Page 50 of Her Viking Master

I shouldn’t bother pretending I didn’t like this? But I was pretending, wasn’t I? Or was I pretending to pretend? My thoughts swirled in confused circles as Sven’s cock continued to thrust relentlessly into my mouth.

I glanced over at Camille, seeing my own conflicted emotions mirrored in her dark eyes. Erik was using her mouth just as roughly, his large hands tangled in her hair as he fucked her face with abandon.

Suddenly, Sven’s grip on my hair tightened almost painfully. “Pay attention, slut,” he growled. “Your only job right now is to please your master.”

I whimpered around his thick shaft, forcing my gaze back to meet his icy blue eyes. The intensity I saw there made me shiver. There was no trace of the gentle, caring man who had held me so tenderly just hours before. This was a stranger—cold, dominant, and utterly in control.

“That’s it,” Sven grunted, his hips picking up speed. “Take it all.”

My body betrayed me, responding to his rough treatment with a surge of arousal so intense it made me dizzy. My pussy clenched and throbbed, desperate for attention. I found myself trying to relax my jaw, soften the place into which myHerrathrust his huge, beautiful penis.

“Fuck,” Sven groaned, his rhythm becoming erratic. “I’m going to come. Swallow it all, slut. Don’t you dare spill a drop.”

With a final, brutal thrust, Sven buried himself in my throat. I felt his cock pulse, flooding my mouth with his hot seed. I struggled not to gag, forcing myself to swallow around him. The salty, musky taste filled my senses as I gulped down every drop, just as he had commanded.

Beside me, I heard Camille make a choked sound as Erik found his own release. The stable echoed with the men’s grunts of pleasure and our muffled whimpers.

As Sven slowly withdrew from my mouth, I gasped for air, my chest heaving. Saliva and traces of his cum dripped down my chin. I felt utterly debased, used… and yet, to my dismay, desperately aroused.

“Good girls,” Erik said, his voice rough with satisfaction. “You’re learning.”

Before I could fully catch my breath, Sven grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet. I stumbled, my legs weak and shaky. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Erik doing the same to Camille.

I gasped as Sven seized my wrists roughly, binding them tightly in front of me with a leather thong. The material bit into my skin and I winced at the pain. Beside me, I heard Camille whimper at the similar treatment her master inflicted.

Sven and Erik led us deeper into the stable, past empty, musty stalls. My bare feet stumbled on the uneven wooden planks, splinters threatening to pierce my soles. We came to a stop in front of a large stall, its door hanging slightly ajar.

Sven shoved me inside, the force of his push causing me to stumble. I caught myself against the rough wooden wall, wincing as the splintered surface scraped my palms. Camille was pushed in beside me, her shoulder brushing mine as we stood side by side.

Sven and Erik deftly secured our bound hands to hooks on the wall at the height of our faces, so I could rest my cheek against my wrists. Then they pulled us further from the wall, making us arch our backs, so that the position forced us to stand on our tiptoes, arms stretched uncomfortably above our heads. I felt strain in my lower back, a dull ache that I knew would soon turn into burning pain.

Shafts of sunlight filtering through gaps in the weathered wood lit the stall with a dim glow. Dust motes danced in the air, stirred by our ragged breathing. The smell of old hay and horse sweat lingered, mingling with the muskier scent of our own fear and arousal.

I heard a soft electronic beep and turned my head to see Erik fiddling with a handheld camera. He adjusted some settings before pointing it at us, the small red light indicating it was now recording. My heart raced at the realization that our humiliation was about to be immortalized on video.

Sven moved to stand in front of the camera, his imposing figure blocking most of our view. From a hook on the wall, he took down a wide leather strap, its surface worn smooth from years of use. He flexed it between his hands, the soft creaking of the leather unnaturally loud in the hushed stable.

“Monsieur Beaumont,” Sven began, his voice taking on a formal, almost businesslike tone that sent chills down my spine. “I hope this video finds you well. As promised, I have procured two young women who I believe will meet your exacting standards.”

He stepped aside then, giving the camera a clear view of Camille and me. I felt horribly exposed, painfully aware of my nakedness and the vulnerability of my position. Beside me, I sensed Camille trembling slightly.

“Allow me to introduce them,” Sven continued. “This lovely redhead is Mary O’Toole, eighteen years old, recently taken from her college program in Rouen.” He reached out to grab a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back painfully. “As you can see, she has striking green eyes and the kind of delightfully pale skin that displays the marks of discipline so beautifully.”

I trembled as Sven released my hair and moved to Camille. My scalp stung from his rough grip, but the pain was nothing compared to the mortification I felt as he began to introduce my new friend.

“And this dark beauty,” Sven said, his voice smooth and professional, “is Camille Dubois, also eighteen. We found her at the same party as Mary.” His large hand cupped Camille’s chin, tilting her face toward the camera. “Note her high cheekbones and full lips—perfect for a variety of uses, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

My heart pounded as Sven continued, spinning a tale that was both truth and fiction. “We picked these girls up just last night, at a party near their college. It seems our little sluts had decided to experiment, losing their virginity to some boys they’d just met.”

I felt my face burn with shame as I tried to understand what Sven meant to do. Why would he use our real names?

“When we found them,” Sven went on, his tone taking on a note of mock disapproval, “they were stumbling drunk, their thighs sticky with the evidence of their debauchery. It was clear they needed a firm hand to guide them.”

Despite my mortification at the story, I began to see what myHerrawas doing. He had begun to create a narrative that would be believable to both Beaumont and, more important, to the Pretorian Guard when they inevitably investigated our background.

With a jolt of realization, I understood that the Guard would indeed be able to figure out who we really were. Especially me—I had been enrolled in a Selecta college program, after all. My records would be easily accessible to an organization with their resources.

But Sven’s story provided a perfect explanation for our disappearance. The Guard would believe that Camille and I had gone to a party somewhere outside of surveillance, gotten drunk, lost our virginity to random boys, and then been kidnapped by Sven and Erik. It was a narrative that fit all the known facts while obscuring the truth of our connection to the Sons of Odin.

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