Page 66 of Her Viking Guardian

I couldn’t have spared Ilsa the pain of her first anal sex even if I had wanted to. The pleasure her adorable bottom, covered at this point with the marks both of Roman and of Viking discipline, gave to my rigid cock as I plunged in and out of her littlest hole simply overwhelmed any temptation I might have felt to go easy on her.

More important, the pain she felt comprised an absolutely essential element of the vision she had just entered: her first true vǫlva’s trance.

I heard Giovanna speak from behind me. Her voice, for a change, held no skepticism; in fact, she sounded positively awestruck.

“Message from Sven,” she told me. “Mary says she can see Ilsa, too. Apparently a brother of yours named Aksel thinks it may be a quantum entanglement effect. He’s in the chamber with Sven, observing.”

“Good,” I said, though the word came out rough and low, nearly a growl.

Then I gave myself over more fully to the labor and privilege of opening my bed thrall’s little røvhul on my cock.

The saddle held her exactly as the old craftsmen had intended. Her thighs stayed spread, her waist fixed, her wrists secured forward, and beneath her the bride’s consolation kept grinding against the little nub that made her twitch and sob and climax with such helpless sweetness that I felt half maddened by it. Every time I drove deep into her bottom, her body seized around me with a thrilling combination of resistance and welcome. The tight, hot clasp of her anus on my shaft threatened my self-command from one stroke to the next.

I fucked her with long, hard thrusts, my hands on her hips at first, watching the pale skin of her back shudder and the marks on her bottom brighten under the effort. She cried out again and again, and every cry had the same quality now: pain, certainly, but also awe, need, and the utter abasement of a girl discovering that the most shameful use of her body opened the highest faculty of her mind. I watched her sweet little wunjo pendant swing back and forth, and I wondered about destiny and quantum effects.

“Talk to me,” I told her. “Tell me what you and Mary see.”

Ilsa sobbed and came again before she could answer. I felt it in the whole of her: the clenching of her cunt against the saddle’s knob, the trembling of her belly, the convulsion of the muscles around my cock buried in her anus. She seemed scarcely able to survive her own sensations, and still the old rite drove her further upward.

When she found enough breath, the words broke out in fragments.

“She’s with me… oh… Herra… she’s with me in the branches…”

I thrust harder. The pleasure of it made my teeth set. I had wanted this girl from the first moment I had understood what she was, but now, using her in the old way while she rose into Yggdrasil before my eyes, I felt a kind of fierce gratitude to my forefathers for preserving the ceremony intact.

“She follows me,” Ilsa cried. “She’s behind me… no… not behind, not exactly… she can feel where I’m going… oh, God…”

“Where are you going, lille en?”

Her head tossed. Her braid swung. Her voice came out thin with strain.

“To the branch… the branch where the Chinese girl is… where she was… Mary can tell I know the way…”

Behind me I heard Giovanna draw a breath. Mateo said something softly in Italian I didn’t catch. I scarcely cared. I was too deep inside my bed thrall, too deep in the old pleasure, too aware of the way her sweet little bottom struggled and yielded around me.

I looked down and saw, just beneath her waist, the iron-bound handles built into the saddle’s sides; another practical innovation of our ancestors, meant for exactly this moment. I took them both in my hands and used them, to immediate effect.

With that greater purchase, I could ride her as the carved warriors had ridden their brides. I drove into her with harder, shorter, more punishing thrusts, using the fixed strength of the saddle against her. Ilsa screamed and came so violently that her whole body shook under me. The old wood creaked. The leather straps groaned. My cock felt every desperate flutter of her ravished little anus.

“Yes,” I said through my teeth. “That’s how a vǫlva serves.”

* * *

Ilsa

Something about the way Herra Henrik’s thrusting cock felt, when he had taken hold of the handles—yet another feature of the terrible saddle that I somehow hadn’t noticed—the change in his rhythm and his angle… it felt, in my vision of the Worldtree, like a gale-force wind at my back. The pressure of it seemed to drive me bodily along the bough.

Mary came with me. Somewhere in the back of my head, a rational observer said, In two senses. Mary’s orgasms matched mine, and she accompanied me. My reason told me I might have giggled, if I had thought of the wordplay under different circumstances.

The movement itself, our progress among the branches of the tree, had become shared between us, as if my master’s cock in my ravaged bottom and her own master’s in hers had put us under the same pressure, accelerated us through the same unreal medium. I felt her there beside and slightly behind me in the branches, red hair streaming in a wind that was not wind, her pale face bright with the same terrible astonishment that must have been on mine.

Below—or elsewhere, in the chamber my body still occupied—Henrik drove into me again with that new, brutal leverage, and I cried out and climaxed so hard that the branch under my dream-feet flashed white.

The orgasm seemed to deepen the vision.

Until now I had assumed climax would represent an apex, a breaking point after which one either returned to oneself or lost coherence entirely. Instead my body’s repeated surrender seemed to feed the spell. Each climax made the Worldtree more legible. The bark, the leaves, the twigs… they ceased to feel merely symbolic and acquired detail: fissures, mossy damp, ancient sap, the grain of some living thing too vast for ordinary cognition.

“More,” I heard myself sob in the chamber. Whether I meant more cock, more vision, or more understanding I couldn’t have said.