Chapter 27 #2
My pussy. The cleft of it, probably still glossy from all my humiliations.
The no-longer-virgin entrance to my already-needy-again sheath.
And above it, much worse, the small, exposed ring he had spoken of with such patient certainty, the place he had promised to take when I was ready and which I knew, with the irrational certainty of prey, that he was looking at now.
I crawled carefully and failed completely not to think about how I looked. Each movement seemed to display me afresh. The knowledge made my stomach tight and hot. It also sent a pulse of impossible need into the very place I dreaded his eyes upon.
At the bottom of the stairs, Giovanna opened a narrow door I hadn’t noticed before.
She drew me into a small room furnished more sparsely than the others: stone walls, a bench, a cabinet, a drain in the floor, and Nymphobus Oceanus waiting in black clothes that fit his lean body too well for my comfort.
His green eyes found me and took in everything in one swift, professional glance.
“Nymphobus,” Giovanna said.
“Bellatrix.” Then he looked to Henrik. “Our Rite of Deligature involves a nymphobus occupying the girl’s mouth with his manhood while she is unbound. Will you give permission?”
The phrasing alone made my knees weaken.
Herra Henrik’s answer came at once. “Yes. Use her as you wish.”
Giovanna tugged upward on the leash and positioned me in front of her huge attendant. “Kneel up.”
I obeyed, my mouth watering despite the humiliation of it, or, worse, because of the thrills of embarrassment that shot through my body.
The nymphobus unfastened his trousers and drew out his cock. It was already hard, scarred hand wrapping around it once as he looked down at me. Not tender. Not cruel. Merely intent.
“Hands behind my knees,” he said.
I obeyed. The backs of his knees were warm beneath my palms, the tendons moving subtly under skin as he adjusted his stance. The position brought my face very close to his cock before I had even opened my mouth.
I rolled my eyes, searching desperately for my master, but he had taken a stand somewhere behind me. The idea that he had granted permission for this ceremony to unfold brought a deep crease to my forehead and a mortifying clench between my thighs.
“Gently,” Giovanna said from behind me. “You are not here to devour him. You must hold his penis in your mouth, to show your subservience and your availability to men who understand what you are.”
I opened and took his rigid manhood into my mouth. He hissed in a small breath through his teeth, his thighs tightening under my hands, but he did not thrust. He let me hold him there, lips closed around the shaft, while the room seemed to hold its own breath around us.
Then I felt Giovanna’s fingers at the buckle of my collar.
“By this rite,” she said, in the instructive tone I had come to dread, “a columba learns, and signifies that she has learned, that bondage is not leather. Leather is merely the symbol of it. What matters is the bondage of your heart.”
She unclipped the leash first. The sudden absence at my throat left me feeling strangely naked, though I remained physically far from free. I felt my Viking master’s eyes on me as if his gaze carried physical weight.
My collar came away. Then the cuffs at my wrists. Then the ankle restraints. Each removal should have felt like relief. Instead it felt like exposure of a more frightening kind, as if the visible signs had been doing work I had not understood until they disappeared.
The cock grew heavier on my tongue.
Giovanna unfastened the belt around my waist and slid it free. I nearly whimpered around the nymphobus at the sensation of my body denuded not just of clothing but, it felt like, of category as well: what kind of a thing was I now?
“You imagine,” she said, “that without these you become ordinary again. A modern woman. An autonomous academic. A creature of theories and choices.” Her hand ran once, cool and assessing, down the bare line of my spine. “No. If we have done our work properly, you are more bound now than before.”
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a mastix’s tails being swept through the air.
My whole body seized.
“May I whip your bed thrall, Herra Magnusson? Three lashes to emphasize the lesson.”
I heard a sob come from my chest. To my dismay, it made me suckle at the hard manhood in my mouth, as if for comfort.
“By all means,” my master replied.
Then Giovanna addressed me, in her didactic tone.
“Your leathers,” Giovanna went on, “must be worn in your heart.”
The first stroke of the mastix landed across my backside with a crack that exploded into the now-too-familiar sensation of Roman discipline.
I cried out around Nymphobus Oceanus’s cock, the sound turning into a strangled moan as my tongue moved instinctively under the shaft.
My hands clutched involuntarily at the backs of his knees.
He made a low sound and finally thrust a little deeper, using the opening my cry had created.
“Attend to the nymphobus,” Giovanna said. “Pain is not an excuse for negligence.”
I tried to breathe through my nose. Tears flooded my eyes at once.
“It is the heart that obeys,” she said.
The second stroke came lower, biting across the tender flesh where thigh became bottom.
I sobbed around the hard phallus in my mouth.
Its owner’s hand came to rest atop my head, as if to warn me that if he wished to enforce my service he could, but at the same time to tell me, wordlessly, that my obedience must be of my own free will.