Page 39 of Her Viking Lord
“Let’s just say it keeps this base hidden,” Horakovsky told me, the condescension so thick I almost laughed again. “In a way beyond anything my enemies have at their disposal.”
He turned to Mila and Katya, his appetite to dominate me further clearly whetted.
“Girls,” Horakovsky commanded, “take your new friend to the theater. The prime minister and I will join you shortly to observe her… orientation.”
Katya stepped forward first, her blonde waves catching the light as she moved with practiced grace despite the precarious heels. “This way, please,” she said softly, her voice carrying a slight accent I couldn’t place.
I followed them on legs that felt disconnected from my body, the plug making each step an exercise in concentration. We passed through corridors that maintained that bizarre hotel luxury—Persian rugs, brass fixtures, artwork that probably cost more than most people’s houses. Other passages branched off into darkness, and I caught glimpses of things that didn’t match the refined décor: heavy doors with electronic locks, security cameras in every corner, men in tactical gear standing at intersections.
The theater they led me to was intimate, perhaps thirty seats arranged in tiers facing a small stage. Red velvet curtains framed the proscenium, and professional lighting equipment hung from exposed beams. It looked like it belonged in an exclusive private club, not sixty meters beneath the Arctic ice.
“Up here,” Mila said, gesturing to the stage. Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic, as she guided me up the steps.
I heard Horakovsky and Takken enter behind us, settling into seats in the middle row. The soft creak of leather, the clink of glass—Horakovsky must have brought drinks. My skin crawled knowing they would witness whatever mortifying ‘preparations’ Mila and Katya would be forced to perform on me.
Think of yourHerra.The small, reassuring voice in my mind tried to find purchase over my thoughts.Your mission. The world tree.
Under the stage lights, Mila’s and Katya’s hands were gentle but businesslike as they dressed me in the same humiliating outfit they wore. The black garter belt cinched around my waist, the clips cold against my thighs as they attached the sheer stockings. My feet, still numb from the cage, barely registered the towering heels they strapped onto me. I felt like a doll being prepared for display, which I supposed was exactly what I was.
“Now,” Horakovsky’s voice carried from the darkened theater, “show your new sister-whore how we express affection here.”
Mila’s eyes met mine again, and this time I was certain of the apology I saw there. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, so quietly only I could hear. Then louder, for the audience: “On your knees.”
I sank down, the hardness of the stage floor making my eyes water. It seemed absurd that I even noticed the additional discomfort given everything these horrible men had already done to me.
Mila approached first, her delicate fingers tangling in my hair as she guided my face between her thighs. The scent of her arousal mixed with expensive perfume, and I realized with a twist in my stomach that she was genuinely wet. Whether from fear or conditioning or something else entirely, I couldn’t tell.
“Use your tongue,” she instructed, her voice carrying that same apologetic tone even as she pressed my face closer. “Please. Remember I did it for you?”
Thepleasewasn’t for the men watching. It was for me—a desperate request for cooperation that would make this easier for both of us, though I could also hear a lust in her voice that made me clench between my thighs to my dismay. I understood. We were both victims here, both trapped in Horakovsky’s sickgame—and neither of us could keep our bodies from taking helpless pleasure in the shameful things they needed. So I did what myHerrahad trained me to do, what my body knew how to do despite my mind’s revulsion at the circumstances.
My tongue found her clit, circling with the technique Mila herself had taught me. She gasped, her thighs trembling against my cheeks. I worked steadily, mechanically, trying to bring her to climax as quickly as possible. When she came, it was with a soft cry that sounded more like relief than pleasure, her whole body shuddering as she released my hair.
Katya took her place immediately, less gentle than Mila but no less desperate to get through this performance. Her fingers gripped harder, her hips moving against my mouth with an urgency that spoke of practice, of having learned that finishing quickly meant less prolonged humiliation. She tasted different—muskier, with a hint of something bitter that made me wonder what else she’d endured today.
When Katya climaxed, grinding against my face with abandon, I heard Horakovsky’s approving grunt from the audience. “Good. Now the bench.”
A padded bench appeared on stage—Vassily must have brought it while I was servicing the women. They positioned me on my back, my wrists and ankles secured with leather straps that had clearly seen frequent use. The position left me helplessly staring up at the stage lights, until I saw Mila’s backside approaching.
I gasped, whimpered, and finally sobbed as the trim but shapely thighs spread so that she could straddle me, her hips already moving to rub her most intimate places over my already shamefully wet face.
Mila’s weight settled further, her thighs bracketing my head as she lowered herself fully onto my mouth. The angle was different from before, more demanding, and I had to crane my neck to reach her properly. My tongue worked desperately, trying to bring her to climax while the restraints bit into my wrists.
“My turn,” Katya said after what felt like an eternity, and they switched places. Katya rode my face harder, grinding down until I could barely breathe, her wetness coating my chin and cheeks. When she came, she pressed down so hard I felt dizzy from lack of oxygen.
They alternated like that for what must have been twenty minutes—Mila’s gentler rhythm followed by Katya’s desperate grinding, back and forth until I lost count of how many times each had used my mouth. My jaw ached terribly, my tongue felt swollen and clumsy, and my entire face was slick with their combined arousal.
“Turn her over,” Horakovsky commanded from the darkness.
They released the restraints just long enough to flip me onto my stomach, then secured me again with my bottom raised high. I heard them moving behind me, the soft sound of buckles and straps being adjusted. When I turned my head, I saw them both wearing obscene black harnesses, vibrating phalluses jutting from between their legs.
Mila positioned herself behind me first. The buzzing started before she even pushed inside, and when she did, the vibration combined with the fullness made me cry out despite myself. She fucked me steadily, the movement making the vibrating toy press against places that had me climbing toward orgasm within minutes. But just before I could tip over that edge, she pulled out, denying me the release my body screamed for.
Katya took her place, her rhythm more punishing. The vibration was set higher, more intense, and she gripped my hips hard enough to leave bruises as she thrust. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, trying not to give Horakovsky the satisfaction of hearing me beg. But when she started circling her hips, making the vibrating cock hit that spot inside me just right, I couldn’t hold back the desperate whimper that escaped.
They switched again, and again, each taking their pleasure while keeping me suspended in that space of almost-but-not-quite. When Mila finally came with a shuddering gasp, followed moments later by Katya’s louder cry, I was sobbing with frustration, my whole body trembling with denied need.
“Excellent show,” Horakovsky said, rising from his seat. “Girls, remove her plug and take her to the fuck room. Make sure she’s properly secured for use.”
