Page 63 of Her Viking Guardian

I only had to lean forward a few inches. My open mouth hovered over the purple head of his manhood, my brow creasing so hard I thought it would stay that way. My master let go of his hardness, took hold of the back of my head, and drew me that last distance. I could feel the weight of the pendant, tiny though the ivory disk was, as if the wunjo there wanted to make its meaning known.

His thick cock entered my mouth with a taste that made me whine instantly. Salt, heat, and the unmistakable tang of my own pussy from his having just used me over the bench.

My cunt, my mind whispered to itself. I taste my cunt on the cock I must serve.

That knowledge of that seemed to short out some remaining circuit of civilized selfhood in me. He carried my body’s need to my lips and fed it back to me on his manhood.

Then, without warning, he started to whip me. I felt his body shift slightly, and I understood that his right hand must be reaching across me as his left held my head to its shameful service.

The first stroke of the strap landed across both cheeks of my bottom.

I cried out around him.

He did not withdraw. He only thrust a little deeper as the pain spread in a bright hot line over my skin. Then another stroke, a little lower, catching the curve of my left cheek’s underside. Another across my right cheek. Another.

The rhythm established itself almost immediately: my mouth serving his cock, the strap cutting through the mounting haze, my body trying and failing to twist away because the leather held me precisely where he wanted me.

“This is how I break a bed thrall,” came his voice from above me, in a low growl.

“Noted,” I heard Giovanna say dryly. “Mateo, the technique seems worth learning.”

“Indeed,” the nymphobus responded. “It seems a valuable lesson.”

I learned very quickly that the Viking strap differed from Giovanna’s mastix in the same way the saddle’s restraints were different from my columba’s leathers. The mastix had educated. This Viking strap possessed. Its blows did not instruct me into an institution’s order. They seemed to exist to make my body more vivid to itself and therefore more available to my master’s pleasure.

I sobbed and sucked and took what he gave. Saliva ran warm at the corners of my lips. His cock slid on my tongue flavored with my own juices, and the strap came down again and again until every part of me seemed to live in the same impossible register: hurt, need, shame, revelation.

At some point amid the blows and the thrusting of his cock into my mouth, my pussy rediscovered the protrusion beneath me. The rounded knob that pressed up, under the leather, against the place where the mere friction had already made me frantic. My body found it before my mind did. I shifted. The thing pressed directly at the swollen place between my legs.

A noise tore out of me so suddenly that I lost Henrik’s cock for an instant.

He caught my jaw. “There,” he said, and his eyes, gray and bright and utterly male, fixed on mine while the strap hung for a heartbeat in his hand. “You’ve found the bride’s consolation.”

Consolation. The word was so obscene in its tenderness that I almost wept from the sound of it alone.

He put his cock back into my mouth. I began to move on the knob between my thighs with the slight motion the restraints permitted, and that turned out to be enough to ruin me. The carved saddle held me open over it so that every helpless rock of my body rubbed me exactly where I was most desperate. Henrik watched me discover that lewd consolation, and then he resumed the whipping without a flicker of mercy.

CHAPTER 31

Ilsa

The chamber filled with the sounds of my breaking: leather striking skin, the wet pull of his cock at my lips, my little broken cries, the hard creak of the saddle as my body rode the little knob some kind warrior had built into it for a spear-bride’s torment and relief.

I could no longer separate the stimuli into categories. Pain felt right. Pleasure became punitive. Humiliation transformed into a medium through which both traveled. I sucked his cock and tasted myself and rubbed my clit raw on the bride’s consolation while he striped my skin and looked at me as if every flinch and moan belonged to him by right.

I could perceive, dimly, Giovanna and Mateo at the edge of my vision, watchful and silent. Their observation of my breaking on the saddle only deepened the chamber’s logic. They saw my open mouth. They saw the strap’s marks rise. They saw me begin to ride the leather like an animal desperate for its obscene friction, restrained by more leather so that she couldn’t escape her own display.

The orgasm that threatened would not crest. It only built and built, blocked somehow by the very intensity of the scene, by the fact that he would not let me disappear into it. He kept me there. On the brink. On his cock. On the little wooden knob.

I started to beg without planning to, issuing muffled words around his thrusting shaft.

At first it was only sounds: please… oh, God… Master… Herra… please.

Then language returned in the most shameful form available to it.

“Please,” I gasped when he let me draw enough breath. “Please, I need⁠—”

The strap cracked across my thigh and I screamed.