Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
The items gleamed in the cell’s light, their black leather surfaces looking supple yet strong, adorned with gleaming metal rings and buckles. My heart raced as I recognized their obvious purpose—restraints. But these were unlike anything I’d seen before, even in my time with the Sons of Odin. They looked custom-made, precisely crafted with an attention to detail that spoke of ritual significance rather than mere functionality.
“Remain still,” Marmareus commanded Camille, his voice carrying clearly through whatever audio system connected our cells. “I’m going to explain something important to you now.”
Camille’s body trembled visibly, but she didn’t move from her position. Her dark hair spilled across the bedding, obscuring her face from my view even if she had it turned toward the camera. I longed to see her expression, to somehow communicate with her, to let her know she wasn’t alone.
“From this moment forward,” Marmareus continued, approaching the bed with the leather items in his hands, “you are no longer simply Camille. You are a Columba of the Order of Ostia, the sexual servants of the Pretorian Guard.”
There was that word again—columba. It sent a shiver down my spine. The way Marmareus said it conveyed weight, significance, as if the term itself carried power.
“A Columba,” Marmareus explained, “is a young woman who serves the Guard. The word means ‘dove’ in Latin—a symbol of peace, purity, and sacrifice. You will learn to embody all these qualities.”
I felt my breath catch in my throat. The Sons of Odin had called us völur, seers with a connection to the world tree. Now the Pretorian Guard sought to rename us as well, to reshape our identities according to their own mythology. Surely they couldn’t know about our true nature, our connection to Yggdrasil. Had they sensed something special in us, though, the way Sven had?
“The leathers,” Marmareus said, dangling the restraints in front of Camille for her to see, “are the mark of a Columba. They will remind you always of your place within our order, and they will allow your masters to arrange you as we wish when we use you for our pleasure—as well as when we punish you.”
CHAPTER 38
Mary
I watched, mesmerized and horrified, as Leo Marmareus fitted the leather restraints onto Camille’s trembling body. First came the collar—wide and supple, with gleaming metal rings at the front, sides, and back. He buckled it around her throat with deft hands, adjusting it so it was snug, but not too tight. Camille shuddered visibly as the leather embraced her neck, and I felt an answering quiver in my own body.
Next, Marmareus fastened a leather belt around Camille’s waist. Utterly unlike an ordinary belt, it had more of the metal rings positioned strategically around its circumference. The purpose was clear, especially in light of what he had just told Camille—the rings would serve as attachment points for further restraints, ways to secure her in whatever position pleased our captors. The belt cinched her waist, emphasizing the feminine curve of her hips and the vulnerable exposure of her still-glowing bottom.
“Fine,” Marmareus murmured, his fingers lingering on the leather as he checked the fit. “These must be snug enough to hold you securely, but never so tight as to harm you. The Guard values its Columbae.”
I swallowed hard as I watched him take the wrist cuffs next. The leather was thinner than the collar and belt, but still substantial, each cuff bearing a D-ring that could be easily clipped to other restraints. He fastened them around Camille’s slender wrists, checking each one carefully before moving on to the ankle cuffs.
As Marmareus worked, a strange feeling crept over me. The sight of the leather restraints against Camille’s pale skin stirred something deep inside me—a recognition, a resonance that went beyond mere familiarity. It was as if my body recognized these bonds on some primal level, as if my training with the Sons of Odin had tuned every nerve in my body to respond to what this man had done, was doing.
I felt my nipples harden, my pussy clench with unwanted arousal. The leather thigh cuffs Marmareus fastened around Camille’s legs—high up, just below the curve of her bottom—seemed to echo the leather bindings Sven had used to secure me during my initiation into the mysteries of the völur.
A disturbing thought slipped into my mind: did something connect the Sons of Odin and the Pretorian Guard? Were their rituals of dominance and submission somehow linked by ancient traditions? I remembered how Sven had bound me to the Viking bride saddle, how he had positioned my body just so for his pleasure and for my training. The parallels seemed unmistakable.
No, I told myself firmly. The Sons of Odin fought to preserve civilization, to protect humanity from the very forces the Pretorian Guard represented—whatever this apparently Roman group pretended. They couldn’t be linked; it simply meant that dominant men could follow an enlightening, truly civilizing path, or a false, repressive one.