by Ashe Barker
“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.
Chapter Eight
“Have you managed to stay out of trouble this day?” Ulfric affected a stern demeanour as he regarded the diminutive figure who perched before him on the end of his bed, though in reality he knew of no cause to take issue with her. A pity, perhaps, since he would enjoy spanking her.
Fiona nodded. “Your sister had to go to the market in Hafrsfjord to sell her cloth and procure new dyes. She was gone from first light.”
He frowned. There had been no serious incidents since that first day when Fiona had become entangled in Brynhild’s weaving, but it was clear that tension simmered below the surface. He would speak with his sister—again.
“Why does she dislike me so? I have done nothing to deserve it. She finds fault with me constantly, threatens me with the whip, or the stocks. She refuses to allow me to help with Njal. Nothing I do pleases her.” Fiona peered up at him, a picture of misery, then continued. “I know that she is your sister, and you have said I must obey her. I do try, but she calls me whore and slut and I know her intention is to goad me into retaliating in order that she can convince you to take a switch to me again. She was not here today, and it was peaceful. I spent the time with Hilla. I learned more of your tongue; we washed clothes at the river and I could understand a little of what the other women were saying. And Njal even tried to teach me to play hnefatafl with him but I fear I proved a poor opponent. We had fun together, but as soon as Brynhild returned, I came in here to stay out of her way.”
There were tears in Fiona’s eyes. He sighed. He had no desire to see his little Celt reduced to hiding away in his bedchamber but he understood her reasons for doing so. Brynhild’s bitterness had not lessened in the weeks since he had brought Fiona to Skarthveit. Perhaps he owed his captive an explanation, at least.
“She is not a cruel or unreasonable person, not at heart.”
Fiona made a disparaging sound in her throat. Ulfric could understand why the slave felt as she did. He pressed on.
“Brynhild is unhappy, and bitter, and this is why she behaves as she does.”
“She is not unhappy. She smiles and laughs with everyone but me. The other slaves like her, she is kind to them, and she adores Njal. Her anger is directed at me alone.”
“She was to be married.”
Fiona gaped at him, wide-eyed. “Then, why is she…?”
“Her betrothed died, in a raid on a Celtic settlement on Orkney.” He paused, and moved to sit beside Fiona on the mattress. “It was two years ago, but she has never recovered from the loss. I fear that she never will. Brynhild adored Eirik Bjar
kesson and when he was killed it was as though a light was extinguished within her. The ceremony was to take place on his return and she had already moved to live with his family in their settlement, Bjarkesholm, about twenty miles to the north of here. On hearing of his death she returned to my longhouse and has made her home with us. I value her assistance, especially with Njal, but it would be better for Brynhild to take another man to wed. She needs her own hall, her own family…”
“I am sorry for her loss, though I cannot find much sympathy for a man who lost his life wreaking death and fear upon innocent villagers. And I still do not comprehend how this explains your sister’s hostility toward me. There are other slaves here…”
“But no other Celts. Brynhild detests all Celts; she blames them for the death of her betrothed.”
“That is ridiculous. Had he not gone raiding—”
“That is our way and I make no apology for it, nor would Eirik. He died doing what he was born to do and resides now in Valhalla with all our ancestors who lost their lives in battle. The Celt who swung the axe which felled him perished also in that skirmish, but this is not enough for Brynhild, nor for Eirik’s family who hold me and mine responsible for his loss.”
“You? But how…?”
“I commanded that raid. Eirik was on my longship and I should have protected him. My wife was also of the Bjarkesson family and her loss has exacerbated matters. Astrid died unexpectedly of a fever just a few weeks after Eirik was lost. It could not be helped but she died in my longhouse, so her kin added that tragedy to their grievances against me. I have offered goods and slaves in reparation, which the people of Bjarkesholm have accepted, but they always seek more and continue to blame me. The blood feud is not resolved and I see no prospect of peace between our families, which is one of the reasons I have needed to construct a harbour here at Skarthveit. I no longer have access to the moorings at Bjarkesholm, and Hafrsfjord is too far away to offer a practical alternative.”