Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
“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.”
Finally, Horakovsky returned. I heard him pour himself another drink, the clink of ice against glass absurdly civilized given the circumstances. He walked around me slowly, and I could feel his gaze traveling over my abused form.
“You may lower yourself now,” he said at last.
I collapsed onto my side with a sob of relief, my muscles screaming as I curled into myself, trying to cover my nakedness with my hands. Everything hurt—my whipped pussy still throbbed with residual agony, my bottom ached from his brutal use, and my dignity lay in tatters around me.
“I’m sending you home,” Horakovsky announced, settling into what sounded like a leather chair. “But this was just a taste, little cunt. I want you and your husband as my guests next weekend. Somewhere special. Three days.”
My heart sank. Three days of this treatment? I didn’t know if I could survive it, even with Aksel’s training, even knowing it was necessary for the mission.
“There’s one more thing,” he continued, and I heard the smile in his voice. “Until then, you’re not permitted to wear panties. Nothing between your legs except air.”
I raised my head to stare at him in shock. “But I… I have official functions, meetings—”
“I don’t care,” he cut me off. “Skirts, dresses, pants—wear whatever you want on the outside. But nothing underneath. I’ll be informing your husband of this rule, and I expect him to enforce it.” His scarred face split into that predatory grin. “I’ll know if you disobey. I have eyes everywhere, Lorna. Don’t test me.”
The thought of going through my daily life that way, constantly aware of my nakedness beneath my clothes, made fresh heat flood through me. Worse was knowing that I would have to obey that kind of order from a man who considered himself my master, when it was my Herra—my true master—whose commands I wanted to obey.
“Dmitri has your coat,” he said. “Get up and get that whorish ass out of my sight.”
CHAPTER 17
Aksel
I watched Lorna return from her encounter with Horakovsky. Takken was in his study as usual. His biometrics, analyzed through the remarkable algorithms the Pretorian Guard had shared with us, told me he wasn’t paying any attention to the report he pretended to read.
On my surveillance feeds Lorna entered the prime minister’s residence, her movements stiff and careful. The high-resolution imagery from the micro-drones I’d planted months ago showed every detail—the slight limp in her gait, the way she held her coat closed despite being alone in the hallway, the tremor in her hands as she reached for the door handle.
My jaw clenched as I saw the breakdown of her biometric readings. Elevated stress hormones, inflammation markers consistent with physical trauma, traces of foreign biological material that made my blood run hot. Even though I’d commanded her to submit to it, the strength of my angry response as Lorna’s Herra took me by surprise. The data confirmed what I’d expected, but now found almost intolerable—Horakovsky had been brutal with her, more so than even I would have predicted from the way Lorna had described her visions.
I forced myself to maintain clinical detachment as I documented everything for our intelligence files, but my hands betrayed me, curling into fists against the desk. My brave little vǫlva had endured exactly what I’d asked of her, and the weight of that knowledge sat like lead in my chest.