Page 36 of Her Viking Lord
When he finally stopped, I couldn’t tell if it had been twenty cuts of his belt or fifty. My entire backside felt like molten metal had been poured across it. I lay there gasping, unable to move even when Dmitri and Vassily released their grip on my arms.
I heard Takken make a noise in his throat that might have been some kind of protest. I knew, though, with avolva’s utter certainty, that it actually only represented a weak attempt to approximate what he thought an actual husband might react.
“Now,” Horakovsky said, as if Takken had remained silent. I heard the cap of the lubricant bottle click open, “we can proceed with your training.”
The cool gel against my burning flesh made me flinch, but I had no strength left to resist. His thick fingers worked the lubricant into me with clinical efficiency, first one, then two, stretching me despite the way my body tried to reject the invasion. The soreness from his previous use combined with the fresh welts made everything hypersensitive, each movement sending conflicting signals of pain and something else I refused to acknowledge.
“Hold her cheeks apart,” he commanded someone—I couldn’t tell who anymore. Hands gripped my inflamed flesh, spreading me wide, and I felt the blunt tip of the plug press against my prepared entrance.
The pressure was impossible. Even with the lubricant, even with his fingers having prepared me, the thing felt massive beyond comprehension. He pushed steadily, ignoring my sobbing protests, and I felt myself beginning to stretch in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. The burn of it combined with the throbbing welts until I couldn’t separate one sensation from another.
“Please,” I begged, though I knew it was useless. “Please, it’s too big, I can’t?—”
“Don’t talk nonsense, you little whore,” Horakovsky said, increasing the pressure. “Your body will adapt because I command it to.”
Something inside me gave way, and suddenly the widest part of the plug pushed past the resistant ring of muscle. I screamed asit seated itself fully, the flared base nestling between my cheeks. The fullness was overwhelming, pressing against internal walls in ways that made my toes curl at the sheer ambiguity of the sensation.
“There,” Horakovsky said with satisfaction. “That stays in until I decide otherwise. Hours, perhaps. By the time we reach my facility, you’ll be properly prepared for what I have planned.”
Through my tears, I saw him return to his seat, casually pouring himself another vodka as if he hadn’t just violated me in the most degrading way imaginable. The vehicle continued its steady progress through the Arctic landscape, and I remained on the floor, naked and plugged like an animal—no, not even an animal, because who would do to an animal what he had done to me? The men resumed their conversation about energy infrastructure and profit margins as if I weren’t there.
Every bump in the terrain sent the plug shifting inside me, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from making any sound that might draw their attention back to me. The massive intrusion seemed to pulse with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of my complete helplessness. My knees ached against the hard floor, my welted bottom throbbed with each breath, and that horrible fullness made it impossible to think of anything else.
Time became elastic, meaningless. Minutes or hours might have passed as I knelt there, listening to them discuss Arctic shipping routes and battery farms while my body struggled to accommodate the violation. Occasionally one of them would casually reach down to touch me—a hand on my burning bottom, fingers checking that the plug remained firmly seated—as if I were furniture they were ensuring hadn’t shifted position.
“Wait until you see the main facility,” Horakovsky was saying to Takken, his voice carrying that tone of false generosity. “The scale of what we’re building there will astound you. Underground tunnels connecting three separate sites, the batteries all powered by geothermal energy. Completely self-sufficient.”
My consciousness sharpened despite the pain. This was what I needed—details about the installation, information that could help the Sons of Odin stop whatever Horakovsky planned. I forced myself to focus on his words rather than the burning shame of my position.
“The security system alone cost forty million euros,” he continued, and I heard the pride in his voice. “Biometric scanners, thermal imaging, even quantum encryption on all communications. Impenetrable.”
“Impressive,” Takken slurred. The whiskey had clearly continued flowing while I’d been lost in my haze of pain. “And the workforce?”
“Carefully selected. Some volunteer for the wages, others…” Horakovsky chuckled darkly. “Let’s say they have fewer options. The women especially. You’d be amazed what desperate people will agree to when they have nowhere else to turn.”
The casual evil of it made my stomach turn. Through my peripheral vision, I saw him lean forward, and suddenly his hand was in my hair, yanking my head up.
“Speaking of desperate women,” he said, forcing me to meet his cold gray eyes, “how are you enjoying your new accessory, little cunt?”
I couldn’t form words. My throat felt raw from screaming, and the fullness in my bottom seemed to prevent coherent thought. A whimper escaped my lips, which apparently satisfied him because he released my hair with a laugh.
“By tomorrow morning, you’ll be begging me to replace it with my cock,” he said with absolute certainty. “They always do.”
The vehicle lurched suddenly, and the shift in momentum sent the plug pressing against something inside me. Not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but something that transcended both. For a terrifying moment, I felt the silver branches of Yggdrasil beckoning at the edges of my consciousness, I reached for them, but they eluded me.
“Put something on the screen, Vassily,” Horakovsky said abruptly, settling back into his chair. “I’m tired of business talk.”
A massive display descended from the vehicle’s ceiling, and within moments the cabin filled with the sounds of explosions and gunfire from some mindless action film. The men turned their attention to the screen, drinks in hand, as if I weren’t still kneeling naked on the floor with that horrible plug stretching me beyond endurance.
For the next two hours, I existed in a haze of discomfort and humiliation. The plug’s constant pressure had evolved from sharp pain to a deep, throbbing ache that radiated through my core. Every slight movement of the vehicle sent it shifting inside me, made me bite my lip to stifle any sound. My knees had gone numb against the floor, and my welted bottom seemed to pulse with fire.
When the credits finally rolled, Horakovsky’s attention returned to me like a searchlight finding its target.
“Look at her, Norquist,” he said, his voice carrying that tone of a teacher instructing a particularly slow student. “See how she holds herself? The arch of her back, the way her thighs tremble? This is what proper discipline creates.”
I felt Takken’s gaze on me, heavy and uncomfortable. Through my peripheral vision, I saw him shift in his seat, his face flushed from alcohol and all-too-evident anger.
“You need to understand,” Horakovsky continued, rising from his chair to circle me slowly, “that certain women—women like your wife—respond best to anal discipline. It reaches something primal in them, breaks down barriers that, say, even regular spanking couldn’t.”
