Page 93 of The Bewitched Viking

As he leaned upward, Alinor felt the tightly coiled power in him and tried her best not to cringe. He passed the feather over her forehead, her exposed ears, then her cheeks and mouth. Her lips parted in surprise at the tickly sensation.

Sitting back on his haunches, he employed his “torture device” from her neck, along the fine skin of first one, then the other, of her inner arms, still tied above her to the bedposts. She never would have suspected that her armpits could be so sensitive to touch. Or her wrists. Or her elbows. These were delicious, unnerving sensations, which caused goosebumps to arise on her skin and a dull ache to lodge in her lower stomach.

“How does that feel, Alinor?”

“Terrible.”

He chuckled. “Well, then, perhaps I am doing it wrong.”

“I wish you would not do it at all.”

“I know,” he said, but he did not stop. Instead, he moved his handiwork lower, swirling the feathery threads around and around one breast, then another.

She felt odd. She wanted him to stop. And she wanted something more. Soon she discovered what that “something more” was as he employed the feather like a fan, back and forth and back and forth across the nipples of her breasts. She arched her back upward in protest and keened low in her throat. Her nipples grew into hard points, and the breasts themselves seemed to swell and throb.

“Tell me how it feels,” he urged in a raspy voice.

She could not.

“Tell me,” he repeated, “or I will continue.”

And he did.

She clenched her fists. She braced her feet flat on the mattress. She bowed her back and tried to turn away, from one side to the other. To no avail. He and his silken instrument were merciless in their fine torture. Up the curve of one breast, dragging over a nipple, down the valley, up the curve of the next breast, dragging over a nipple and down again. He repeated the procedure so many times she lost count. Alinor could have screamed with the sweet agony of it all.

When she thought she could stand no more, he squirmed backward so he knelt between her calves. Then he proceeded to employ the same soft torment to her abdomen, her flat stomach, her legs from hipbone to the arch of her foot. Then he did the most scandalous thing of all. He passed the feather, lightly, over her woman’s hair, and the ache in her lower stomach dived downward and lodged in a hot pool between her legs.

“Tell me that you like it,” he entreated.

“I do not,” she said, and it was the truth.

Next, he took a shorter, broad-feathered quill in hand and informed her, “The most interesting thing about these are that they are called ‘hot feathers.’ Can you guess why?”

She soon found out. Unbelievably, these feathers seemed to hold heat, or create heat in their path.

He used the hot feather much the same as he had the first. Her skin was on fire now. The hot pool within grew even hotter and began to seep outside her body, much to her embarrassment.

She hoped he would not notice.

He did.

He placed the tip of a rich purple eye feather, splashed with tints of green and gold, against her there, and it came away glistening. She heard his soft intake of breath at the sight.

He was probably repulsed.

“Alinor,” he whispered in a most appreciative voice.

He was not repulsed.

“Now, Alinor. Now we come to the true tail feathers of the peacock. They are stiff and shorter than the other more beauteous ones, but, oh, I think you will like them very much.”

“Tykir, stop. Enough! You have proven your point.”

“And what point might that be?”

“That you can humiliate me. That the greatest punishment for me is loss of pride. That I cannot abide loss of control.”

“Ah, but Alinor, you haven’t lost control yet. Not nearly.”