Page 41 of Her Viking Lord
They manhandled me onto my stomach, reattaching the restraints so I was face down with my bottom raised. The first intrusion into my already sore rear entrance made me scream into the mattress. Unlike Horakovsky’s earlier claiming, this was assembly-line efficient—one after another, they used that tender hole while I sobbed and begged for mercy that never came.
“Three at once,” Horakovsky announced with dark satisfaction. “Let’s see how much the prime minister’s wife can really take.”
Vassily lay on his back and they forced me to straddle him, his length filling my pussy. Then Dmitri positioned himself behind, pushing into my bottom while Vassily held me still. Finally, one of the managers grabbed my hair, forcing his cock past my lips.
The sensation of being completely filled, used in every hole simultaneously, sent me spinning off somewhere into another dimension. Conscious thought became irrelevant: I couldn’t process anything beyond the overwhelming fullness. They established a rhythm that had me rocking between them like a boat in a storm.
Time lost all meaning. They rotated positions, switched partners, took breaks to drink and smoke while others continued using me. Two hours passed in a haze of dominant fucking and denied pleasure—every time my body approached climax whoever was inside me would slow or stop, keeping me suspended in that terrible space between agony and release.
When they finally finished, my entire body felt like one enormous bruise. Horakovsky stood first, his satisfaction evident in the casual way he tucked himself back into his trousers. “Enough for tonight,” he announced, stretching like asatisfied predator. “The whore needs rest if she’s to entertain us properly tomorrow.”
The other men began gathering their clothes, their crude laughter echoing off the walls as they discussed my performance in Russian. I lay there trembling, conscious of every muscle in my body, my consciousness floating somewhere outside my abused body.
“Mila, Katya,” Horakovsky barked. “You’re coming with me. I want to watch you pleasure each other while I fall asleep. Nothing puts me out quite like watching two beautiful cunts grinding against each other.”
I saw Mila’s shoulders tense, but she simply nodded. “Yes, Master.”
“Leave the prime minister’s wife exactly as she is,” he continued, glancing at my bound form with dark amusement. “Let her contemplate her new purpose in life. Someone will collect her in the morning.”
Takken had passed out in his chair, the whiskey glass tilted precariously in his slack grip. Dmitri hauled him up with a grunt of disgust, slinging my husband’s arm over his shoulder.
“Guest quarters for this one,” Horakovsky said, waving dismissively. “Make sure he’s locked in. Can’t have him wandering the facility drunk.”
They filed out, Mila casting one last sympathetic glance in my direction before the heavy door slammed shut. The sudden silence felt oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system and my own ragged breathing.
I waited, counting my heartbeats until I was certain they’d gone. Five hundred. A thousand. When no sounds came from the corridor, I began working my right wrist against the restraint, following the exact motion I’d seen in my vision. The leather caught, held, then with a subtle twist, my hand slipped free.
My fingers fumbled with the other restraints, made clumsy by hours of reduced circulation. When the last buckle released, I rolled off the bed and nearly collapsed as my legs gave way beneath me. I caught myself against the brass frame, waiting for the feeling to return to my limbs.
The vision came again, stronger this time. I saw myself moving through specific corridors, avoiding the guards’ patrol routes with perfect timing. Third door on the left, down the service stairs, through the maintenance tunnel. And there—a security panel, its location burned into my consciousness with crystal clarity.
I found a silk robe draped over one of the chairs, probably left by Mila or Katya. It barely covered me, but it was better than nothing. My bare feet made no sound on the marble floors as I crept from the fuck room.
The facility’s nighttime lighting cast long shadows that I used for cover. My body protested every movement, but adrenaline and purpose drove me forward. The service stairs were exactly where my vision had shown.
I descended them, my vision guiding me with supernatural clarity. At the bottom, a narrow maintenance tunnel stretched into darkness. The cold metal grating bit into my bare feet as I hurried forward, following the path burned into my consciousness.
The security panel was exactly where I’d seen it—above a ventilation grate in an alcove that smelled of machine oil and dust. My fingers moved with a certainty that came from beyond conscious knowledge, entering codes I shouldn’t have known, bypassing protocols I’d never studied. The silver branches of Yggdrasil shimmered at the edges of my vision as I worked, each keystroke guided by that otherworldly sight.
The final sequence initiated a cascading shutdown—cameras first, then motion sensors, finally the communication arrays. The soft hum of electronics died away, replaced by an eerie silence. For thirty seconds, maybe a minute, Berkut Station would be blind.
“Impressive.”
I spun around, my heart hammering. Horakovsky stood at the tunnel entrance, a strange device in his hand—something like a metal detector but more sophisticated, with a digital display that cast green light across his scarred face.
“I wondered how long it would take you to make your move,” he said conversationally, stepping closer. “Though I admit, I expected something cruder. Attempting to steal a weapon, perhaps. Not this.” He gestured at the dead panel. “You actually knew the codes. The real codes, not the dummy sequences we give to staff.”
He raised the device, sweeping it over me like he was checking for weapons at an airport. When it passed over my lower abdomen, between my legs, it erupted in sharp electronic squeals. The display lit up with readings I couldn’t understand, but Horakovsky’s expression shifted from amusement to something darker.
“What is this?” He moved the wand again, more slowly. The device screamed louder as it passed over my pelvis. “You’re carrying something. Some kind of transmitter? A recording device?”
His free hand shot out, gripping my throat and slamming me back against the tunnel wall. “Who sent you? The FSB? The Americans? The fucking Chinese?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I gasped, clawing at his hand.
He released me only to backhand me across the face, the impact sending me sprawling onto the grating. Before I could recover, he’d grabbed my arm, hauling me back toward the main corridor.
“We’ll see how long you maintain that innocence,” he growled, dragging me through passages I hadn’t seen before. These weren’t the luxury areas—bare concrete walls, industrial lighting, the smell of oil.
