Page 54 of Her Viking Guardian

Around us, I could feel attention gathering. Not the formal scrutiny of the control room, but something looser and perhaps crueler, more dominant: communal curiosity. I kept my eyes lowered and my mouth obedient and took what he gave me.

“That’s enough,” Giovanna said after a little while, though her voice carried the quality of someone observing an experiment with interest. “If you spoil her, Magnusson, we’ll have to start over.”

Henrik set the bowl down. His hand came under my chin and lifted my face just enough that I had to look at him.

“And what do you say,” he asked quietly, “when your Herra feeds you from his hand?”

My throat tightened. I knew the answer before he asked; my body seemed to know everything before my mind caught up, these days.

“Thank you, Herra.”

He looked at me for another moment. The way his eyes crinkled made my heart jump, to my distress. “Good girl.”

My reason recoiled from the glow in my chest, and the fact of that glow brought new heat to my cheeks.

Then, without any warning beyond the tiny shift in atmosphere that seemed to precede so many things with him, my master rose. I heard the nearby table fall quieter. He unfastened his belt with calm, economical movements, then opened his trousers and drew out his cock.

I forgot to breathe for a moment.

The long shaft had become hard already, and I watched it grow even firmer and longer. The sight of my master with his manhood thick and heavy in his hand, standing in the middle of the elegant refectory in his charcoal jacket and open-necked shirt as if this were the most natural thing in the world, sent a shock through my whole body so acute it made the soreness between my thighs pulse.

Giovanna did not move. I could feel rather than see her stillness beside me.

“Show Bellatrix Hestiaea,” Henrik said, “how a bed thrall thanks her master properly.”

I rose onto my knees more fully without being told. The mat softened the pressure only slightly. My hands came to my thighs automatically, and I looked up at his cock and then at his face.

“Open for your dessert, lille en. Wider than for the bread.”

With a little whine of utter degradation, I obeyed.

He stepped close enough that his erection hovered before my lips, warm and alive and carrying the scent of masculine skin that had already become, to my horror, one of the most exciting things in the world to me. He tapped the head of it once against my lower lip, not hard, just a reminder, and then he slid forward.

I took him in with a little choking sound that I couldn’t suppress. He gave me no time to acclimate beyond the first brief pressure of his hand at the back of my head. Then he began to fuck my face, holding my mouth firmly in place, his fingers twining in my hair.

The first few thrusts were measured, almost demonstrative. After that, they deepened. I had thought, briefly, that the setting might make him restrained. Instead the publicness seemed only to sharpen his intent to enforce his claim. His hand tightened in my hair, not violently but with absolute certainty of his ownership. His hips worked in a steady rhythm.

I heard someone at a nearby table laugh softly under their breath.

“The Viking has no patience,” said a woman’s voice.

A man answered, amused. “Roman discipline. Norse appetite.”

Another voice, low and male: “It seems they like to make ownership look rustic.”

“And we,” said a woman dryly, “prefer bureaucracy with our degradation.”

I heard the little ripple of laughter that followed, and the sound did something dreadful to me. I was there, on the floor, with my master’s cock thrusting between my lips while clothed people discussed comparative traditions over breakfast.

Herra Henrik’s pace increased. My eyes watered. I tried to remember what Nymphobus Oceanus, and then my master himself, had taught me. I breathed through my nose as best I could and let my jaw yield. My Herra made a low, rough sound above me—not polished at all now, not corporate, nothing but male satisfaction.

“That’s it,” he said. “Take it, girl. Be grateful.”

I moaned around him. The vibration made him tighten his grip in my hair.

“Yes,” he said more harshly. “Good.”

The room around us had narrowed to the line of his trousers against my vision, the expensive cloth, the open fly, the tautness in his abdomen beneath the pale shirt, and the wet, helpless work of my mouth receiving him. I could hear cutlery. Voices. A chair scraping somewhere. Giovanna’s heels shifting very slightly on the stone. Every ordinary sound seemed to underline the indecency.