imagined. I fell forward onto my hands and knees, gasping.
You need someone who will strip away all your pretenses and show you what you really are.
A third climax, this one centered deep in my belly, radiating outward until every nerve ending sang with pleasure. I collapsed onto my side, curling into a ball, overwhelmed.
Someone who will collar you and make you kneel.
The fourth orgasm made me sob with its intensity. My entire body shook, muscles I didn’t know I had contracting in rhythm with the pulsing between my legs. I could feel my own wetness coating my thighs, could smell my arousal in the air, could feel the shame burning through me even as my body betrayed how desperately I craved this.