Her Rogue Viking

by Ashe Barker

  “All this over the death of two people, one of them by misfortune at that? Had this not happened, you might not have had need of slaves, you might not have attacked Pennglas…”

  “Possibly. Probably. But we are where we are. I just wanted you to better understand the circumstances, and perhaps in knowing you might manage to get along with Brynhild. Maybe, a little…”

  “Thank you, Viking. I do prefer to know, but I fear it will not help since your sister’s wrath is irrational. I am not responsible for her misery but I fear she will never accept me, never let me be.”

  Ulfric suspected she was right, but was never a man to dwell on that which he could not change. He would seek to reason with Brynhild again, encourage her to consider other suitors among the many who would be glad of her hand. His sister was beautiful, accomplished, an adept homemaker and she could run a farming homestead with ease. Eirik might be gone, but Brynhild could still make a good life for herself if she would just let go of the past.

  He was not unsympathetic to his sister’s feelings. He had grieved for Astrid, but had known he must move on, for Njal if not for himself. He dismissed those musings for now and turned his thoughts to the more pleasing matter of the slight figure beside him.

  “Remove your clothing, little Celt, and spread your legs.”

  As ever, Fiona was quick to obey. She had not relished her role in his household at the outset, he had no illusions on that score, but she had quickly discovered a lurking enthusiasm for the pleasure he offered her. Fiona was a sensual little creature, quick to arouse, responsive and appreciative of his attention. He had fucked her almost daily since her arrival, and swore he would never tire of burying his cock within her hot, tight little body. He relaxed back onto his bed as she disrobed before him, then he beckoned her to lean over him and place one of her nipples in his mouth.

  He had taught her well, instructed her in what pleased him and made note of what she seemed to most enjoy. Now he suckled lazily on one engorged bud as he squeezed and tugged on the other with his fingers. He increased the pressure until she squealed, then he pinched harder still.

  Fiona was starting to pant so he thrust his spare hand between her thighs. She was dripping, her cunt wet and welcoming as he drove his fingers into her. It was the work of moments to find that sweet spot just inside and to rub mercilessly until she started to convulse around his digits. He dragged his fingers out.

  “On your hands and knees, wench.”

  She hastened to obey, quickly placing herself on all fours, her bottom raised up higher than her shoulders. Ulfric took his time undressing, pausing often to drop a sharp slap on one upturned buttock or the other. Fiona’s hips quivered in response and her cunny glistened as her arousal pooled. When he was naked he moved to kneel behind her and positioned the head of his cock between the lips of her cunt.

  “Do you like that, wench?”

  “Yes,” she ground out.

  “You want more?”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  He slapped her bottom again, then inched in, just a fraction further.

  “How much more?”

  “All. I want all of it. All of you.”

  He leaned over to lift her heavy mass of dark curls and murmur right into the shell of her ear. “Then you will beg me for it, my slave.”

  “Please, Viking, I need you to fill me…”

  “Is that all? I suspect you can do better than that if you try.” He started to withdraw his cock.

  “No! Do not stop, please. I need you inside me, all of you.”

  “All?”

  “Yes, all. Deep, and hard, and… and… Oh, sweet Jesus, please, I cannot wait. I need you so much I might die of longing.”

  “I doubt you will. You want me to fuck you? Is that it, my little Celt?”

  “Yes, Viking,” she ground out.

  “Then say it.” His tone was silky smooth as he murmured into her ear. “Say exactly what it is you want from me.”

  “I want you to fuck me. I want you to drive your cock into me, right to the root. I want you to fuck me until I scream, and then to fuck me more. Is that clear enough for you, Viking? Have I made my wishes understood?”

  “Ah, yes, I believe you have.” He bit the sensitive skin below her ear. “Have I told you that I love it when you beg so beautifully, your voice thick with lust and laden with desire?”

  “Viking, I…. oh! Oh…”

  He drove his cock deep into her welcoming passage and sighed at her tightness. She gripped him like a fist, her muscles contracting as though she sought to hold him prisoner within her body. She had no need, he was going nowhere for some time yet.

  She reached her climax first. She usually did, he preferred it that way. He found her pleasure almost as heady as his own and would not allow her to leave his bed less than fully sated. As her tremors subsided, he reached around to stroke her engorged clit until she writhed and convulsed for him again.

  He clenched his teeth, determined not to succumb to the insistent pressure of her inner walls as they contracted around his cock. She rolled and gyrated her hips, seeking more friction, more sensation, harder, faster, deeper. And Ulfric responded, pounding her with his solid cock until she screamed her release to the rafters. Only then did he relax his iron grip on his own pleasure and allow his aching balls to empty into her snug passage.

  * * *

  He had much to consider. Ulfric set a brisk pace as he made his way down to the rocky outcrop that was to be transformed into his own harbour, suited to landing fishing craft and to encourage trade. His longships required no such special treatment. They were of shallow draught and could be pulled up onto any beach, which was why they were so effective for raiding. He could swoop in from the sea, his men could be ashore in seconds and the attack on any unsuspecting and ill-prepared coastal settlement would be swift and sure. That had been his approach all those weeks ago at Pennglas on the Scottish coast, and it had earned him his delightful little Celtic captive. Now he had her, all he had to do was keep her safe from his sister’s spite.

  Or just keep her.

  His thoughts turned to the tall, tawny-haired Celt, the thrall who Fiona had declared to be a fine man and one she dearly loved. Ulfric was not an unfair man by nature and he would grant that the Celt was possessed of a certain presence, and he lacked neither courage nor honour. He had sought to protect Fiona despite being in chains and likely to perish for his efforts. Ulfric’s admiration was grudging, but he gave it. He was also aware from the reports he received from Dagr, his slave master, that Taranc was among the strongest of his workers and a natural leader of the others. The Celt had turned out to be a fine acquisition, but his presence here spelled danger also. This Taranc was just the type to lead an uprising should the thralls become overly discontented with their lot.

  Ulfric sought to reduce that possibility by ensuring his slaves were well treated. Their accommodations were decent, their food good, and they were afforded ample time to rest and enjoy their leisure. Freedom aside, he did not believe their lives to be significantly harsher here in Skarthveit than they had been in their own land. Consequently, there was little or no unrest among his slaves and the construction of his harbour was proceeding apace. Ulfric reached the headland and paused for a moment to survey the scene below.

  A couple of dozen thralls toiled to move rocks from the back of the beach the half mile or so along the coast to the deeper water mooring that was to be developed into the safe harbour he required. There, others carried them, one by one, to their required positions and dropped them into the churning sea at the foot of the craggy outcrop. Eventually they would form a rough barrier that would exclude the worst of the elements in winter and offer safe mooring for the fishing fleet Ulfric intended to build. Fish would always feed his community, ensure the wellbeing of those who relied upon him.

  Speaking of which… Ulfric smiled at the sight of his own little Njal as the lad paced back and forth along the outcrop. The boy was into everything, alway
s curious, always asking questions of him, of his men. He was fascinated by the construction work and would always run down to the fjord when he could escape the eagle eye of his devoted aunt. As Ulfric watched from his vantage point high above them, the other object of his thoughts straightened from his labours to say something to the boy. Taranc towered over the lad, but Njal seemed unafraid of the powerful thrall. Their conversation was brief, and Njal appeared happy with the answers he had received because he nodded and strutted on to pester someone else.

  The wave came from nowhere. Ulfric watched in horror as one moment his son was balancing on the rocks and the next he had vanished into the greedy sea. He shouted, but no one would hear him, not at this distance. He broke into a run, scrambling down the hillside in a desperate effort to reach the shore before his boy sank into the freezing depths.

  “No, no, please, Odin, not my boy. Not my boy…”

  On the outcrop several men had witnessed the incident and now clustered to peer into the water. They appeared anxious enough, but no one moved to effect a rescue. Ulfric tore down the incline toward them and swore he would drown the fucking lot of them—slaves, thralls, karls, every last one of them.

  The surface of the water broke and he spotted Njal, his tiny arm upraised as though reaching for help that was too far away. Still no one moved.

  No, not true. Someone did. One man was dragging off his heavy woollen tunic and kicking away his shoes. Ulfric’s heart leapt as Taranc dived into the angry waves and covered the distance to reach Njal in just three powerful strokes. There was a splashing, then the lad went still. Taranc had him, was pulling him back through the water toward the shore.

  Many hands were there to drag the pair back up onto the safety of the rocks and by the time Ulfric arrived on the scene, panting, Taranc was already sitting upright. Njal lay on his side, coughing and gasping but unmistakably alive. Ulfric sank to his knees and took the boy in his arms.

  “C-c-cold, Daddy…” The child’s voice was high and thin, his teeth chattering.

  Ulfric stood with him in his arms. His priority now was to see his lad safe and warm and to check that he was not injured. He started back up the hill in the direction of the settlement and the warmth of his hearth then stopped and turned back to regard the man who had saved his son’s life.

  Taranc reached for his tunic, which had remained dry, though his woollen trousers were soaked. He looked up and met Ulfric’s gaze.

  “Thank you.” Meagre enough words, but they were all Ulfric had.

  “You are welcome.” The man answered in halting Norse as he pulled his tunic over his head.

  “Come.” Ulfric beckoned the man to accompany him as he strode back up the hillside, his son cradled in his arms. “You too require a warm bath and dry clothing.”

  Word of the accident preceded them and by the time Ulfric entered his longhouse the bath for Njal was already steaming beside the fire in the centre of the room. Ulfric handed his son to an ashen-faced Brynhild who quickly stripped him and dumped him in the steaming water. Meanwhile Ulfric called for another bath to be drawn and pushed Taranc in the direction of the warm fire until it was ready.

  “Take off your wet clothes. Fiona, a blanket, quickly.”

  His little Celt sprang into action. She fetched a blanket from their bed and rushed to wrap it around Taranc who by now was shivering violently.

  “What happened? How…?” Brynhild bent to soothe her nephew’s whimpering as his chilled body began to thaw.

  “He slipped, or was washed into the sea by a wave. I was too far away to help, but I saw it all from the headland. By the time I got there this man…” Ulfric gestured to Taranc, now swathed in his finest wool blanket, “this man had dived in and dragged my son from the water. The rest just stood and fucking watched.”

  “We are grateful,” Brynhild murmured. “You shall be rewarded for your service—”

  “Not necessary, lady.” Taranc’s reply was curt. “I can swim well, whereas the rest…” He met Ulfric’s angry gaze, his own features steady. “They are not to be blamed.”

  “I shall be the judge of that,” retorted Ulfric. “But my sister is right, we owe you much. I would have lost my son but for your actions and I am grateful to you.”

  “Then we are even,” replied the Celt.

  “Even? How do you arrive at that conclusion?”

  “You spared Fiona when your slave master would have slaughtered her by the roadside. It is a life for a life.”

  Ulfric furrowed his brow, not entirely in agreement with the Celt’s reasoning. He would never had permitted Dagr to kill the female slave. She had been in no danger though he appreciated that Taranc had no way of divining that. His son, on the other hand, would without doubt be dead now had the Celt not dived into the sea to rescue him.

  No, they were not quite even, not in Ulfric’s opinion.

  “Hurry up with that bath, this man is frozen. And bring food too, something warm.” His house thralls scurried to do his bidding, though Ulfric noted that Fiona appeared transfixed by the sight of her former betrothed and stood rooted to the spot. “Fiona, is there a problem?”

  “What? Oh, no. No, Viking, there is no problem at all.” She turned and stalked back to his sleeping chamber, closing the curtain behind her.

  * * *

  Njal lay curled up in his small cot in the corner of the longhouse, Brynhild at his side. She held the boy’s tiny hand as he slept. Satisfied that his son would suffer no lasting ill effects, Ulfric left in search of Fiona.

  She was not in the main room, nor was she in their sleeping chamber when he lifted the curtain to glance inside. The privy, perhaps…? He waited a few minutes then when she did not reappear he went out in search of her. Hilla was just outside the longhouse. She hummed to herself as she tended to their chickens.

  “Where is Fiona?”

  The wench smiled up at him. It struck Ulfric, and not for the first time, that she was no longer a child. He must see to finding her a suitable husband before long.

  “She went with the other Celt. I think they are in the meadow…”

  The other Celt? Fuck! Had she run away… and with Taranc? The first chance they got… He sprinted off in the direction indicated by Hilla.

  He heard them before he saw them, Fiona’s quiet tone and the other, lower voice of her beloved Taranc. They were seated on the ground, their backs against the trunk of a huge pine that shielded them from his view. Neither could they see him. Ulfric approached in silence, listening to their conversation as he did so.

  “Why did we not wed? We could have, years ago…” Fiona sounded sad, her voice laced with regret.

  “Aye, but we were not suited.”

  “We were betrothed. Our families considered us suited.”

  “You were in no greater hurry that I was, but I suppose we would have married, eventually.”

  “If we had…”

  “It would have made no difference. The Vikings would have still come, we would have been taken. He would have wanted you, taken you for his own.”

  “I would not have been a virgin.”

  “Did he hurt you?” The Celt’s tone was sharp suddenly.

  Fiona waited a few seconds before she gave her answer. “No, he did not. He was gentle, I suppose. As much as he could be.”

  “Good. That is good, and as I would have expected. He does not appear to be a man given to unnecessary cruelty.”

  “Perhaps not, but we are still slaves here, treated as property and that is a sin. We should find a way to escape.”

  “Hush, little warrior. You were ever one to rush in without thinking. I suspect were you not, you at least would still be tending your father’s hearth in Pennglas.”

  The man was not wrong on that score. Ulfric stood in silence, waiting to hear her response.

  “And you were always the one to stop, to think and to plan. Are you planning now, Taranc?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell me.”

 
“I will, but first I wish to hear about you, about your Viking. Is he kind to you?”

  “I suppose—”

  “Other than in his bed. We shall come to that soon enough. Are you happy living in his household?”

  “Ulfric is kind to me, and to the rest of the thralls too. His sister hates me and I avoid her at all costs. Ulfric will not permit her to beat me, but she will do all in her power to convince him to do so.”

  “And does he? Beat you?”

  “Once or twice, with a switch. It was… not so bad and after, he… he…”

  “You find pleasure with him, sweetheart? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

  “I could not help it. He is very… compelling.”

  Taranc laughed. “Fiona, if your Viking pleasures you to take the sting out of a spanking, then that is a good thing. A rare enough thing, in my view and it shows that he cares for you.”

  “He does not. As far as he is concerned I am just a wench to fuck, worthless to him in all other ways. He said so, to Brynhild, soon after he brought me here.”

  “Those were the words he used?”

  “Aye, more or less exactly. I overheard him.”

  “A strange thing for him to say. It seems not in his nature, though I confess I do not know the man well. Despite what you overheard my impression of him is that he does value you. Maybe you should ask him what he meant by such heartless words.”

  “I shall not! That would merely offer him the opportunity to repeat them.”

  “Very well, that is your choice. Yet even after you heard him say this, you still respond to his touch?”

  “He can be… persuasive.”

  “And there lies our problem, the reason we were in no rush to complete our own nuptials. I do not believe I could have persuaded you.”

  “You might, had you tried.” She paused, then, “We were together too much, as children.”

  “Aye, I do think that is at the root of it. I grew up thinking of you as my sister, and that never changed. I always loved you though. You do know that?”

  “I loved you too.”