Bitchmaster update

Horn proved himself a breed apart. His eyes were not on any mere girl, even Vika. Instead, he studied his new bride, his eyes both scrupulous and curious. Katrine found herself unsure of what to make of it. It was not the obscene gaze she would’ve feared from a prospective husband, though she could hardly ignore the lustful aspect of him which was so evident in his barbarian constitution. 

Nor did it harrow her in search of some fault, as Katrine would’ve also feared—being reduced to some breeding mare, to be matched with a stud horse and put to the husbandry of heirs. Instead… as she rounded the long table the conventional way and made her way to her seat… she felt as if Horn were taking stock of her, committing the details of her to memory, as he would study an opponent before battle—or indeed as he studied any his sight fell upon. But she could not recall him ever staring at someone as ardently as he watched her.

She came to her seat and paused, expecting her new husband to pull her chair out for her. Horn did not move, sprawled in his venerable seat as if he held contempt for his honored position. 

Finally, after an unseemly wait, Katrine moved to get the chair herself. Horn moved far quicker, his booted foot lashing out to knock the chair out of her hands. It fell to the ground so heavily that it shattered into splinters, and the sound of the fragments dancing their way across the stone floor was harsh indeed compared to the gentle patter of raindrops Katrine was so used to.

“Here is your seat,” Horn said, gesturing to the thick thigh that emerged from his loincloth, the muscle so bare and overwhelmingly developed that Katrine was reminded of other things that hid within his furs—the same overwrought impression of potency and manhood that applied to all of him, but never more so than what she knew awaited her at his groin. 

The double entendre made Katrine blush, and she blushed still further with the knowledge that her reddened skin was not just visible on her face, but throughout the dress that showed her new lord husband what he had gained in this bargain. She wondered what those crystal ‘raindrops’ sewn through her wedding dress looked like now, with her feeling like she was flushed straight through to the bone. Had they become drops of blood? Apropos, considering what fate her maidenhead was resigned to… 

She did as Horn had asked and straddled his thigh, though it was hardly possible to sit in any ladylike fashion with the girth of his thigh muscles being what they were. She felt the bare skin of his leg burning hot against her core, seeming to sear right through her undergarments. It already seemed unbearably… tactile. She didn’t know how she’d be able to survive having him actually look at her, actually touch her—having their bodies in contact seemed already far too much.

“A date?” Horn asked her, picking up one of the tart little fruits from a serving dish.

“Yes, thank you… husband,” Katrine replied. But he didn’t hand the date to her. 

Instead he held it to her mouth, clearly meaning to feed her as though she were a small child. Katrine opened her mouth to let him lodge the date inside, but just as he released it, his muscular thigh flexed underneath her, a jolt of motion stirring directly against her womanhood. Katrine’s lips went slack as she absorbed the sudden sensation, the feeling of being touched somewhere that was secret, sacred, and then the flush of shame and pleasure that mingled inseparably inside her. It had felt… good. Even in the middle of all these people. Even though it was… him.

“Careful,” Horn chided her gently, having caught the date. He again brought it to her mouth and eased it between her lips. 

This time Katrine had gathered herself, was prepared for any interference. Inwardly she dared him to shock her with another touch. She would not react at all—let him know that was the only time he would ever be able to undermine her poise.

But Horn didn’t make any such move. She was left to chew her date in peace. Katrine flushed even further, feeling herself throbbing where he had touched her. Had she actually anticipated him touching her there again?

“Seconds?” Horn asked, picking up another date. “You seemed to enjoy the first one.”

“N-no,” Katrine replied, her voice stumbling and slipping as though trying to get away from her. She wondered if it would betray her too. “Have a drink, my love. You should enjoy yourself.”

She reached for a wine bottle, but the moment it was in her hands, flexing muscle kicked hard against her cunt again, as though she were being penetrated, only the intrusion was blocked from going inside her by some invisible wall. 

The bottle nearly slipped from Katrine’s grasp, but she managed to retain her grip on it. She did spill a slosh of wine from the mouth of the bottle—nothing next to the raucous celebration of Horn’s men, but most certainly a crack in the poised façade that was supposed to prove the difference between her and his kind. 

Horn took his goblet in hand and held it out for her to fill, smiling graciously. Katrine poured—felt his thigh clench again, again, like a battering ram charging into her gates, showing her how little effort it would take to get inside. The bottle shook in her hand; the flow of wine quivered and nearly missed the goblet. 

Katrine finally slammed the bottle down on the table, resoundingly putting in its place. Horn drank from the goblet, his leg motionless underneath her. And Katrine felt her own thighs tighten on his leg, as she would ride a horse that was picking up speed. 

It wasn’t that she wanted that battering ram to finish its work, but perhaps that she longed for the peace of no longer anticipating and wondering and dreading what was to happen. Perhaps it would not even hurt too badly. This secret touch of his had not hurt, besides her pride…