Page 35 of Her Viking Lord
“Good little whore.” The praise felt like acid on my skin. “Now show me your appreciation properly.”
I forced myself to swallow, the bitterness coating my throat as I opened my mouth to show him I had accepted his shameful gift. My jaw ached terribly, and I could taste all three of them mingled on my tongue—a reminder of my degradation that made me want to retch.
“Turn around,” Horakovsky commanded, his voice carrying that casual cruelty I’d come to dread. “Face down, ass up. Present yourself properly while we discuss business.”
My limbs felt disconnected from my body as I obeyed, turning on my knees and lowering my face to the vehicle’s carpeted floor. The position forced my bottom high in the air, everything obscenely displayed. The subtle swaying of the transport made it hard to maintain balance, and I had to spread my knees wider for stability, which only increased my exposure.
“Much better,” Horakovsky said, and I felt his hand settle on my raised bottom, proprietary and possessive. “Now we can have a civilized conversation.”
His fingers traced along my slit without warning, making me flinch. The casual way he touched me while settling back to talk with my husband made my skin crawl. His thick finger circled the entrance to my terribly warm sheath, gathering the wetness that my body had betrayed me with despite my horror at the situation.
“You know, Norquist,” Horakovsky began conversationally, his finger now tracing around my other, narrower entrance with disturbing interest, “you and I could build something truly significant in the North. Your political connections, my resources—we could reshape the entire Arctic economy.”
I heard Takken shift in his seat, the leather creaking. “The possibilities are… intriguing.” His voice carried an eager note I recognized from when he thought he was about to close a major deal.
Horakovsky’s finger pressed slightly against my bottom-hole, not entering but threatening. I bit my lip to stifle a whimper as he continued, “More than intriguing. Revolutionary. Imagine controlling not just the energy infrastructure but the shipping routes, the mineral rights, everything. The Arctic is the future, and together we could own that future.”
The grandiosity of it, the obvious manipulation—I could hear it so clearly in Horakovsky’s tone. He was playing with Takken like a cat with a mouse, dangling impossible dreams while his fingers violated me. But Takken’s breathing had quickened with excitement.
“The renewable energy initiatives alone could generate billions,” Takken said, his words slightly slurred but enthusiastic. “And with the right political framework?—”
“Exactly,” Horakovsky interrupted, his finger now circling my clit and making me clench involuntarily. “You understand vision, Norquist. Not like these other politicians, these small men with small dreams. You and I, we think bigger.”
It was so transparently false, so obviously mocking, that I wanted to scream. But Horakovsky could clearly tell that Takken had bought it completely, and the Russian’s satisfaction vibrated through his touch on my exposed flesh.
“Dmitri,” he said suddenly, his tone shifting to command. “Bring me the training plug from the storage compartment. The black one.”
I heard Dmitri rise and move toward the back of the vehicle. My stomach clenched with dread as I heard him rummaging through something, then returning with heavy footsteps. The soft thud of an object being set on the table made my whole body tense.
“Excellent,” Horakovsky said, his hand leaving me momentarily. I heard a subtle sound of movement and pictured him picking something up, testing its weight. Suddenly a moment from my last trip to Yggdrasil surface in my mind, and I could see it—I knew what horrible, lewd object the warlord held. I had to bitemy tongue to keep from whimpering. “You see, Norquist, your wife has potential, but she needs proper training. Her ass is far too tight for real pleasure.”
My blood turned to ice as I fully grasped what he intended.
“This,” he continued, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “will help prepare her properly. By the time we reach my facility, she’ll be much more accommodating. You may peek, Lorna, you little slut.”
I raised my head, feeling my whole body tremble, and saw it in reality, standing up on the table. A massive black rubber plug, obscenely large, with a flared base. Next to it sat a bottle of lubricant. Terror shot through me like lightning.
“I want her properly stretched,” Horakovsky explained to Takken as casually as discussing wine. “It makes the fucking so much better when they can take it without all that tedious screaming. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I… no,” Takken said, his voice thick. “Whatever you think is best.”
The casualness of his surrender, offering me up like property to be modified, finally broke through my paralysis. This was too much, too far. I couldn’t just lie here and let them?—
I pushed myself up suddenly, twisting away from Horakovsky’s reach. “No!” The word tore from my throat as I scrambled to get to my feet. “You can’t?—”
Dmitri’s hand closed around my arm like a vise before I’d made it two steps. Vassily grabbed my other arm, and together they forced me back down. My face pressed against the carpet as they pinned me.
“Such defiance,” Horakovsky said with dark amusement. “This is exactly the problem, Norquist. You’ve let her think she has choices.”
I heard him stand, heard the whistle of something cutting through air a split second before fire exploded across my raised bottom. The belt—he was using his belt. The leather cracked against my already welted skin, making me scream.
“A woman needs to understand her place,” he continued conversationally, punctuating each word with another strike. “She needs to know that her holes exist for her man’s pleasure, nothing more.”
CHAPTER 19
Lorna
Five lashes… fifteen… I lost count almost immediately. Each strike blurred into the next, the leather cutting through air and then through me, leaving trails of fire that merged into one endless burning sensation. I pressed my face harder against the carpet, tasting synthetic fibers and my own tears as my throat went raw from screaming. Somewhere above me, Horakovsky’s voice droned on about discipline and ownership, but the words dissolved into meaningless noise beneath the rhythm of punishment.
