Page 43 of Her Viking Lord
“You’ll tell me anyway,” Horakovsky interrupted, but his voice had changed somehow. The cold calculation remained, but beneath it I heard something else—something darker and more primal. “But I confess, there’s a problem.”
He circled around to where I could see his face. His gray eyes had taken on a predatory gleam, and I saw the unmistakablebulge in his trousers. The sight made my insides lurch with horror.
“You see, Lorna, I’m torn,” he continued, setting the knout down on a table. “Part of me wants to whip the truth out of you. But another part…” He adjusted himself through his pants with casual vulgarity. “I’ve been denying you orgasms for hours now. Watching you writhe and beg, seeing your body respond despite your mind’s resistance.”
He folded his arms over his chest, regarding me with such calculated savagery that it made me dizzy.
“I find myself genuinely curious as to what would happen if I pushed you over that edge while inflicting such exquisite pain. The way you climaxed during our meeting last week… well, I suppose it’s why you’re here. I wanted to see whether I could create a true masterpiece of my own particular kind of performance art. And now I have what we might call an unexpected sort of opportunity.”
My whole body went rigid as I understood his intention. “No. Please, not that. Just ask your questions, I’ll?—”
“Oh, I’ll still get my answers,” he assured me, moving to the cabinet I couldn’t see, from which he had taken the knout earlier. I heard metal scraping, the jingle of something against something else. “But why not enjoy the process?”
He returned with an object whose curve immediately struck me as thoroughly obscene, even before I understood what it must be—a saddle-like attachment that he began fixing to the lower portion of the frame, between my opened thighs. The device had a prominent ridge running along its center, and I could see a telltale gleam of lubricant already coating its surface.
“This is adjustable of course,” he explained with the casual tone of a mechanic discussing car parts. “I can position it exactly where it needs to be.” His hands gripped my hips, and I felt him manipulating the frame somehow. My body shifted lower until I felt the ridge press against my swollen, hypersensitive clit.
The contact sent an unwanted jolt through me, and I whimpered at the sensation. After hours of denial, even this impersonal touch threatened to undo me.
“There we are,” Horakovsky said with satisfaction. “Now, here’s what will happen. You’re going to ride that while I continue our conversation with the knout. If you want to come, you’ll have to work for it—grind yourself like the desperate whore you are while I mark that pretty skin.”
“I can’t,” I gasped, though my hips had already started to move involuntarily, seeking friction against that terrible ridge. “Please, this is insane?—”
The knout struck again before I could finish my protest, this time lower down, just above my knees. The agony merged with the shameful pressure against my clit, and something inside me fractured. My hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding against the ridge, and a sob tore from my throat—half pain, half desperate need.
“That’s it,” Horakovsky murmured, his voice thick with arousal. “Show me what you really are.”
I tried to resist. God, how I tried. But my body had been trained too well, denied too long, and the combination of pain and stimulation created a feedback loop I couldn’t control. My hips began to move in small, shameful circles, seeking friction even as the knout fell again across my shoulders.
The pain should have stopped me. The humiliation should have killed any possibility of pleasure. But somehow the agony amplified everything, making each nerve ending sing with terrible intensity. When the leather struck again, I ground harder against the ridge, my body chasing the release it had been denied for so long.
“Filthy little whore,” Horakovsky growled, and I heard the satisfaction in his voice. “Look at you, fucking yourself while I give you the knout.”
Shame burned hotter than the welts rising on my bottom and thighs, but I couldn’t stop. My hips developed their own rhythm, independent of my conscious mind. Each strike of the knout sent fresh fire across my skin, and each burst of pain somehow pushed me closer to that edge I’d been hovering near for hours.
I was going to come. Despite everything, despite the horror of my situation, I was going to climax while this monster whipped me like an animal. The realization made me sob even as my movements became more desperate, more wanton.
The knout fell again, catching me across the place where my bottom curved into my upper legs, so close to the terrible saddle. The pain bloomed, and in that moment of white-hot agony, the pressure building inside me crested. My orgasm hit like a freight train, ripping through me with an intensity that made my previous climaxes seem like pale shadows. I screamed, my whole body convulsing against the restraints as pleasure and pain merged into something transcendent and terrible.
The silver branches materialized instantly, more vivid than they’d ever been. I shot upward through Yggdrasil’s canopy with such speed that I felt dizzy, the world tree’s infinite expanse spreading before me in crystalline clarity. And there—I couldsee them. The strike team, Henrik—I knew his name, even—in the lead, moving through corridors with military precision. They were close, so close. Thirty seconds, maybe less, until they reached this room.
I crashed back into my body, still shaking with aftershocks, my back on fire from Horakovsky’s punishment. He had paused, breathing hard, and I realized with sick certainty that he was aroused beyond reason by what he’d just witnessed.
“Magnificent,” he whispered, setting down the knout to move closer. “I’ve never seen anything so erotic.”
His hand ran down my welted bottom with a possessiveness that made me want to scream for myHerrato come rescue me.
And he will. In ten… nine…
“But there’s still the matter of the information, isn’t there?” Horakovsky said, stepping back again and picking up the horrid whip.
I forced my trembling voice to steady, gasping out the words between ragged breaths. “Wait. Stop. I’ll… I’ll tell you everything.”
Horakovsky paused, the knout dangling from his hand. I could hear his labored breathing, feel the heat of his arousal radiating toward my exposed back. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, moving closer. “What are you carrying?”
“It’s…” I let my voice drop to barely a whisper, forcing him to lean in. “I need to… can’t speak louder…”
He stepped right up to the frame, his scarred face inches from mine as he bent to hear my confession. His breath reeked of vodka and cigars. “Tell me,” he commanded.
