Page 40 of Her Viking Lord
CHAPTER 21
Lorna
The plug had been in my bottom for so long that when Mila finally began to ease it out, I thought I might faint from the intensity of the sensation. My body had molded itself around the intrusion, and extracting it felt like losing a part of myself. I bit down on my lip to stifle the shameful moan that threatened to escape as the widest part stretched me one final time before sliding free.
“Can you walk?” Katya asked quietly, steadying me with a hand on my elbow.
I nodded, though my legs trembled like a newborn colt’s. They flanked me as we left the theater, supporting me when I stumbled. The corridors blurred together—more marble, more brass, more impossible luxury buried beneath tons of Arctic ice. My awareness narrowed to the burning ache between my legs and the effort required to place one foot in front of the other.
The fuck room announced itself before we even entered—masculine laughter spilling through heavy oak doors, the clinkof glasses, cigar smoke creating a haze visible from the hallway. Mila pushed the door open, revealing a space that made my stomach clench with dread.
Three beds dominated the center of the room, arranged like spokes of a wheel so anyone seated on the surrounding leather chairs and sofas could observe all of them simultaneously. The beds themselves were obscene things—king-sized, with brass frames that featured numerous attachment points for restraints.
A fully stocked bar occupied one wall, bottles gleaming in the amber light from ornate sconces. Three men stood there, dressed in suits that made me think they must represent some sort of middle-management layer within Horakovsky’s criminal enterprise. Their boisterous conversation had died down at the sight of us, but as they regarded our progress into the room they exchanged remarks in Russian that made me blush despite not understanding a word of what they’d said.
“The middle one,” Katya whispered, guiding me toward the bed directly facing the room’s main seating area.
As they began securing my wrists to the brass frame with evident skill, something shifted in my consciousness. The silver branches of Yggdrasil flickered at the edge of my vision, and suddenly I was seeing this moment from two perspectives—the present, and a flash of the immediate future.
I saw myself struggling against the wrist cuffs, into which I could see I would be buckled, in a very specific way, twisting my right wrist just so while Mila tightened the left. The vision showed me exactly how to position my hand so that the leather would seem secure but leave just enough give to slip free later. Without conscious thought, I found myself following the vision’s guidance, contorting my wrist at the precise angle I’d seen.
Mila frowned slightly as she checked the restraint, but it held when she tugged on it. She moved to secure my ankles, spreading my legs wide and binding them to the lower posts. I realized that the bed and its restraints were set up to allow me to be moved around and repositioned, the cuffs on my hands and feet reattached almost anywhere on the bedframe. Then, to my dismay, I saw that the men at the bar had moved into the audience area, their eyes fixed on the display of my most intimate places for their visual enjoyment.
The door burst open before Mila and Katya even finished, Horakovsky’s voice filling the room. “Ah, perfect timing. Gentlemen, our entertainment has arrived.”
He entered with Dmitri and Vassily, who greeted the three men already present in a masculine, companionable way. Takken shuffled in behind them, making straight for the bar without looking at me. I heard the splash of whiskey as he poured himself yet another drink.
“No more pleasure for the little whore’s hot cunt than absolutely necessary,” Horakovsky announced, unbuckling his belt casually, then freeing the impressive, stiff cock that had already impaled my bottom so brutally. “I want her desperate, not satisfied. Anyone who makes her come answers to me.”
The men exchanged knowing glances as they began to undress. I watched through tear-blurred vision as expensive suits were carelessly discarded, revealing bodies that ranged from Horakovsky’s brutal bulk to the leaner frames of his subordinates. My stomach churned as they approached the bed like predators circling wounded prey.
Horakovsky claimed me first, naturally. He positioned himself between my spread legs without preamble, his thick fingerstesting my shameful wetness before guiding himself to my entrance. The thrust that followed was merciless, burying himself to the hilt in one motion that tore a scream from my throat.
“Still so tight,” he grunted, establishing a punishing rhythm. “Even after all that preparation.”
I turned my head, unable to bear watching his scarred face above me, only to meet Takken’s glazed stare from across the room. He’d settled into a leather chair with his whiskey, his expression unreadable as he watched another man use his wife. The indifference in his eyes made me angrier even than Horakovsky’s brutal thrusts.
After several minutes, Horakovsky pulled out abruptly, leaving me gasping. “Dmitri, your turn. Remember—no climax for the whore.”
They rotated through me with mechanical efficiency. Dmitri’s technique was different from his boss’s—slower, more controlled, angling himself to drag against sensitive spots that had me clenching despite myself. When I felt myself climbing toward that edge, he would pause, sometimes pulling out entirely until my breathing calmed.
The three middle managers followed, each taking their turn while the others watched and commented in Russian. One was particularly cruel, pinching my nipples hard enough to make me cry out while he thrust into me. Another seemed almost bored, using me like I was merely expensive furniture while discussing business with Vassily.
I caught sight of Mila and Katya, on their knees in front of the men who weren’t enjoying me at that moment. Their headsbobbed as they tended to the shameful duty of preparing the cocks that would soon invade me.
“Turn her around,” Horakovsky commanded after the first round. “We’re going to fuck her face now.”
I gasped as they repositioned me roughly, Dmitri and Vassily working together to spin me around on the bed. My head hung backward over the edge, the world inverted and disorienting. The blood rushed to my head, making me dizzy, and I could see the men gathering around me from this strange upside-down angle.
“Open wide,” Horakovsky commanded, pressing his still-hard length against my lips. The taste of myself on him made my whole body flare with heat, the musky evidence of my body’s betrayal coating my tongue as he pushed deeper. From this angle, he could drive straight down my throat, and he did so without mercy.
Someone’s hands—I couldn’t tell whose—gripped my knees and pulled them back toward my chest, folding me nearly in half. I felt fingers probing at my tender bottom-hole while Horakovsky used my mouth. The dual violation made tears stream sideways across my temples.
“She’s nice and ready from the plug,” one of the managers observed in accented English, his finger pushing inside me with casual cruelty. “Perfect for use.”
They took turns with my mouth while others played with my exposed bottom, sometimes pushing fingers inside, sometimes just circling the sensitive rim while I choked on whoever was currently using my throat. The position made breathing difficult, and dark spots danced at the edges of my vision.
“Flip her,” Horakovsky ordered after what felt like an eternity.
