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 me Herra.
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.
My Herra.
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 your fisse and the other on your r?v. Play with your sweet little r?vhul.
My eyes widened in the mirror. He—my new Herra, because I couldn’t help thinking of him that way—must know I’d grown up in Denmark.
That fisse and r?v would 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 tiny r?vhul, that way—that wasn’t something proper Jaglandic wives did.
But then again, proper wives didn’t commit treason or masturbate for mysterious 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 my Herra, 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 mysterious Herra could 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!”
The horrifying truth of it crashed over me even as the words left my mouth. I meant it. God help me, I actually meant it. Years of being Takken’s ornamental wife, of having no real purpose, no one who truly commanded me—I needed someone to take control, to make me theirs.
The moment the admission passed my lips, the pain transformed.
Where agony had been, pure, liquid pleasure flooded through me.
My back arched as an orgasm slammed into me without warning, more intense than anything I’d ever experienced.
I cried out again, but this time in ecstasy, my hands still pressed between my thighs as waves of sensation rolled through me.
The phone buzzed on the floor beside me. Through tear-blurred eyes, I read:
That’s my good girl. You need a firm master who will punish you harshly when you deserve it.
Before I could even process the words, another orgasm crashed over me, my pussy clenching around nothing, my bottom-hole fluttering with sensations I’d never imagined. I fell forward onto my hands and knees, gasping.
You need someone who will strip away all your pretenses and show you what you really are.
A third climax, this one centered deep in my belly, radiating outward until every nerve ending sang with pleasure. I collapsed onto my side, curling into a ball, overwhelmed.
Someone who will collar you and make you kneel.
The fourth orgasm made me sob with its intensity.
My entire body shook, muscles I didn’t know I had contracting in rhythm with the pulsing between my legs.
I could feel my own wetness coating my thighs, could smell my arousal in the air, could feel the shame burning through me even as my body betrayed how desperately I craved this.
Someone who knows exactly what you are beneath that perfect political facade.
The fifth orgasm was almost painful in its intensity.
It started in my toes and fingers, racing inward like fire through my veins until it exploded in my core.
I screamed into the carpet, my whole body convulsing, every muscle locked in ecstatic agony.
When it finally released me, I lay in a trembling heap on the floor, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but gasp for air.
My thighs were soaked. The expensive carpet beneath me was damp with my arousal.
I’d never in my life experienced anything close to what had just happened to me.
Five orgasms in succession, each one commanded by this mysterious Herra who somehow had the power to control my body’s responses completely.
The phone buzzed again. Through the haze of exhaustion and overwhelming sensation, I managed to turn my head enough to see the screen.
Tomorrow night at the reception. Pay close attention. Do nothing else yet.
I wanted to ask what I should be watching for, who he was, how any of this was possible. But my fingers wouldn’t cooperate. I could barely lift my hand from the floor.
The app icon flickered and vanished from my phone screen as if it had never existed.
For long minutes, I lay there naked on our bedroom floor, trying to process what had happened.
The logical part of my mind—the part that had once earned top marks in international relations—tried to analyze the technology involved.
Some kind of directed energy weapon? Electromagnetic manipulation?
But the how mattered less than the why and the who.
Someone knew about my forum post. Someone had intercepted it before Takken found out. Someone had just demonstrated absolute control over my body in ways that shouldn’t be possible. And that someone wanted me at the Synergy Group reception tomorrow night.
No—not just at the reception. Paying close attention.
I finally managed to push myself up to sitting, wincing at the soreness between my legs.
My reflection in the mirror looked debauched—hair tangled, makeup smeared, skin flushed and marked where I’d clutched at myself.
This wasn’t Fru Norquist, first lady of Jagland.
This was someone else entirely. Someone who’d just admitted she needed to be owned, and worse, had meant it.
The sound of a key in the front door lock sent ice through my veins. Takken. He never came home this early from his ‘meetings.’
I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my clothes from the floor. No time for a shower. I pulled on my panties, grimacing at how the damp fabric felt against my oversensitive skin. The bra, the dress—my fingers fumbled with the zipper as footsteps approached down the hall.
“Lorna?” His voice carried that particular tone of irritation that meant something had gone wrong. I managed to zip the dress just as he appeared in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” He surveyed the room with those calculating gray eyes, taking in my flushed face, the slightly askew bedding, the faint but unmistakable scent of arousal that still hung in the air.
“I was… trying on options for tomorrow,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the way my legs trembled. Then I remembered that he’d told me precisely what he wanted me to wear. “I mean… the blue Valentino, as you suggested, but I wanted to be certain it still fit properly.”
His gaze lingered on me for a moment that stretched like eternity. Could he see the marks on my skin where I’d clutched myself? Could he tell that his wife had just been writhing on the floor, coming at the command of a stranger?
“You look flushed,” he said finally. “Are you ill?”
“Just warm. I’ll open a window.” I moved toward the bedroom window, grateful for the excuse to turn away from his scrutiny. My fingers shook as I fumbled with the latch.
“The meeting ended early,” he said, and I heard the particular edge in his voice that meant someone had disappointed him—or, I thought maliciously, perhaps that he hadn’t been able to get it up, even under the care of a fille de joie. “You weren’t on your computer, were you?”
My blood turned to ice. “No,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Why would I be? You know I prefer reading actual books.”
“Hmm.” I heard him move closer, felt him standing just behind me.
Not touching—Takken never touched me anymore—but close enough that I could smell his cologne, the same expensive scent he’d reapplied before his ‘meeting.’ Close enough that I could feel the predatory attention he usually reserved for political opponents.
“The cybersecurity office flagged some unusual activity tonight,” he said casually. “Someone accessing forums they shouldn’t. From this neighborhood.”
My heart hammered so hard I was certain he must hear it. But I forced myself to turn, to meet his gaze with practiced confusion. “Forums? You mean those conspiracy theory sites you’re always complaining about?”
“Among others.” His eyes searched my face. “You haven’t noticed anything unusual? No strange messages, unexpected visitors?”
The phone in my pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Nothing,” I said. “Though if you want tighter security you should probably let them put cameras in the way they wanted to do when we moved in.”
For a long moment, he studied me, as if trying to figure out whether I had meant my words as honest advice or as a taunt.
Then, apparently satisfied, he stepped back.
“Probably nothing. Some teenager thinking he’s clever with his VPNs.
” He turned toward the door. “I have calls to make. Don’t wait up. ”