Page 19 of Mastered By the Viking King

“This will ensure you don’t.”

He spanked her again, several swift swipes of his hand that made her buttocks clench and heat grow between her legs.

He paused, and once again caressed her now sore ass.

“Please, no more.” She curled her toes in her boots. “Sire.”

“I will decide when this stops.”

“But… but…”

“What?”

“I am not your first queen, so why should I…” She paused, wondering if her words would make things worse.

“Go on.”

She gulped. “Why should I pay forherwrongs?”

He was quiet for a moment. “You are not. I am simply starting as I mean to go on—and that is by keeping my wife in line.”

“I will stay in line without…ouch!”

He’d resumed the spanking. Her poor bottom sizzled as he layered up the heat and pain. She gave into the sobs building in her chest, tears squeezing free from her eyes.

Over and over, his huge hand slapped down. The sound of flesh on flesh cracked around the Great Hall. Tove’s ears sang with it, and her skin prickled all over. All she could do was hang there and take it.

And then he stopped.

She was breathing hard. Her face was damp with tears, and her hair messy, sticking to her brow and cheeks.

“I have turned your rump bright red,” he said. “And it will pain you to sit.” He rubbed her right buttock and hip, then traced the line between her ass and thigh. “And when it pains you, remember that as your king, husband, and master I will take you over my knee whenever I deem it necessary.”

“Aye. I understand.” She sniffed.

“Mmm…” He slipped his finger to the point her slender thighs touched. “You really were hiding a particularly pretty bottom beneath that old tunic. I do believe we will have fun together.”

She was about to reply when his finger journeyed upward to the damp lips between her legs.

She sucked in a breath and froze. To feel him there, when she was flushed and sweaty… oh, what must he think of her?

Still, her mind swam and her heart thudded. He probed higher, slipping between her folds of flesh.

“Oh, Njal!” she gasped, raising her head, her neck arching. “I—”

“Shh… you are drenched, my sweet queen. I wish to feel your wetness.”

She bit her bottom lip and stared at one of the Great Hall’s fires, its flames dancing, casting fluttering shadows upon the wall.

She was fluttering, too, her cunny quivering as her new husband touched her in a place no one had before. The urges rushing through her body were a confused maelstrom of contradictions. She wanted to escape, free herself of his hold, but at the same time, a strange need, a craving to stay and be touched held her hostage.

His breathing was ragged.

Her ass tingled.

Then he slipped his finger into her entrance.

“Oh… in the name of Freya!” she gasped.

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