Chapter 18
Lorna
Two days later, at a facility that seemed to be some kind of private military base, Horakovsky ushered us aboard a vehicle of a kind I’d never seen before.
The massive thing squatted on caterpillar tracks like some arctic beast, its hull painted in winter camouflage that made it nearly invisible against the snow-covered tarmac.
Through the open rear hatch, I glimpsed an interior that belonged more in a luxury hotel than a military transport—polished wood paneling, leather seats, even what looked like a bar along one wall.
“My personal command vehicle,” Horakovsky said, his hand settling possessively on my lower back to guide me up the ramp. The touch made my skin crawl, but I forced myself not to flinch. “Modified from Russian military stock. It can traverse any terrain the Arctic throws at us.”
Takken followed behind us, his footsteps unsteady. He’d been drinking steadily since breakfast, fortifying himself for whatever was to come. I could smell the whiskey on him even from several feet away.
Inside, the vehicle was even more opulent than I’d imagined.
The main cabin stretched perhaps thirty feet, with comfortable seating arranged around a central table that displayed a holographic map of what I assumed was our route.
Climate control kept the temperature perfectly comfortable despite the sub-zero conditions outside.
Two of Horakovsky’s men were already aboard—Dmitri, who gave me a look that made my stomach turn, and another guard whose scarred face suggested a violent past.
“Sit,” Horakovsky commanded, gesturing to a curved leather couch. “We have six hours of travel ahead of us.”
As the vehicle lurched into motion, the ride surprisingly smooth despite the tracks, Horakovsky poured himself a vodka from the bar. The crystal decanter caught the soft lighting, creating patterns that reminded me uncomfortably of ice.
“Your wife has been obedient about my rule?” he asked Takken casually, though his gray eyes were fixed on me. “No panties?”
Takken’s jaw tightened. “As you commanded.”
The Russian turned to me. My stomach churned at the cruel expression on his face. “Show me, whore.”
The words hung in the air like a physical presence. I felt my face burn as I understood what he wanted. Here, in this enclosed space with these men watching, he expected me to prove my compliance.
“Stand up,” Horakovsky said when I hesitated. “Lift your skirt.”
My hands trembled as I rose from the couch. I wore a wool skirt suit, appropriate for travel but suddenly feeling like the flimsiest protection. With movements that felt disconnected from my conscious mind, I gathered the fabric in my hands and slowly raised it.
The cool air against my bare flesh made me shiver. I could feel all their eyes on me—Horakovsky’s predatory satisfaction, Dmitri’s crude interest, the other guard’s bored assessment, and worst of all, Takken’s complex mixture of humiliation and dark fascination.
“Higher,” Horakovsky commanded. “To your waist.”
I obeyed, exposing myself completely from the waist down. My smooth pussy, still bearing welts from his horrible flogger, clenched as I kept my eyes on the carpet but couldn’t help picturing their eyes on me.
“The rest, now,” Horakovsky said simply. “Everything off.”
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my jacket, then my blouse. Each piece of clothing felt like another layer of protection being stripped away until I stood completely naked in the warm cabin, surrounded by the fully dressed men. The pile beneath my bare feet felt obscene.
“On your knees,” Horakovsky commanded, already unfastening his belt. “You’re going to service us while we discuss business.”
I sank down, the vehicle’s subtle movements making me sway slightly. Horakovsky settled into one of the leather chairs with a satisfied grunt, spreading his legs wide. His cock jutted from his open trousers, thick and already half-hard.
“Crawl to me,” he commanded, pointing to the floor between his feet.
The humiliation of it burned through me as I moved forward on hands and knees, the vehicle’s movement making me sway awkwardly. When I reached him, his hand tangled in my hair, guiding my mouth to his length.
“Good. Now show me those skills your husband never gets to enjoy.” He glanced at his men. “Dmitri, Vassily—help yourselves to drinks. Then come have your cocks sucked while you relax.”
I heard the clink of glass as the guards moved to the bar.
My mouth worked mechanically on Horakovsky, taking him deeper with each stroke while trying to disconnect my mind from what my body was doing.
The taste of him—salt and musk and cruelty—made my stomach turn even as my trained responses kicked in.
“Norquist,” Horakovsky said casually, his hand controlling my rhythm. “Want a turn with your wife’s mouth? She’s quite talented.”
Through my peripheral vision, I saw Takken shift uncomfortably in his seat, his face flushed from alcohol and humiliation.
“No,” he said tightly. “She… she doesn’t turn me on.”
I knew better. The whiskey had rendered him incapable, and admitting that to Horakovsky would be worse than any other humiliation. I felt a perverse satisfaction at his predicament even as Dmitri settled into the chair beside Horakovsky, freeing himself from his pants.
“Your loss,” Horakovsky said, pulling my mouth off him and turning my head toward his bodyguard. “Service Dmitri now. Then Vassily. Back and forth until we’re all satisfied.”
For the next twenty minutes, I moved between them like a mechanical toy, my jaw aching as I took each man in turn.
Dmitri was rough, holding my head and thrusting deep.
Vassily seemed almost bored, sipping his vodka while I worked.
And Horakovsky watched it all with those cold gray eyes, occasionally offering crude commentary that made Takken flinch.
When Dmitri finished first, flooding my mouth with bitter heat, Horakovsky commanded sharply, “Swallow it all. Show me.”
I forced myself to swallow, then opened my mouth to display it was empty. The degradation of it made me want to disappear into the floor. Vassily followed soon after, his release thankfully quicker, and I repeated the humiliating display.
Horakovsky took longer, drawing out my service until my knees had numbed against the hard floor and my jaw ached. When he finally came, he held my head down, forcing me to take everything while he groaned with satisfaction.
“Good little whore.” The praise felt like acid on my skin. “Now show me your appreciation properly.”
I forced myself to swallow, the bitterness coating my throat as I opened my mouth to show him I had accepted his shameful gift. My jaw ached terribly, and I could taste all three of them mingled on my tongue—a reminder of my degradation that made me want to retch.
“Turn around,” Horakovsky commanded, his voice carrying that casual cruelty I’d come to dread. “Face down, ass up. Present yourself properly while we discuss business.”
My limbs felt disconnected from my body as I obeyed, turning on my knees and lowering my face to the vehicle’s carpeted floor.
The position forced my bottom high in the air, everything obscenely displayed.
The subtle swaying of the transport made it hard to maintain balance, and I had to spread my knees wider for stability, which only increased my exposure.
“Much better,” Horakovsky said, and I felt his hand settle on my raised bottom, proprietary and possessive. “Now we can have a civilized conversation.”
His fingers traced along my slit without warning, making me flinch.
The casual way he touched me while settling back to talk with my husband made my skin crawl.
His thick finger circled the entrance to my terribly warm sheath, gathering the wetness that my body had betrayed me with despite my horror at the situation.
“You know, Norquist,” Horakovsky began conversationally, his finger now tracing around my other, narrower entrance with disturbing interest, “you and I could build something truly significant in the North. Your political connections, my resources—we could reshape the entire Arctic economy.”
I heard Takken shift in his seat, the leather creaking. “The possibilities are… intriguing.” His voice carried an eager note I recognized from when he thought he was about to close a major deal.
Horakovsky’s finger pressed slightly against my bottom-hole, not entering but threatening.
I bit my lip to stifle a whimper as he continued, “More than intriguing. Revolutionary. Imagine controlling not just the energy infrastructure but the shipping routes, the mineral rights, everything. The Arctic is the future, and together we could own that future.”
The grandiosity of it, the obvious manipulation—I could hear it so clearly in Horakovsky’s tone. He was playing with Takken like a cat with a mouse, dangling impossible dreams while his fingers violated me. But Takken’s breathing had quickened with excitement.
“The renewable energy initiatives alone could generate billions,” Takken said, his words slightly slurred but enthusiastic. “And with the right political framework—”
“Exactly,” Horakovsky interrupted, his finger now circling my clit and making me clench involuntarily. “You understand vision, Norquist. Not like these other politicians, these small men with small dreams. You and I, we think bigger.”
It was so transparently false, so obviously mocking, that I wanted to scream. But Horakovsky could clearly tell that Takken had bought it completely, and the Russian’s satisfaction vibrated through his touch on my exposed flesh.
“Dmitri,” he said suddenly, his tone shifting to command. “Bring me the training plug from the storage compartment. The black one.”
I heard Dmitri rise and move toward the back of the vehicle. My stomach clenched with dread as I heard him rummaging through something, then returning with heavy footsteps. The soft thud of an object being set on the table made my whole body tense.
“Excellent,” Horakovsky said, his hand leaving me momentarily.
I heard a subtle sound of movement and pictured him picking something up, testing its weight.
Suddenly a moment from my last trip to Yggdrasil surface in my mind, and I could see it—I knew what horrible, lewd object the warlord held.
I had to bite my tongue to keep from whimpering.
“You see, Norquist, your wife has potential, but she needs proper training. Her ass is far too tight for real pleasure.”
My blood turned to ice as I fully grasped what he intended.
“This,” he continued, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “will help prepare her properly. By the time we reach my facility, she’ll be much more accommodating. You may peek, Lorna, you little slut.”
I raised my head, feeling my whole body tremble, and saw it in reality, standing up on the table. A massive black rubber plug, obscenely large, with a flared base. Next to it sat a bottle of lubricant. Terror shot through me like lightning.
“I want her properly stretched,” Horakovsky explained to Takken as casually as discussing wine. “It makes the fucking so much better when they can take it without all that tedious screaming. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I… no,” Takken said, his voice thick. “Whatever you think is best.”
The casualness of his surrender, offering me up like property to be modified, finally broke through my paralysis. This was too much, too far. I couldn’t just lie here and let them—
I pushed myself up suddenly, twisting away from Horakovsky’s reach. “No!” The word tore from my throat as I scrambled to get to my feet. “You can’t—”
Dmitri’s hand closed around my arm like a vise before I’d made it two steps. Vassily grabbed my other arm, and together they forced me back down. My face pressed against the carpet as they pinned me.
“Such defiance,” Horakovsky said with dark amusement. “This is exactly the problem, Norquist. You’ve let her think she has choices.”
I heard him stand, heard the whistle of something cutting through air a split second before fire exploded across my raised bottom. The belt—he was using his belt. The leather cracked against my already welted skin, making me scream.
“A woman needs to understand her place,” he continued conversationally, punctuating each word with another strike. “She needs to know that her holes exist for her man’s pleasure, nothing more.”