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)
Brother Erik has proposed a theory that bears consideration, wrote another chronicler in 1863. He believes that while Northern blood is essential for a true vǫlva, it is not purely Northern heritage that produces the strongest sight. Rather, he suspects that certain mixtures of bloodlines—Norse combined with Celtic, or Norse with Slavic—create a more potent ability. The evidence is limited, but compelling.
My pulse quickened. I pulled up Lorna’s genetic profile on my tablet, comparing it to the fragmentary genealogies recorded in the old texts. The pattern began to emerge—not a pure lineage, but a specific kind of mixing that seemed to unlock latent abilities.
I needed more data. Rising from my desk, I made my way back to Huginn’s Eye and logged into the database where we kept our records from the past fifty years. Here, the documentation was more scientific, including genetic samples we’d begun collecting in the 1990s. Each bed thrall who’d shown promise as a vǫlva had been carefully catalogued, their training progress meticulously recorded alongside their bloodwork.
The correlation software I developed on the fly took hours to write, translating Old Norse training notations into quantifiable metrics that could be cross-referenced with genetic markers. When I finally ran the analysis, the results made me lean back in my chair, stunned.
It wasn’t just mixed heritage that mattered—it was specific combinations that seemed to appear in multiple populations separated by thousands of miles and hundreds of years. Nordic bloodlines mixed with Celtic produced extraordinary results, yes, but so did Norse-Japanese combinations, Norse-Slavic hybrids, even certain Norse-Mediterranean pairings. The key wasn’t the specific ethnicities but something deeper—a genetic resonance that occurred when particular haplogroups intersected.
I pulled up Mary O’Toole’s file from the previous year. Her training had progressed with remarkable speed, much like Lorna’s. The genetic breakdown showed Northern European ancestry combined with Celtic roots and a surprising four percent Native American heritage traced through mitochondrial DNA. The pattern held across a dozen other exceptional cases.
But genetics alone didn’t explain everything. I refined my search parameters, adding behavioral and psychological metrics from the training logs. Another pattern emerged, this one just as intriguing.
The most powerful völur all shared certain psychological markers—not just submissive tendencies, which we’d long known were essential, but specific responses to particular types of dominance. I frowned at the data, running the correlation again to be certain.
Anal discipline. The connection was unmistakable. Every bed thrall who’d shown exceptional sight had responded with unusual intensity to bottom-hole training. Not just the physical submission of it, but something about the psychological surrender required to accept that most intimate violation seemed to unlock deeper levels of consciousness.
I thought of Lorna’s reactions during our first session, how she’d trembled when I’d promised to claim her røvhul only when she’d earned it. The way her body had responded even to the threat of punishment there through Freya’s Bridle. It all aligned perfectly with what the data suggested.
And as I thought about my next training session with my needy bed thrall, I couldn’t keep my cock from hardening along my thigh or a smile from breaking out on my lips.
Lorna
Three days later I sat in my car outside the nondescript building that held such mystery, shame, and pleasure for me.
My stomach churned with anticipation and dread as I stared at the rusted metal siding. Seven days of edging myself in the shower, of pressing my finger into that most forbidden place while denying myself release, had left me feeling like a wire stretched to its breaking point. Every nerve ending seemed raw, exposed. The smooth skin between my legs, kept bare as my Herra commanded, felt hypersensitive even against the soft cotton of my panties.
I’d reminded Takken I had a specialist appointment for my gynecological issues. He’d barely looked up from his tablet, muttering something about ‘women’s troubles’ before dismissing me with a wave. The indifference that once would have stung now felt like freedom.
But I couldn’t make myself open the car door. Not yet.
The burner phone lay silent in my purse. No messages from Aksel since that night in my bedroom, when he’d commanded me to punish myself while Takken was downstairs. The memory of it—spreading myself open for an empty room, spanking my own bottom while that horrible device between my legs monitored everything—made fresh heat flood my face.
What was I becoming? The prime minister’s wife, reduced to a trembling mess at the thought of seeing the man who called himself my Herra. Who’d collared me like an animal, strapped my bottom until I screamed, used my mouth and my pussy for his pleasure while I had visions of impossible trees and hidden threats.
The worst part was how my body responded to the memories. How even now, sitting in my sensible sedan in broad daylight, I could feel myself growing wet at the thought of what Aksel might do to me today. A week of denial had sharpened every sensation until even the seam of my skirt pressing against my thighs felt like too much stimulation.