Page 3 of Her Viking Lord
The response was immediate:
Play with that sweet little cunt. Watch yourself as you make yourself come.
CHAPTER 2
Lorna
Heat flooded my face. The command was so crude, so direct. My fingers trembled as I moved them between my legs, finding myself already slick with arousal beneath the crisp, curly hair that always stirred such mixed feelings in me. In the mirror, I watched this stranger who wore my face begin to touch herself at the command of an anonymous message.
I’d masturbated before, of course. Quiet, furtive sessions in the shower when Takken was away. But never like this. Never while watching myself, never at someone else’s command. The humiliation of it made my cheeks burn, but beneath that shame, something else stirred. To my dismay, for a moment I had the sense that it had arisen in the same place as my ancient feeling, as if the dormant part of me that had awakened when I had decided to try to act on my husband’s corruption—the Viking feeling it had given me to rebel that way—had led me also to this mortifying scene of forced self-pleasure.
My fingers circled my clit, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan. In the mirror, I saw my hips begin to rock slightly, my other hand, the phone still in it, moving instinctively to rub my nipple with the back of my thumb. When had I last felt genuine pleasure? When had my body last responded to anything but anger?
The phone buzzed, and I looked down at it, a new flash of heat scalding my cheeks:
Don’t be shy. I want to hear you.
A whimper escaped my throat. Whoever was watching—because they were obviously watching, and listening somehow—wanted me to perform. The thought should have revolted me. Instead, I found myself spreading my legs wider, giving my reflection a better view as my fingers worked faster.
“Oh, God,” I gasped, no longer trying to stay quiet. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears—desperate, needy. “Please… sir…”
Sir, Lorna? You may call meHerra.
The word on my phone brought an unexpected sob of need from my chest.Herra: the Old Norse word for master. He—it must be a he, mustn’t it—hadn’t even bothered to ask whether I meant my husband or…him… whoever was commanding my lewd display… whoever had some way of punishing me in my most intimate places.
MyHerra.
My fingers slipped inside myself, and I moaned at the sensation. How long since I’d been filled by anything? Takken’s pathetic efforts in the past few months hardly counted.
“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 yourfisseand the other on yourrøv. Play with your sweet littlerøvhul.
My eyes widened in the mirror. He—my newHerra, because I couldn’t help thinking of him that way—must know I’d grown up in Denmark. Thatfisseandrøvwould 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 tinyrøvhul, that way—that wasn’t something proper Jaglandic wives did. But then again, proper wives didn’t commit treason or masturbate formysterious 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 myHerra, 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 mysteriousHerracould 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!”
