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)
“I’m your bed thrall! Your fuck toy! Please use me like you own me because you do! My pussy belongs to you, my bottom belongs to you, everything belongs to you! Please, Herra, please!”
Another lash, and another. The vibrations increased, pushing me toward an edge I knew he wouldn’t let me cross. I was sobbing, begging incoherently now, my defiance completely shattered under the dual assault of correction and denied pleasure.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Aksel said, his voice thick with satisfaction. I felt the blunt head of his tól press against the entrance to my aching sheath, and then he was pushing inside, filling me with one slow, inexorable thrust that made me cry out at the stretch.
“Don’t you dare come,” he commanded as he began to move. “Not until I give you permission.”
I bit my lip hard, trying to control the waves of sensation threatening to overwhelm me. His massive length drove deep with each thrust, hitting places that made me see stars. The vibrations from Freya’s Bridle continued their relentless assault on my clit, and I had to concentrate with everything I had not to tip over that edge.
“Please,” I whimpered as he established a punishing rhythm. “Herra, I don’t know if I can—”
“You can,” he growled, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “You will. You’re mine to control, little vǫlva.”
I sobbed as he drove into me, the fullness of his massive tól combined with the relentless vibrations pushing me so close to the edge I could barely think. My welted bottom throbbed where the strap had marked me, and every thrust sent fresh sparks of pain-pleasure through my core.
“Good girl,” Aksel growled, his rhythm becoming more demanding. “Taking your Herra’s cock like you were made for it.”
I was made for it, I realized through the haze of sensation. Every part of my training, every moment of submission, had prepared me for exactly this—to be claimed completely while bound helplessly to his bride saddle in what would soon be the prime minister’s private sitting room.
His thrusts grew more forceful, each one driving so deep I felt split open. The vibrations intensified, and I heard myself begging incoherently, pleading for release even as I fought to obey his command to wait.
“Please, Herra, I need—I can’t—”
He pulled out suddenly, leaving me gasping and empty. Before I could process the loss, I felt the blunt head of his tol press against my other, more private entrance, my røvhul, only barely recovered from Horakovsky’s brutal use but aching for this reclamation.
“This is mine,” Aksel said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. “Not his. Never his. Mine.”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yours, Herra. Only yours.”
He pushed forward slowly, giving me time to adjust to his considerable girth. The stretch was intense, the fullness overwhelming, but unlike the violation I’d endured at Berkut Station, this felt sacred. This was my Herra claiming what belonged to him, erasing the memory of cruelty with the weight of his dominance and care.
When he was fully seated inside my bottom, he paused, letting me feel every inch of his possession. Then he began to move, establishing a rhythm that had me crying out with each thrust.
The vibrations against my clit continued their assault, and the combination of sensations—his thick tól stretching my røvhul, the saddle’s ridge pressing against my swollen fisse, the pulsing pleasure from Freya’s Bridle—sent me spiraling upward with terrifying speed.
The silver branches materialized around me as he fucked my bottom with increasing force. I shot through Yggdrasil’s canopy, the world tree spreading before me in crystalline perfection. But this time, instead of seeing political futures or strategic threads, I saw something entirely different.
I saw myself, my belly round with pregnancy, Aksel’s hand resting protectively over the swell. The vision was so vivid I could feel the weight of the child inside me, could see the fierce pride in my Herra’s steel-gray eyes. Then the scene shifted, and I was holding an infant—a boy with his father’s white-blond hair and my sharp features. Another shift, and I saw a girl—a daughter with flame-red hair like Mary O’Toole’s but my green eyes. Then another boy, and another girl, until I saw a whole family spreading before me like branches on the world tree itself.
“Herra,” I gasped, the vision overwhelming me even as he continued his relentless claiming of my bottom. “I see—I see your children. Our children. So many—”
His rhythm faltered for just a moment, and I felt his hands tighten on my hips. “Tell me,” he commanded, his voice rough with emotion and need.
“Four children,” I sobbed, the images burning themselves into my consciousness with the certainty of prophecy. “Two boys and two girls. Strong and beautiful, carrying both our bloodlines. They’ll grow up knowing their mother is prime minister and their father is—” I couldn’t finish the sentence as another thrust sent me spiraling higher through the branches.