Chapter Seven
She had sworn that she would not weaken, had promised herself to be strong, resolute. She had meant to remain loyal to Taranc and to her people, so cruelly mistreated. Murdered, robbed, taken into slavery—how could she submit to the man who led the attack on her home and family? How would she live with herself after?
And yet, how would she bear it if she did not surrender?
Taranc had been her rock, her friend, her beloved companion since they were children, but never, not once in all of those years, did he stir a desire remotely resembling this fire that the Viking ignited at her very core. Every muscle ached for him, every bone in her body was brittle, fragile, as though she might shatter into a thousand pieces from the inexorable tension he wound within her. This Viking might be her enemy, though she was less and less sure of that as he warmed and soothed her, as he bound her throbbing ankle and ordered servants to run around and see to her comfort.
Yet Taranc and others from her village were probably even now in chains within that building constructed specially to house the thralls, and soon they would be forced into hard labour by these vile, barbaric Norsemen.
And knowing that, knowing all of that and loathing the circumstances in which she found herself, she had still begged the Viking to fuck her. And she would do so again, should he show the slightest inclination not to grant her request.
Fiona did not believe such extremes would be called for as her Viking shed the rest of his clothing before her admiring gaze. In moments he was naked as she, his huge cock jutting before him as he approached to bring one knee onto the sleeping platform beside where she lay. Fiona could not take her eyes off his massive erection, and had he not commanded her to link her hands behind her head and remain so she might have dared to reach out and touch him. Instead, she licked her lips, which elicited a lewd grin from Ulfric.
“You wish to taste me, as I savoured you?”
What? No! The very notion…
But her mouth watered, her tongue swiped hungrily across her lower lip, her teeth ground together, and Fiona whispered words almost as shocking as those that had already spilled from her mouth. “Yes. May I?”
“Sit up.” He helped her to perch on the edge of the bed and stood before her. “Open.” He tapped her mouth with his fingers.
“May I put my hands down? I… I should like to touch, if that is permitted…”
“You may,” he acceded, “but open first.”
So she did. Fiona lowered her hands to rest them on his sculpted hips then parted her lips to accept the crown of his cock as Ulfric fed it to her. She had no idea what to do once she had the slick roundness within her mouth, so she settled for running her tongue along the underside. It was smooth, like marble, and almost as solid. And there was a taste, a distinct tang. It was… not unpleasant. She wrapped her tongue around the head and licked, at the same time curling her fingers into a fist around the base of his shaft. Ulfric groaned, and, fearful, Fiona rolled her eyes up to meet his.
But her Viking was smiling. He narrowed his eyes, and he nodded. Just once, but it was enough. Her confidence grew as Fiona bent her head and started to move back and forth, taking just a fraction more of him into her mouth with each stroke. Her head was bobbing, her jaw straining to open wider, to take more. She wanted more. She wanted it all.
The head of Ulfric’s cock nudged the back of her throat and Fiona gagged. She shifted her position so that the angle was changed and she could direct him into the inner pocket of her cheek. He stroked her hair as though to reassure her that this was acceptable, that she was doing well.
After all, she was to be his bed-slave. She would require these skills she was only now acquiring.
Fiona wrapped her fingers, both hands, around the wide column at the base of his cock and rubbed up and down. She managed to find a rhythm with the movements of her head, her lips and tongue, and for his part Ulfric appeared content. He twisted hanks of her hair between his fingers and she was well aware that he could have forced more of his erection into her mouth, beyond the limits she was unwittingly setting for him. But he did not. He held her head firm and steady, but did not force the pace or drive his cock deeper.
Suddenly and without warning he pulled free. Fiona gazed up at him, wide-eyed. He had seemed to like her ministrations, yet—
“Now. I have to fuck you now.”
She could only nod, though she had but the vaguest notion how such a feat was to be accomplished. Fiona had heard talk, of course, but never the details…
In contrast to her own inept uncertainties, Ulfric knew exactly what he was about. He pressed her shoulders back against the bed and with his hands behind her knees now he raised and parted her legs. Her core still throbbed from her release of but a few minutes ago, and Fiona wondered if he might repeat that delightful interlude now.
That notion was dispelled when he moved forward to kneel between her thighs and the crown of his cock nudged her slick entrance.
She knew a moment’s panic. “Wait, I am not sure…”
He paused, raised his eyebrows to regard her.
“No?” His expression tightened, he looked… pained.
“No. Yes. I mean yes, but I am not certain that we shall be… a good fit.”
“We will be a perfect fit. You have my word on that, little Celt.”
“Oh. I see…”
She did not see, not yet, but she had to know. Curiosity and arousal merged with anxiety. Fiona was nervous, a little frightened in truth, but not so much so that she would fumble or let slip this experience. She was to be a bed-slave to this beautiful Viking poised above her; that much was beyond her control. Suddenly the first part of that description, at least, seemed considerably more attractive.
He pushed, and her body parted to accept him. The wide head of Ulfric’s cock breached her entrance and Fiona gasped. It was tight, she was stretching, pushed to her very limits and beyond. This was impossible, too much, too… too…
“Oh! Aagh!” She screamed as a sudden pain tore through her, then she went still. She could not move, dare not for fear something else might rip. He had hurt her, done her some injury despite his promises, his pledge that she would not be harmed.
Fiona lay rigid, her breath ragged, her heart pounding. Ulfric, too, remained motionless though he seemed not to share her distress. She should ask him to please stop. To just withdraw and let her be. She might yet recover if he would only—
“Has the discomfort passed, wench?”
“What?”
“Has the pain stopped? It should be but fleeting.”
Fleeting? What was he babbling about? Of course it had not stopped…
Except, it had. She lay still and mentally revisited the site of her earlier agony to find nothing but a dull ache, and that was fast diminishing. She tried an experimental shift of her hips, and discovered only a lingering soreness, a soreness that was not exactly unpleasant.
“Oh, that is odd…”
“Odd? Perhaps. I would call it fucking wonderful. You are so tight, so… hot.”
“It is you who is too large. I told you we would be a bad fit.”
“Look at me, wench. Keep your eyes on mine and do not look away.” He withdrew, his actions unhurried and deliberate, until just the head remained within her entrance. Then he drove his cock slowly back, all the time holding her astonished gaze. “So, do you still believe we are a bad fit?”
The friction was incredible, the sensation quite indescribable as his cock filled her and caressed her inner walls. She had loved the feel of his fingers inside her, but they were nothing in comparison to this. Her back arched through no volition of hers and she reached for his shoulders as though to steady herself.
He continued to hold her gaze as he did it again. And again. By the fourth time he plunged his cock into her slick core, Fiona was beyond coherent thought.
Ulfric broke eye contact to lean down and lay his mouth across hers. The kiss was tender, his tongue dipping between her lips as his cock had done just moments earlier. Fiona’s response was instinctive and unstudied. Her tongue danced with his as she wriggled her hips in a circular motion. She was seeking something she could not name, but knew it had to do with the intensity of sensation where his body now connected with hers, invaded hers. They were joined, yet she still craved that elusive ‘more.’
Ulfric broke the kiss and leaned to one side, his weight on his left elbow as his right hand snaked between their bodies. He found that special pleasure spot he had rubbed so mercilessly earlier, rubbed, licked, sucked. And he took it between his finger and thumb now and he squeezed. Even as Fiona opened her mouth to scream he drew back and thrust his cock forward again, filling her entirely. The scream died in her throat as her release consumed her. Fiona could but cling to him as her body shook and convulsed, as waves of pleasure churned through her, as lights brighter than the summer sun exploded behind her closed eyelids.
Ulfric continued to drive his cock deep and never let up the work of his busy, skilled fingers until the final shimmer and shudder died away. Then he lowered himself over her so that she almost bore his weight, though not quite, and he buried his face in the hollow of her neck.
“Ah, little Celt, you do enchant me.” Then he rammed his cock into her hard, and held still as deep shivers racked his own chiselled torso. He muttered something in his Nordic tongue just moments before her channel was filled with a surge of wet heat.
* * *
Ulfric rolled over and withdrew from her almost at once. Fiona was not sure if she was glad or not. If he had wished to tarry she might not have objected, but it was clear he harboured no such inclination. He did, however, pull her to him and wrap his arms around her from behind.
“Are you well, little Celt?”
“I… I believe I am, Viking.”
“No pain?”
“I am a little sore, but…” She pondered what to say to him next, and settled for the first thing that had entered her head. “Thank you. That was very nice.”
Ulfric laughed out loud. “Good. In that case you will not strenuously object to repeating the exercise.”
She shifted a fraction and groaned as her no longer virgin body complained. “I believe I would not, but perhaps not immediately.”
“No, not immediately. You will remain here, rest, keep warm.”
She turned her head to look at him, anxious. “You are leaving me?”
“I must. I have much to attend to, but you will be safe here. No one will trouble you. I will ensure that food is brought…”
“I have been fed, by your sister. I do not much care to sample more of your Viking fare.”
“You shall have good food, the same as I do. Be assured, little Celt, I shall deal with Brynhild and you will not be troubled by her in the future.”
“Still, must you go? Or if you must, maybe I could come with you…?”
“You need to rest, allow your ankle to heal.”
He pressed his lips against her hair then rolled from among the furs to seek out his discarded clothing. Despite her trepidation Fiona could not help watching in fascination as he dressed. She recalled with sadness the destruction of her own belongings, tattered and soiled as they might have been.
“She burned my clothes.”
“She what?”
“Burned my clothes. Everything, even the bandage. Now I have nothing.”
His jaw tightened, his mouth flattened. A spark of genuine anger leapt in his eyes, to be quickly extinguished. “I shall see that you have more, and that you are given clothing suited to our climate since I now know how much you dislike the cold.”
He draped his own cloak about his shoulders and lifted the curtain that separated them from the rest of his household. Fiona knew a moment’s embarrassment when she realised how flimsy was that barrier, and how unrestrained had been her vocal response to Ulfric. Even from her position within the nest of furs she could see Brynhild standing beside her loom on the other side of the hall. There was no mistaking the Norsewoman’s surly expression when she raised her head to regard her brother as he emerged from his sleeping quarters.
Whatever Ulfric might promise, whatever he might choose to believe, Fiona harboured no such illusions. She had every reason to fear Brynhild.
* * *
She heard but snatches of conversation as Ulfric berated his sister for her treatment of Fiona, and much of it was in their Norse tongue in any case. It was clear he was displeased. His voice was raised, though he did not shout. Brynhild hissed her replies, her resentment and bitterness apparent with every foreign syllable she uttered. The woman clearly believed she was justified in doing as she had, and Fiona knew full well that she would not refrain from tormenting her in the future. And why should she, after all? Brynhild was a Viking, sister to the Jarl. She ruled here, just as he did, whilst Fiona was a mere thrall who might be bundled off and sold at a moment’s notice. She had but to displease Ulfric, and her slender thread of protection would be snatched away.
The voices became clearer. The quarrelling pair must have moved closer to the curtain, and they had switched to her own Gaelic tongue, or Brynhild had.
“Why? Why is she here? If you do not care for me, what of Njal? What of Astrid?”
“This does not concern Astrid—”
“Your wife, the mother of your son. How can you say it does not concern her?”
A wife? He had a wife after all?
“Astrid is gone. I loved her, but she is dead and we must move on.”
Ah, not a living wife, at least…
“You should wed another, provide Njal with a mother, more brothers and sisters. Not move some… some worthless Celtic slut into our home.”
“I prefer it if you do not refer to her thus.” He sounded irritated, and the receding footsteps told Fiona that he was already heading for the outer door. At least he had defended her.
“I do not want her here. It is not right, not… not…”
“Why does it matter so much to you? She is just a wench to fuck. Not important. I am warning you, leave her be, Brynhild.”
* * *
Fiona gaped at the curtain, still swaying from his departure.
Just a wench to fuck. Not important.
She had surrendered her virginity to a man to whom she was no more than a trivial plaything, a release for his lust. He had seemed so kind, as though he genuinely cared for her pleasure, as though it mattered to him what she felt. She had had a choice, she knew that. He could have forced her but instead he took the trouble to persuade her, to arouse and entice her until she was near senseless with lust. And all the while he held her in such contempt. How could she have been so stupid, so foolish, so utterly gullible? Worse, how could she so much as contemplate repeating her folly?
But repeat it she would. Fiona knew she would. He had only to touch her, only to suggest those wicked things he could do to her, and she would beg him again.
She was not entirely certain who she hated more in that instant—herself, Ulfric, or his loathsome sister.
* * *
Ulfric returned to his sleeping chamber several hours later. Fiona had spent the intervening time alone and undisturbed, but she feigned sleep when the Viking slipped into the bed beside her. She had no words for him, not yet, and hoped he would not seek to demand her attention.
He did not, and soon his low, even breathing signalled that he slept. She closed her eyes and tried to do likewise.
When she opened them again she was alone, the furs beside her cold and empty. She raised her head from the mattress and peered about her. Narrow fingers of watery daylight penetrated the cracks between the walls of the longhouse and the rafters so she knew the hour to be after dawn, but for the most part the room where she lay remained unilluminated. Fiona longed for a sight of the morning sun, however thin and cold it may be in this frigid Northern land, but her ankle would not hold her and she could not move from where she was without assistance. Added to this, she possessed no clothing and would most certainly not voluntarily stir from this room naked.
She shoved herself up into a sitting position and contemplated calling out. No, not if that would risk Brynhild answering her summons. She wondered again if she might just manage to—
The curtain parted and the slim figure of a young thrall slipped into the sleeping chamber. She carried a bundle of fabric. which she deposited upon the bed. The girl stepped back and simply pointed to the clothing she had brought, then to Fiona. It seemed the attire was intended for her.
Fiona managed a tentative smile and reached for the closest item, a smock made of stout woollen cloth. It was a dull grey in colour, but soft enough and would be warm, and decent. She continued her investigation to find a linen pinafore and a pair of leather sandals. All were of reasonable quality, if somewhat basic, and were clean.
“Thank you,” she began, before realising that the slave who had brought her new clothes did not speak her tongue. The thrall nodded and bobbed from the room, leaving Fiona alone once more.
She perched on the edge of the bed and groaned as moisture pooled beneath her. Fiona shuffled to the side and peered at the place she had been sitting. In the dim light she could barely make out the dark stain of her own blood, the residue of the previous night’s incredible events, now mixed with the excess of her Viking’s seed. She should find the sight more distressing than she did. Indeed, she was oddly calm about the entire episode and did not especially regret the loss of her virginity despite the Viking’s callous words to his sister. She was honest enough to admit that she had relished the experience and had learnt a great deal from her Viking master. Even so, she wished to remove the evidence of her deflowering and clean herself before she dressed. Luckily, her bath from the night before had not yet been removed so Fiona was able to use the flannel and a little of the tepid water to accomplish some basic ablutions.
Satisfied with her efforts, she dragged the smock over her head quickly in case anyone else was about to enter unannounced. The pinafore soon followed, then Fiona bent to consider the sandals. Her good foot posed no problem and she soon strapped the footwear on. She discovered that the shoe could be adjusted to accommodate her still swollen and bandaged ankle, and since it was far more comfortable, and warmer than walking about barefoot, she secured the left one too.
She clung to the wall as she got to her feet, and tested her weight on her injured foot.
No, no way could she use it yet. Laughter sounded from beyond the curtain, a female voice, not Brynhild, then a male speaking in the Nordic language she did not comprehend. Yet still, they sounded merry and Fiona craved company. Perhaps, if she used the wall to support herself, she might be able to manage an ungainly hop…
Fiona emerged from the sleeping chamber into the main room of the longhouse. Four pairs of eyes swung in her direction. Brynhild sat at the head of the huge table in the centre of the room, the girl who had delivered the clothing on her right side and two male thralls seated opposite her. The slaves had been chatting and laughing over something, but all fell silent when Fiona appeared. She fought the instinct to duck back behind the curtain, instead tilting her chin up and meeting the Viking woman’s hostile glare.
“I… I was hungry. And I need to… to…” She needed the privy, but could not quite bring herself to be so explicit.
“Hilla will show you the place.” Brynhild spoke a few words to the female thrall who nodded and rose to her feet. The girl waited by the door leading to the outside, and beckoned.
Fiona started to make her way around the outer wall, but Hilla came back to aid her. By leaning on the smaller girl Fiona was able to cross the room and skirt the outside of the longhouse until they reached the wicker-fenced cubicle that served as the place for more private functions. Fiona waved away Hilla’s gestured offer of further aid and managed to sink into a crouch herself.
Getting back on her feet was trickier, but she managed, driven by sheer determination. Hilla waited outside for her and helped her back into the main room of the longhouse.
“Sit there.” Brynhild pointed to a rough bench at the foot of the table. A basket of turnips had been set beside the bench, and a sack containing carrots. “You will prepare those for the pot. Be quick about it, we want to eat this day.”
Fiona peered at the vegetables, and at the blunt knife provided for her use. The task would take an age with such an unsuitable implement, but she reached into the basket and selected her first turnip.
Rarely was she called upon to assist with kitchen chores at Pennglas, but Fiona had no real objection to the labour and set to with a will. Soon, the chatter around her resumed, though Fiona was unable to follow the rapid speech of her fellow thralls who also peeled and chopped a variety of vegetables.
Brynhild did not say much, but what conversation she did offer seemed genial enough and the other slaves clearly did not share Fiona’s trepidation around their mistress. On one occasion when Hilla accidentally slipped and cut her finger with the knife she had been provided, Brynhild leapt to her feet and grabbed a cloth to stanch the flow of blood. The Viking spoke softly to the weeping lass and allowed her to sit and watch, her hand swathed in a thick wad of linen, whilst the others continued with their tasks.
It was clear that Brynhild’s sour temper was not vented upon all around her. As though to further illustrate this point the small boy, Njal was next to interrupt their labours. Ulfric’s son ran into the longhouse dragging a sack of peas, which he dumped before his aunt. Brynhild stroked the panting child’s cheek and bent to inspect his offering before apparently declaring it perfectly excellent. He beamed and charged off out of the door again. Brynhild fixed Fiona with a glare. “Stop dawdling with those turnips and start shelling these peas. We do not have the entire morning to sit around waiting for you to finish even the simplest task.”
Fiona might have retorted something along the lines of doing better with a half-decent blade, but she opted to hold her tongue. Nothing she might say would assuage Brynhild’s ill humour. Instead, she lowered her gaze and persevered.
A couple of hours passed and the pile of prepared fare grew into something more reasonable. One of the male thralls—Harald, Fiona thought though she was not entirely certain—brought in buckets of water, which he tipped into the huge cauldron suspended over the fire pit in the centre of the room. To the pot he added the turnips that Fiona had peeled and chopped, and started to stir the broth. The other male thrall disappeared and returned with three rabbits hanging from each hand. He flung those on the table and proceeded to skin each animal.
Fiona preferred not to watch and was relieved when at last the meat also disappeared into the bubbling pot. A pleasant aroma emanated from the stew, which by now contained several of her carrots too, and a generous portion of peas. Hilla had rejoined the task and merrily shelled peas beside Fiona, offering her an occasional shy smile. Fiona warmed to the lass and grinned back.
With an expressive snort, Brynhild left them to finish the work and moved over to the huge loom which was situated by the door, clearly positioned to best catch what meagre light penetrated the longhouse. The loom was perhaps six feet in height and leaned against the wall. A length of already woven cloth was wound around the upper beam, and Brynhild leaned in to inspect the fabric forming within the framework. Fiona was familiar with the weaving process though not especially skilled at it, and the Viking method differed little from that which she was accustomed to in Pennglas. The warp threads were tensioned by stones tied to the ends, and moved relative to each other by means of rods about halfway down. Several rods were attached to this piece, and Brynhild commenced moving these as she passed the shuttle holding the weft thread backwards and forwards. It was laborious work and Brynhild had to pace back and forth across the front of the loom to accomplish it, but the Viking was both deft and accurate. She appeared to be working on a type of twill fabric, which Fiona knew to be more complex than the normal plain weave. Despite her dislike of the woman, Fiona could not help but admire her skill with the loom.
Brynhild said something to Hilla, then strode from the longhouse. The thralls remained at their assigned tasks.
Curious, Fiona took advantage of Brynhild’s absence to study the weave more carefully. It really was quite beautiful, a rich blend of blue weft and various reds making up the warp to create a pattern that reminded her of the heather-clad mountains of her home. Unthinking, she pushed herself to her feet and hopped over to grasp the heavy loom, then leaned in to examine the work.
“What are you doing?” The harsh tone of the Viking woman rang in her ear, causing Fiona to whirl on her good leg. She lost her balance and instinctively grabbed at the loom for support, dislodging one of the rods that helped to create the design. Several threads sprang loose, and Brynhild let loose a torrent of angry Nordic before switching to Gaelic.
“How dare you? Who gave you permission to touch my work? You were trying to sabotage it, I know your tricks, filthy little Celtic whore.”
“I was not. I just—”
“Silence. I will have you flogged for this. Indeed, I shall deal with the task myself…”
“I can help to repair it. I did not mean any harm.” Fiona started to back away.
Brynhild followed, very much on the attack and clearly furious. “You will not touch my loom again, slut. Do you not know yet what we do with disobedient slaves here?”
Fiona had a very good idea, but was stung by the injustice of this latest attack. She paused her retreat and tried to stand her ground. She was a lady, daughter of the lord of Pennglas, not some peasant to be berated by a bitter, vengeful woman.
“I do not care. I am not your slave, nor anyone else’s. I was only looking at the weave, admiring—”
“You will be silent, girl. Harald, fetch me a strap.”
“No!” Fiona turned and made to head back to the one place that seemed to offer any form of sanctuary. She had not managed two paces toward the curtain before Brynhild seized her elbow.
Fiona tried to yank her arm free, but Brynhild’s fingers tightened, digging into her flesh. Terrified now, Fiona tried to wrestle out of her grip but could not get loose.
“Let me go, Viking. I do not answer to you, I shall—”
“Fiona!” The loud, stern tone of Ulfric brought the unequal struggle to an abrupt end. Both women turned to where he stood, framed in the doorway, his expression thunderous. “What the fuck is going on here?”
Fiona had known a moment of relief at his arrival. That was instantly dispelled when he narrowed his eyes in a forbidding glare.
“I… I only—”
“This vindictive little slut of yours saw fit to tamper with my weaving. Now I shall have to repair the damage she has wrought and that will take hours.”
The woman exaggerated and Fiona opened her mouth to say so.
“Did you touch the loom, Fiona?” Ulfric’s question was terse.
“Yes, but—”
“Did you have permission to do so?” He was evidently not interested in any mitigating factors.
“Not exactly, but I—”
“Not at all,” spat Brynhild. “I stepped out to check on Njal and told all of them to continue with their work.” She swept out an arm to indicate the group of startled thralls now watching open-mouthed. “For this idle wench that meant she should finish shelling the peas. She had no cause to so much as leave the table, let alone approach my weaving. She has earned a whipping, and I shall be happy to deliver it.”
“I told you, if my bed-slave requires to be chastised I shall do it myself.” Ulfric’s tone was low, bearing more than a hint of warning to Fiona’s mind.
“Then—”
“Harald, you will fetch a switch. And be quick about it.”
The entire exchange had been conducted in her native Gaelic and Fiona gasped as the implications sank in. Surely he could not, would not…
One glance at his stern visage convinced her he could and he would.
“Go and lie across my bed, face down, and your bottom bared. I shall be there in a few moments.”
Fiona stood rooted to the spot, her mouth agape. She was horrified at the turn events had taken. From such innocent beginnings…
His brow furrowed, his tone sharpened. “Do you require assistance to get yourself there?”
She shook her head, still unable to formulate words.
“Go, then. Now. If you are not ready to receive your punishment when I enter the chamber, the number of strokes will be doubled. If I require the assistance of my other thralls to ensure that you remain still and accept your whipping, then it will be trebled.”
Fiona managed to shake herself from her state of stunned paralysis and started for the curtain once more. She could not believe this was really happening. The damage she had caused to the weaving was minimal, and had been unintentional, an accident. Surely she could make him understand. She turned to face Ulfric once more. “Please…”
“Do not try my patience, little Celt. You have much to learn, and we shall make a start here and now.”
She hugged the outer wall of the longhouse as she hobbled back into the sleeping chamber. Fiona eyed the bed balefully, the furs and blankets still tangled as she had not waited to straighten them before embarking on her exploration earlier. There was no time now.
She lowered her body onto the mattress, taking care to ensure that her bottom would be facing away from the curtain. She had no desire to offer further amusement to Ulfric’s sister should Brynhild chance to look this way. Once in place, Fiona reached back and grabbed the hem of her smock.
The cooler air now that she was away from the fire wafted across her exposed buttocks. Fiona clenched hard. How many strokes would he deliver? How hard would he beat her? She felt the shift in the chilly air as the curtain moved and knew she would soon have answers to her questions.
“Do you have anything to say, little Celt?” His tone was less severe now, but still she shook her head. What was the point in trying to reason with these barbaric Vikings?
“No? You seemed keen enough to plead your case a few moments ago.”
“And you would not listen. I told you, what happened was an accident.”
“I know that, and I believe you. Were it merely a matter of the weaving I doubt we would find ourselves requiring a switch at all. My sister is somewhat protective of her work, but she is very skilled at the loom and will have the matter set to rights soon enough, I daresay.”
Fiona turned to face him. Ulfric leaned against the wall at the foot of the bed, his posture nonchalant as he regarded her bared buttocks with undisguised appreciation.
“Then, why—”
“I entered my longhouse to hear you declaring that you were slave to no one and that you did not answer to Brynhild. I had thought I made your status in this house perfectly clear, but evidently not.”
“She was goading me. Threatening me.”
“As she had every right to do. You are to obey her. I told you that, also.”
“But—”
“Enough. Are you my slave, Fiona? Or do you still maintain matters to be otherwise?”
She buried her face in the furs and refused to respond. The whistle of a switch rending the still air elicited a soft whimper.
“Answer me, Celt.”
“I am your slave, Viking.” It near enough stopped her breath to utter the hated words, but the switch… Fiona shuddered.
“Good. Now I believe a half dozen decent strokes across your bottom will serve to drive that message home, but I will be quite happy to repeat the lesson should you so require.”
A half dozen? It could have been worse.
She had fully expected it to be worse, much worse, in fact. A dozen or even twenty strokes would not have surprised her. She could bear this.
“Be still, and this will soon be over.” He stepped forward and laid his warm palm on her quivering backside. He squeezed the firm flesh there, then trailed his fingertips up the furrow between her buttocks. “Are you wet, Fiona?” He murmured the question as he leaned over her.
She shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“I do not believe you. Spread your legs.”
“Please…” she began.
“Obey, or I shall start to add strokes.”
Fiona wriggled her thighs apart.
“Wider. As wide as you can.”
She groaned as she complied, bending her legs at the knees to better satisfy his demands. Despite her denial, she knew what he would discover as soon as he tested her moist folds.
Sure enough, the sounds of her wetness accompanied his gentle exploration. Ulfric chuckled as he slid his fingers into her soaked channel. “Bear your whipping well, little Celt, and I shall reward you after.”
“Reward yourself, more like.”
He withdrew his digits and reached further to take her swollen clit between his fingers. He rubbed gently, then scraped his fingernails over the tip, scratching her trembling nub. Fiona groaned and grasped fistfuls of the blankets in her desperate hands.
“I am not sure that I heard you correctly. Which one of us will have the reward, little Celt, if you are a good slave and manage to please me?”
He paused, waited. Fiona let out a defeated breath.
“Me. I will. Please…”
“Six strokes then, my sweet slave. You will count.”
He flicked her sensitive nubbin, just once, but it was enough to make Fiona writhe on the mattress. Now she lifted her bottom, almost eager for the pain he would inflict. How could this be? What had she become that she would welcome his punishment, count the strokes until he would touch her again and bring her to the pleasure she craved? Maybe he would fuck her again. Perhaps, if she asked him. Begged him…
He straightened. There was a low whistle as the switch parted the air again and an instant later pain snaked across her right buttock.
Fiona yelped, but managed not to scream. She would not afford Brynhild that concession.
She waited for the next burst of pain, but it did not come. Then she remembered, she was to count the strokes.
“One,” she breathed. “That was one.”
Another whistle, and this time the switch landed full across her left cheek. Fiona jerked hard but managed to remain silent.
“Two,” she gasped.
The strokes continued, Ulfric alternating, first one buttock, then the other.
“Three. Four.” She could no longer contain her cries as the pain built, bloomed, set her bottom afire.
He paused and thrust his hand between her thighs again. Fiona spread to welcome him, not even requiring to be instructed this time. He plunged two fingers deep into her tight entrance, twisting them within to reach that spot inside her where it felt so good to be touched. So. Very. Good.
“Ah, my sweet slut. Soon, little Celt. Very soon…”
He swung the switch again, this time catching the backs of both her thighs. Fiona cried out. Tears sprang to her eyes and streamed unchecked across her cheeks.
“F-five,” she stammered.
He shifted to the other side and lifted his arm to deliver the final stroke. Fiona held her breath, then screamed at the top of her voice as fire streaked across her thighs again. Brynhild would hear her, the entire settlement would know what was happening to her but Fiona cared not. She lay, panting, hurting, her pussy convulsing as her need blossomed.
She moaned at the first swipe of Ulfric’s palm across her swollen, sensitive folds and lifted her hips higher. Wordlessly he caressed her pussy lips then parted them to probe inside her entrance. Fiona mewled, her voice breathy as arousal curled and gripped at her core.
“Viking… I—”
“You did well, wench. Now enjoy your reward.” With his free hand he took a fistful of her hair and turned her face toward his. Fiona peered up at him, her lips parted on a hoarse gasp as her release rushed to greet her. Ulfric bent to brush her mouth with his, then lingered to slide his tongue across hers.
Fiona’s breath hitched. She was lost, drowning in a chaos of pain and pleasure. Her inner walls clenched around nothing and she longed for his cock to be inside her, wide, stretching, breaking down all barriers so that there was nothing left between them but pure sensation.
“Please… I want…”
“Tell me what you want, girl.”
“I want you to fuck me.” That is why I am here, just a wench to fuck…
He released his grip on her hair but continued to stroke her quivering sex. He tormented that plump, throbbing nub again and Fiona started to convulse as waves of pure pleasure bathed her. The bed dipped as he knelt on it, his knees between hers, and suddenly his cock was at her willing, needy entrance.
“Yes. Oh, yes, that. That!” She pushed back against him as though she might impale herself on his thick erection but Ulfric’s palms on her smarting buttocks put a stop to that. He took control, as she knew he always would, and drove the full length of his cock into her channel.
Fiona let out a sharp, keening cry, bucked her hips then rolled them to increase the blessed friction.
“Oh, sweet mother of God,” she intoned, then could find no more coherent words as her senses splintered and her climax sent her soaring.
Ulfric thrust his cock deep, hard, demanding her subjugation and winning it with ease. Fiona collapsed forward onto the furs as he let out a guttural oath in her own tongue and his hot semen filled her.
* * *
Again, he did not linger. As soon as he was spent, Ulfric rose to his feet and adjusted his clothing as he made ready to leave.
Fiona remained face down among the bedclothes, only now starting to wonder how she might manage to show her face out in the main room again. All would know, not only that she had been punished and how, but what had happened after. There was no privacy here, she was to be afforded no dignity. It was as Ulfric said, as his sister took such pleasure in reminding her—she was nothing but a worthless bed-slave, a female body for her Viking captor to fuck as he pleased.
“I have a gift for you, little Celt.” His voice was soft now, no hint remained of his earlier anger.
She turned her head to regard him in surprise. “A gift? What manner of gift?”
“One moment.” He ducked through the curtain and Fiona watched in puzzlement as it swayed behind him. Moments later he was back, carrying two pieces of timber, each one perhaps five feet in length. He propped the ends on the floor and leaned on them. “These are for you, to aid you in moving about.”
“Crutches?” She pushed herself up onto her knees, still not ready to try sitting. “You brought me crutches?”
“Yes, which is why I had reason to return to the longhouse in the middle of the day. It is a practical gift but one you might appreciate. I had our carpenter fashion them for you. If they are too long he will shave a little off the ends.”
“But, why? I thought you did not wish me to be able to move?”
“Why would you think that? I would not have bound your injury if I had no thought for your comfort.”
“You had me shackled…” She pointed to the band of iron that encircled her good ankle. “I am a prisoner here.”
“A slave, not a prisoner. Provided you do as you are told and cause no problems you shall have the freedom to go about the settlement as you wish or as your duties require. The shackle serves to remind you of your status, and if needful I can make use of it to restrain you. Do not make that necessary, little Celt.” He gestured for her to rise. “Come, try these out.”
Fiona stood on one foot and Ulfric moved to stand behind her as she wrestled a crutch under each arm. The carpenter had provided handles for her to grasp, and she was soon able to move around the sleeping chamber with relative ease.
Ulfric nodded his approval. “Remember, little Celt, your freedom comes with conditions. Do not make me regret my generosity to you. Come.” He turned and lifted the curtain, then gestured for her to precede him through into the main room.
Only Hilla remained of the earlier group, a mass of rough wool piled up before her. She glanced up uncertainly as Fiona lurched across the room to join her at the table.
Ulfric spoke briefly to the girl in the Norse tongue, and she answered with equal brevity. He nodded then turned to Fiona. “Lady Brynhild will be back shortly. Do not attract further censure, from her or from me. You now appreciate the consequences should you do so.”
Fiona was not certain she could avoid displeasing her Viking mistress, but nodded her agreement anyway since she saw no other option. Ulfric appeared satisfied and took his leave.
The girl beside her was busily employed raking the mass of washed sheep’s fleece with a sharp metal comb in readiness for spinning. Hilla shoved a spare implement in Fiona’s direction and demonstrated the technique. Fiona managed a wan smile and took the comb. Together, the slaves bent over the fleece and worked in companionable silence.