Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 96271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
My eyes moved before I could stop them, drawn by the sound the way the eye is drawn by movement in peripheral vision, by pure animal reflex. Leo Aetnaeus stood at the foot of the bench. He had his right hand at the front of his trousers and he drew his cock free with matter-of-fact ease, as if he had done it in professional contexts before and found nothing remarkable about the setting. His penis was large and already fully hard. The sight of its rigid length made my breath come in a sharp, audible pull through my nose.
“Keep your eyes on the leo’s tól, Ilsa.” Henrik’s voice came from my left, measured and calm. “It is an essential sign of respect in a bed thrall. Look at the manhood that rules over you.”
I looked. I had no choice—the cushion held my head in a position that made looking away a physical impossibility. Even if it hadn’t, though, I understood from my master’s tone that this was not a direction I could afford to disobey. I would be punished if he caught me trying to move my eyes elsewhere, or even closing them for too long. So I looked at the huge, jutting thing. The tears kept falling as Leo Aetnaeus stepped forward, brandishing his phallus in his hand.
The realization that my Herra’s command rendered me unable to see what the leo was looking at sent a new blush to my face; I didn’t even know whether it seemed more shameful for him to look at my face as he used me, or only down at the place where his hardness would enter me. Then the blunt, warm head of him moved down between my inner lips with a slow, deliberate stroke that made my hips try to shift and find that they couldn’t.
He did it again. And again. The motion seemed assessing and exploratory, as if he meant to learn the topography of my pussy before he committed to using it for his pleasure. I watched him do it, because the cushion and my master’s instruction left me no alternative, and the watching made everything worse and better simultaneously, in the strange way that everything in this place seemed designed to make things at once more abjectly degrading and more helplessly pleasurable.
Sven’s voice reached me from the monitor, then. He spoke in what I recognized, with the part of my mind that never entirely stopped being a scholar, as a slightly more formal register than his ordinary one—measured, deliberate, with the quality of someone giving voice to a tradition rather than a personal preference.
“Make the slut beg, brother Henrik,” he said. “Make her ask for what her little fisse needs.”
Henrik came to stand beside the bench, close enough that I could see him in my peripheral vision without moving my eyes from where he had directed them. “What do you need, Ilsa?” he asked in a voice that seemed to have gravel in it.
The question was so simple. So direct. And so entirely, devastatingly unanswerable, because the only true answer was the one I had to give, the one my body had been building toward since the leo’s first slow stroke between my wet, spread lips.
“I need—” My voice broke.
I felt the heat of the Guardsman’s cock against me, present and insistent and waiting with the same terrible patience my master had applied to everything.
“I need… please, Herra… I… I need…”
The head of it pressed against the wrinkled hood that felt like the center of my being. I cried out.
“I need the leo’s cock inside my fisse!”
The words bounced off the curved stone ceiling and came back to me sounding like someone I barely recognized.
Leo Aetnaeus placed his right hand flat on my inner thigh, steadying himself, and with his left he positioned himself. He pressed forward just enough to lodge the broad head of his penis at the entrance to my vagina, and I felt my whole body contract around the point of contact with a helpless, shuddering welcome. Then he moved his left hand to my right thigh, and he thrust hard.
I cried out, wordlessly this time. The soreness from the night—from the two times my master had used me, and from the virginity I had given up against the cell’s stone floor—met the leo’s hard entry. The two sensations folded together into something that my nervous system processed as pain and as a compounding, mortifying arousal in equal measure. His manhood felt huge, perhaps as large as Henrik’s, and the stretch of accommodating him renewed every shameful awareness I had been carrying since the morning.
“Tight,” the leo said, above me, to my master. His voice had lost some of its precision, roughened at the edges. “Very tight.” He thrust again, settling deeper, and I arched against the straps with a sob. “Thank you for the loan of this cunt, Magnusson. I am in your debt.”