Page 31 of Her Viking Lord
“Anything?” He struck again, this time catching the tender crease where my thigh met my pussy. “Be specific, little cunt. What are you begging for?”
I sobbed, letting the words tumble out in a desperate rush. “Your… your cock. Please, Master, fuck my… my bottom instead. Please, no more whipping!”
The flogger dropped to the floor with a soft thud that seemed to echo through the penthouse.
“Good girl,” Horakovsky said, releasing his grip on my hair. I pressed my face back against the cold marble as I heard him stand. “Dmitri, bring the lubricant.”
The casual way he said it, as if ordering a drink, made my whole body flush with mortification. Dmitri had been standing there the entire time, watching me be whipped, watching me beg for this degradation. And now he would watch as Horakovsky… I couldn’t finish the thought. The shame of it mixed with the throbbing pain between my legs, the mélange of sensation and emotion leaving me dizzy.
I heard Dmitri’s footsteps retreat and return. The soft click of a cap opening. Then Horakovsky’s hands were on me again, spreading my cheeks wide, exposing me completely. The cool touch of gel against my most private entrance made me flinch.
“Tell me,” Horakovsky said conversationally as his thick finger began working the lubricant into me, “how does this make you feel?”
The question triggered something in my mind—a flash of silver branches, a thread I’d seen before. Suddenly I was back in that moment of vision, seeing this exact scene play out. The words came to me as clearly as if they were written on a script.
“It disgusts me,” I gasped, even as my treacherous body clenched around his invading finger. The wetness between my legs was unmistakable, my arousal coating my inner thighs, but I continued with the words the vision had shown me. “This is… this is revolting. I don’t want this.”
Horakovsky’s laugh was low and knowing. “You’re lying,” he said, and I heard something shift in his voice—a note of genuine interest he was trying to hide. “I would know you were lying even if you weren’t contradicting yourself. Your cunt is dripping wet, little liar. You told me yourself you need a real man. A real man fucks his whore’s ass. But don’t worry. I’ll get you to be truly honest about your slutty nature before I’m done with you.” His finger pushed deeper, making me whimper. “Even if it takes me weeks.”
The fascination was there, buried under his casual cruelty. He was intrigued by my resistance, by the contradiction between my earlier words and my apparent reluctance now, and my body’s obvious response. I’d hooked him, just as the vision had shown.
I felt him position himself behind me, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my prepared entrance. He was big—not as large as Aksel, but substantial enough that I knew this would hurt. With brutal efficiency, he pushed forward, not giving me time to adjust, just forcing his way inside with a grunt of satisfaction.
I cried out at the burning stretch of it. Unlike Aksel’s careful claiming, Horakovsky's had no regard for my pleasure. Horakovsky straddled my hips, his weight pinning me completely as he began to thrust with punishing force.
Each thrust drove deeper, harder, his hands gripping my hips. I saw it in my mind’s eye, my humiliating posture… my face pressed to the marble, my bottom raised high for his use. Every stroke reminded me this wasn’t myHerra’s careful dominance but something crueler, more degrading.
“Dmitri,” Horakovsky grunted above me, not pausing in his assault. “Come here. Look closely at what I’m doing to the prime minister’s wife.”
I heard footsteps approach, felt the presence of another man standing over my violated form. Fresh tears leaked from my eyes as I imagined what they saw—my body splayed beneath Horakovsky’s bulk, completely at his mercy.
“Tell me what you see,” Horakovsky commanded, driving particularly deep and making me sob.
Dmitri’s voice came from somewhere above and to my left, clinical and detached. “Your cock stretching her asshole wide, boss. Going in and out, making her take every inch.” He paused, and I could feel his gaze traveling over me. “Her cunt is empty, dripping wet. She’s clenching on nothing, desperate for it.”
The humiliation of being described like an object, of having my body’s shameful responses catalogued so coldly, sent a wave of heat through me that I couldn’t control. My pussy clenched hard around the emptiness, seeking something, anything to fill it.
“Look how her pussy squeezes,” Dmitri continued, his accent thickening slightly. “Like hungry mouth, opening and closing. The little slut needs cock there too.”
“No,” I sobbed, but my body was already betraying me. The combination of pain and degradation, the brutal fullness in my bottom, the mortifying commentary—it all crashed together in a storm of sensation. “Please, no, I can’t?—”
But I was already coming, my body convulsing beneath Horakovsky’s weight as waves of unwanted pleasure ripped through me. I screamed into the marble floor, my pussy clenching desperately on nothing while my bottom gripped his invading cock. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, each pulse more intense than the last, driven by the complete humiliation of coming from being used this way.
“The whore is climaxing,” Dmitri observed unnecessarily. “Look at her cunt drip.”
Horakovsky’s rhythm grew erratic, his breathing harsh above me. With a deep growl, he drove himself to the hilt and held there, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep in my bowels. The heat of his release made me whimper, another small aftershock of pleasure rippling through my exhausted body.
He stayed buried inside me for long moments, his weight crushing me against the floor. Then, without warning, he pulled out and stood. I gasped at the sudden emptiness, at the feeling of his seed beginning to leak from my abused bottom-hole.
“Stay exactly as you are,” Horakovsky commanded, his voice carrying that casual authority that made my stomach clench. “Don’t move a muscle.”
I heard his footsteps retreat toward what I assumed was the bathroom, leaving me there on the cold marble with my bottom still raised, his seed beginning to trickle down my inner thigh. The position was beyond degrading—face down, legs spread, everything exposed to Dmitri’s continued scrutiny. My arms ached from being trapped beneath me, and my knees throbbed from the hard floor, but I didn’t dare shift even slightly.
The sound of running water reached me from the other room. Horakovsky was washing himself clean of me, as casually as if he’d just finished a workout. Meanwhile, I remained displayed like a piece of discarded furniture, my body still trembling from the aftermath of what he’d done.
Minutes passed. Five, maybe ten. My legs began to cramp, and I couldn’t suppress a small whimper of discomfort.
“Quiet,” Dmitri said from somewhere behind me. “Boss said don’t move.”
