Chapter 10
Lorna
Mila and Katya entered, and my breath caught in my throat.
They wore nothing but matching black garter belts and stockings, their bodies on full display, their pussies’ tender clefts bare and terribly visible.
Both kept their eyes downcast, their posture that perfect blend of submission and grace I’d noticed before.
The bruise on Mila’s neck had faded to yellow-green, but new marks decorated her thighs.
“Much better,” Horakovsky said, gesturing for them to stand by the wall.
“Business should be conducted with honesty, don’t you think?
No pretenses, no hidden agendas.” His eyes found mine.
“Speaking of which, Norquist, would you permit me to have a little fun with your lovely wife? Nothing too extreme, of course. Just a small demonstration of trust between partners.”
I saw Takken’s jaw clench, his hands forming fists at his sides. For a moment, I thought he might finally stand up to them. Then his shoulders relaxed in that deliberate way that meant he’d made a calculation.
“If it amuses you,” he said, his tone suggesting complete indifference. “Lorna knows her duty.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, but beneath the hurt and humiliation, that shameful heat between my legs intensified.
My body’s response to being offered up like a party favor made me want to die of embarrassment.
Two days of edging myself had left me so desperately sensitized that even this degradation sent pulses of need through me.
No. I tried to shut the voice up—the one that seemed to come straight from my unconscious. Something about the training from Aksel, though, seemed to make it stronger than it had ever been. No. Not ‘even this degradation.’
I like it. Oh, God… Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw the tree. Distant, still, but very present. I need it.
“Excellent,” Horakovsky said, looking at me with the eyes of a predator. “Norquist, hold your wife’s wrists behind her back. Keep her still for me.”
Takken moved behind me, his hands closing around my wrists with more force than necessary.
I could feel his anger in his grip—not protective anger, but the fury of a man whose property was being handled by another.
His breath was hot against my neck, and I could smell the whiskey he’d had in the car to steady his nerves.
“Now,” the Russian magnate said, his voice casual as he looked around as if surveying the room for its potential to humiliate me, “let’s find a way to see what Fru Norquist is really like.”
With easy strength, he grabbed Katya by the upper arm and drew her across the room toward a leather chair, one of those expensive modern pieces that looked more like art than furniture.
Horakovsky bent her over its back, her hands gripping the seat cushion for support.
The position left her bottom raised high, her smooth pussy visible between her spread thighs, thrillingly framed by the garter belt and stockings.
From somewhere—a drawer, perhaps—Horakovsky produced a riding crop.
The sight of it made my knees weak. I remembered too vividly the feeling of Aksel’s strap across my own bottom, and watching another woman about to receive similar treatment while I stood naked and restrained sent waves of heat through me that made me dizzy.
“Since we’re being honest about our partnerships,” Horakovsky said conversationally, testing the crop’s weight with a few swishes through the air, “let me demonstrate how I maintain discipline in my operations.”
The first stroke landed with a sharp crack across Katya’s pale bottom. She cried out, her body jerking against the chair, but she didn’t move from position. The second followed immediately, then a third, each leaving a bright red line across her skin.
I thought I might actually faint. The combination of the sounds—leather on flesh, Katya’s gasps—and my own desperate arousal after days of denial was overwhelming. My legs trembled, and only Takken’s grip on my wrists kept me upright.
“Mila,” Horakovsky commanded, not pausing in his steady rhythm of strikes. “Kneel in front of Fru Norquist. Show her how we treat honored guests.”
“Yes, Master,” Mila whispered, dropping gracefully to her knees before me. Her hands settled on my thighs, gently urging them apart, and I wanted to die of mortification. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, not with my husband holding me in place while another woman—
Her mouth found me, and I cried out at the first touch of her tongue. She was devastatingly skilled, I thought, though I really had no basis for comparison. Her tongue circled my clit with what seemed practiced precision while the crop continued to fall on Katya’s increasingly marked bottom.
“Is she wet, Mila?” Brenteuil asked, his voice carrying dark amusement.
Mila pulled back just enough to answer, her breath hot against my over-sensitized flesh. “She’s like an ocean, Monsieur.”
The words made me burn with shame even as I struggled weakly against Takken’s grip. But the movement only pressed me more firmly against Mila’s talented mouth, and she took it as encouragement, her tongue delving deeper.
Horakovsky continued whipping Katya in an almost leisurely way, as if he had all the time in the world. Each strike drew another cry from the poor girl, and each cry sent another pulse of heat through my treacherous body.
I tried desperately to control myself, to think of anything but the building pressure between my legs.
I thought of Aksel, of what he would say when he learned I’d come without his permission.
Would my Herra punish me? The thought of disappointing him should have helped me resist, but instead it only intensified the burning need down there.
The war inside me—shame battling arousal, resistance fighting submission—somehow seemed to propel me faster toward that impossible place I’d glimpsed before.
And then I was coming, almost as hard as I’d come at the safehouse with my Viking Herra’s penis inside me.
My back arched against Takken’s chest as the orgasm crashed through me like a tidal wave, and suddenly I was there—among the silver branches of Yggdrasil, rising up through the cosmic tree even as my body convulsed in the conference room.
I could hear them laughing—Horakovsky’s deep rumble, Brenteuil’s cultured chuckle, and Takken forcing out his own hollow laugh to match theirs. But their voices seemed distant, muffled, as my consciousness soared upward through the boughs.
The vision pulled me along one massive branch that stretched northward into darkness and ice.
And there—I gasped even as my body shuddered through another wave of pleasure—I saw it.
A utilitarian bunker squatting on permafrost, its concrete and steel angles sharp against the endless white.
Construction equipment dotted the landscape around it, and I could see the beginning of what looked like a massive excavation.
Underground tunnels, perhaps, or something worse.
I tried desperately to memorize every detail—the shape of the buildings, the number of vehicles, the pattern of the lights.
“Tell me, Norquist,” Brenteuil’s voice drifted up to me, pulling part of my attention back to the room even as I clung to the vision. “Does your wife come like this for you? Such enthusiasm!”
“Of course,” Takken lied smoothly, though I could feel the tension in his grip on my wrists. “All the time. Lorna is quite… responsive in our private moments.”
The crack of leather on flesh continued its steady rhythm, and Katya’s increasingly desperate cries seemed to extend my orgasm impossibly. Each sob from the poor girl sent another pulse through me, keeping me suspended in that space between worlds where the vision remained crystal clear.
“She’s making me hard as steel,” Horakovsky said with a dark chuckle. “Mila, I think you’ve given Fru Norquist enough pleasure. Come prepare Katya’s ass for me. Don’t use too much lube—I want her to feel it properly.”
“Since we’re all enjoying ourselves,” Brenteuil said, and I heard the distinctive sound of a zipper, “Mila, after you’ve lubed that asshole, come service me.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Mila said, pulling back from me and making my hips, desperate for more, thrust shamefully forward as if in search of her magic tongue.
I kept my eyes closed, trying to hold onto the world tree in my imagination though it had already begun to fade.
I heard Mila’s soft footsteps as she moved away from me, my thighs still trembling from what she’d done with her mouth.
I heard a sob from Katya, and I couldn’t stop myself from opening my eyes to see through my haze that Mila had two fingers inside her fellow sexual servant’s anus, preparing her.
I let out a whimper at the terrible sight. I closed my eyes again, and I must have lost track of time because when I opened them Mila had already knelt before Brenteuil, who had freed his hardness from his expensive trousers.
“And,” Horakovsky said, a cruel smile breaking out on his face, “I have an idea of how to make our little scene more entertaining. Norquist, because I’m guessing you’re not interested in fucking your wife in front of us like a ‘barbarian,’ why don’t you release her and let her entertain herself while we conduct our business? ”
I felt Takken’s grip tighten reflexively on my wrists before he let go. His breath was hot against my ear as he leaned close, his voice a venomous whisper. “You’d better put on a good show, or I’ll make you regret it later.”
The threat should have frightened me, but after everything Aksel had done to me, Takken’s words felt hollow. Still, I moved on unsteady legs as he guided me roughly to another of those modern leather chairs, pushing me down into it.
“Leg up,” he commanded coldly, lifting my right leg and draping it over the chair’s arm. The position splayed me wide open, my bare pussy completely exposed to everyone in the room. The shame of it burned through me like acid.
“Touch yourself,” Takken ordered, his gray eyes flat and merciless. “Show our partners what a whore you are.”
My hand moved between my legs almost without my volition, my fingers finding my still-sensitive clit.
I was soaked from Mila’s attention and my shameful orgasm, and the first touch made me gasp.
I tried to close my eyes, to retreat into that vision space where I might glimpse more of the Arctic installation, but Horakovsky’s voice cut through immediately.
“Norquist, tell your wife to keep her eyes open. She should watch how real men handle women.”
“Eyes open, Lorna,” Takken snapped. “Watch and learn.”
I forced my eyes to focus on the scene before me.
Horakovsky had positioned himself behind Katya, his massive frame dwarfing her bent form.
I watched in horrified fascination as he pressed himself against her bottom, not her pussy but that other place, that forbidden hole that Aksel had promised to claim only when I’d earned it.
Katya whimpered as he pushed inside, her knuckles white as she gripped the chair.
The sight of it—the complete domination, the way she submitted despite the obvious discomfort—made my fingers move faster against my clit.
I hated myself for responding, but my body had been trained too well by my Herra.
I recognized submission when I saw it, and it called to something deep inside me.
Meanwhile, Brenteuil had tangled his fingers in Mila’s dark hair, using her mouth with casual ownership.
The wet sounds of her servicing him mixed with Katya’s gasps as Horakovsky established a brutal rhythm, and I watched through tear-blurred vision as he drove deep into Katya’s bottom with punishing force.
“You know,” Brenteuil said conversationally between thrusts into Mila’s mouth, “your wife seems to be enjoying the show, Norquist. But she’s not giving us everything, is she?
” He held Mila on his cock, her nose on his belt buckle, as he continued, “Why don’t you have her play with that tight little bottom of hers?
I’d love to see her finger her own ass while she watches. ”
My stomach dropped even as fresh heat flooded through me. Takken’s face darkened, but I could see him calculating again—always calculating what these men could offer him versus what dignity he had to sacrifice.
“Do it,” he said flatly. “Put a finger in your ass, Lorna.”
My free hand trembled as it moved under my thigh and behind me, finding that most private place that I’d only touched in the shower at Aksel’s command. The position was awkward, degrading—I had to shift in the chair, tilting my hips to give myself access while keeping my legs spread wide.
My finger circled that forbidden entrance, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
The shame of doing this in front of them all—in front of my husband who watched with dead eyes, in front of these monsters who were destroying our country—made me want to disappear.
But my body had been too well trained. The tip of my finger pressed inside, and I gasped at the intrusion.
“Deeper,” Horakovsky grunted, not pausing in his assault on Katya’s bottom. “All the way in, like a good little slut.”
I pushed my finger deeper, feeling that strange fullness that I’d only experienced alone in my shower. The sensation combined with my other hand still working my clit sent me spiraling toward another climax I didn’t want but couldn’t stop.
Horakovsky’s thrusts grew more erratic, and with a deep growl, he buried himself completely in Katya’s abused bottom.
She sobbed as he filled her, her whole body shaking.
Almost simultaneously, Brenteuil grabbed Mila’s head with both hands and held her down on his length as he came, her throat working to swallow everything he gave her.
“Excellent,” Horakovsky said, pulling out of Katya and tucking himself away as casually as if he’d just finished a handshake. Katya slumped against the chair, trembling, while Mila remained on her knees, a thin line of fluid at the corner of her mouth that she quickly licked away.
“Well then,” the Russian said, moving to the conference table and picking up a pen. “I believe we’re ready to sign. Nothing like a bit of honesty between partners to seal a deal, wouldn’t you say?”