Her Rogue Viking

by Ashe Barker

  It felt… odd, but not unpleasant. The experience was humiliating, an intrusion, but she found she minded that less now than she had initially. With another man, a stranger or one who was less gentle, she would recoil in horror, but with Ulfric… anything seemed possible.

  He withdrew his finger, then drove it forward again. Fiona gasped; the sensation was intense and unexpectedly erotic.

  “Oh! Ulfric, that is… oh.”

  He lifted the tangled hair from her neck and kissed her shoulder as he delivered several more thrusts. He moved slowly within her, and Fiona knew he was taking extreme care not to hurt or frighten her. Even as she wondered what the next stage would feel like, he slipped a second finger in alongside the first.

  It was tight, her entrance burning as he worked it wider, looser though there was not a hint of harshness in his handling of her. Slowly, but firmly, he encouraged her to open for him, and then he inserted the third finger.

  Now it did hurt and Fiona stiffened. She had not meant to resist, but could not help it.

  “Easy, little one,” he murmured and lowered the hand that had been resting on her hip to slide it around the front and rest his finger on her clitoris. “Would it help if I were to pleasure you whilst we do this?”

  “Yes, oh, yes, please…” she groaned as moisture gathered anew.

  He pressed on her clit at the same time as he drove his fingers inside her now unresisting arse. Fiona yelped as sensation overwhelmed her. It was tight, stretching, burning. Too much, too sudden, too—

  “Aagh!” Her release ripped through her before she even had a chance to recognise what was happening. Her body shook and convulsed, her inner muscles contracted around the fingers pressed inside her. She jerked violently within her bonds, desperate for Ulfric to rub harder, thrust deeper. She craved it now, that heady blend of pleasure and pain that sent her spinning, her senses whirling and unravelling.

  He held her, his fingers in her, on her, teasing the last shivers of lust from her over-taut body until she settled again. Now, as her arse relaxed fully, he was able to withdraw and plunge his fingers in and out without resistance, her body accepting his intrusion readily enough. She groaned at the lewd delight of it, the sinful, sensual depravity of being utterly possessed, completely within his power.

  “You are ready, little Celt.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I am ready.”

  He circled her waist with his arm and withdrew his fingers from her arse. Then he reached above her to loosen the knot that secured her to the rafter. Fiona would have collapsed onto the floor but he held her fast and scooped her into his arms. She moaned as he laid her on the bed, the residual tenderness from the strokes of his belt registering as her weight settled on her punished buttocks. He untied the strip of cloth that bound her wrists and she turned to lie on her stomach. Fiona stretched her arms out on either side of her as she rolled her aching shoulders.

  Ulfric placed his hands on her hips and pulled her up onto her knees. She held still as he parted her buttocks again to view her well-prepared arse. She should be cringing in embarrassment, she knew this, but was well past such niceties now. She wanted him inside her, however much it might hurt. She craved him, lusted for this invasion.

  “Would you… if it hurts, could you pleasure me again?”

  “Aye, if you like. Or you could pleasure yourself.”

  “Me?”

  “You know by now what you like, how you want to be touched. You do it.”

  So she did. Fiona relished the sense of freedom and power as she took her own pleasure in hand. As she looked over her shoulder, watched Ulfric smear butter over his engorged cock, she caressed her clit, sank her fingers into her own juices, even drove one digit into her pussy as he positioned his cock at her rear entrance.

  He pushed, and she groaned. This was harder, much harder than accepting his fingers. Perhaps, even now, even after all his careful preparation, she would fail.

  “Push back against me, and relax if you can. Let me in, little Celt…” His words coaxed and cajoled, drawing out her submission as he eased the wide head of his cock past the tight coil of muscle.

  Fiona whimpered as her body stretched, the burn impossible now. She would surely tear, he would injure her, this was not possible…

  “Oh!” she cried out as his cock inched forward, then chewed on her lower lip as he pressed further. She rubbed her fingers over her clit, the pleasure masking the pain of his entry. She hissed in discomfort, tensing despite her best efforts. Ulfric paused, waited for her to adjust, for her body to adapt, then he thrust again. And her body parted to fully accept him.

  “There, that is it. You have all of me now.” His breath feathered against her flushed cheek as she lay panting on the bed. With her free hand she reached for—something. Someone. Ulfric laced his fingers through hers and squeezed. “Are you quite well, little Celt?”

  She pondered that question before responding, then managed a slow, wondering nod. “I believe I still live, Viking.”

  He chuckled. “Then, we shall settle for that. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

  He withdrew his wide cock, slowly, with great care. When he was almost fully out of her body he halted, then drove his erection deep again. His greased cock slid in easily now, caressing her snug inner walls as she rubbed even more frantically at her clit.

  “Oh, sweet saviour…” The friction was beyond exquisite. She moaned, writhed under him, thrusting back as he buried his cock again and again. She squeezed, gripping him hard though she could not imagine a tighter fit.

  “By Odin’s balls, that feels so fucking good, wench.”

  “Viking, I… Oh! Oooh!” Her body was racked by another climax more powerful than any that had gone before. He continued to fuck her, harder now, his possession deeper, more demanding. This was intense, all-consuming, beyond her imagination. Her body quivered on the verge of yet another shattering release.

  “Again, girl. Scream for me again.”

  She did, but into the palm of his hand, which he laid over her mouth to muffle the sound. She remembered, belatedly, the sleeping child in the next room and was glad of his presence of mind. Only as her groans of delight ebbed did he give one final sharp and driving thrust. He swore, obscene but expressive words she had heard from him on other similar occasions and which she now understood. His cock lurched within her arse. Heat bathed her inner space, and they both lay still.

  Chapter Ten

  “We have visitors, Brynhild. There shall be feasting this night.” Ulfric stepped through the entrance of the longhouse to regard the members of his household. His sister was at her loom, as usual, and the thralls milled about at their everyday tasks. Fiona sat at the table with Hilla, the pair of them bent over a hank of rough sheep’s fleece. All turned to look at him.

  “Visitors? Who?” Brynhild laid down her shuttle. “We have salted mutton in the stores, and there is some good cod…”

  “Well, set it over the stove. Quickly now, they are almost here.”

  “Who?”

  “Our brother approaches over the south meadow. He has men with him and others of his household.”

  “How many?” Already Brynhild was rushing to inspect her barrels of fermented mead and baskets of produce harvested in recent weeks. Beans, turnips, carrots—Ulfric knew she would complain and fuss, but there would be ample for all. Brynhild’s hospitality was second to none.

  “A dozen, perhaps a couple more. Fiona, you will assist with the food since you have some aptitude for cooking. We will serve it in here…” His instructions issued, he wheeled around to make his way down to the edge of the settlement to greet his brother.

  Gunnar’s visits were infrequent, and Ulfric was always glad to see him though the pair would argue and bait each other without mercy during the entire encounter. It was as well they did not share a home, they would tear each other apart, but he could survive an occasional foray into the battlefield of filial affection.

  His brother’s d
ark figure was instantly recognisable at the head of the troop of men who rode toward Skarthveit. They had two wagons with them also. Perhaps his brother had thought to bring supplies to replenish those he and his men would undoubtedly diminish during the course of his stay. As the convoy neared, Ulfric could see that the carts carried more people. Women? Children? More mouths to feed, as Brynhild would without doubt observe soon enough. His sister was not as close to Gunnar as he was, but the two got along well enough and he knew Brynhild would not begrudge the fare though she would have plenty to say. She always did.

  “Brother, what brings you here? Am I to assume those hovels and caves you choose to inhabit are becoming too chilly for your old bones?” he called out to Gunnar as soon as the other man was within earshot. Gunnar’s own settlement lay perhaps two days’ ride to the north and whilst his accommodations might be rougher that those at Skarthveit, to describe his brother’s longhouse as a hovel or cave was stretching the truth somewhat, but such a detail would never deter Ulfric.

  “Nay, but I thought we might descend upon you to while away a pleasant evening or two afore the winter sets in. Failing that, I can always pour ale down your gullet and best you at cards.”

  Gunnar slid from his horse and wrapped Ulfric in a tight hug. As ever, his brother was clad in a black leather tunic and trousers, his stout boots laced high above his knees. A thick cloak made of a ram’s fleece hung about his muscular body, held in place at the shoulder with an ornately fashioned pin. It would appear his brother continued to prosper from his raiding expeditions across the cold northern seas. Ulfric returned the hug and the pair turned to walk back in the direction of his longhouse.

  “How fares our sweet sister? Still not wed?”

  Ulfric shook his head. “Alas, no.”

  “And that lad of yours? Does he continue to sprout up faster than a weed?”

  “Aye, he does well. I near enough lost him a sennight ago though. He fell in the fjord, had to be dragged out by one of my thralls. It was lucky the man was to hand and acted quickly.”

  Gunnar paused to regard his brother. “By Odin! How did that happen?”

  “A big wave? The rocks were slippery. I could not say for sure, but it was a close thing. First Astrid, and Eirik, we could not bear another tragedy.”

  “Ah, yes. And since you mention our lost kinsfolk, I have to warn you, there are rumblings from Bjarkesholm once more. I come fresh from Hafrsfjord and the talk there is of war, of surprise attacks, retribution.”

  “Shit, will those vultures never be satisfied? What more can I do to appease them?”

  “You could try paying them again, but I fear it will never be enough. The old man is ill, and irrational in his hatred. Eirik was his eldest son, Astrid his favoured daughter. His nephew is his heir, and Olaf Bjarkesson is as crazed as his uncle, perhaps more so since he lacks the wisdom of years. You need to be careful, my brother. Make sure your home is well guarded, your crops safe, and your livestock kept close.”

  “Aye, we will. Am I to assume that it is the need to deliver this warning which has necessitated this visit?”

  “In part, yes.”

  “I appreciate it. You say in part?”

  “Yes, I have other news too.” They were now strolling past the longhouses that ringed the settlement and villagers came out to greet the new arrivals. Most of Gunnar’s men were kin so there would be much in the way of reunions, of catching up and exchanging news. Gunnar paused every few yards to exchange pleasantries and accept words of welcome, but at last they entered the main longhouse where Brynhild and her thralls were rushing about to make ready the feast.

  “Ah, sister. Stop your fretting with that cauldron and come greet your brother.” Gunnar held out his arms and Brynhild went willingly into them. He hugged her and kissed her blonde locks. “My brother tells me you are still unmarried, lass. ‘Tis a pity, for you would make a fine wife.”

  “What do you know of marriage, brother? Maybe you should look to your own house before trying to set mine to rights.”

  “Ah, you are correct, as ever. And you will no doubt be delighted to learn I have heeded your words of wisdom even before you uttered them.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Brynhild wriggled free. “Hilla, ale for my brother, if you would. And for those who came with him…”

  Ulfric turned as more people entered his home. He squinted at the red-haired woman who hovered there, a babe in her arms. She looked vaguely familiar though he could not quite put a name to her. A lad stood at her side, perhaps Njal’s age or a little older. They were Celts by the look of them, though their clothing was finer than would be usual for thralls.

  “Ah, Mairead, come in, come in.” Gunnar reached for the woman’s hand, then took the baby from her arms. Ulfric watched in amazement as his brother shushed the child when he—she?—started to grizzle. Gunnar seemed to find nothing amiss in any of this. He beamed at his brother and sister. “May I present Mairead, my wife. And this is our daughter, Tyra.”

  Brynhild sank to sit on the bench behind her, her mouth agape. Ulfric was hardly less astonished. He peered again at the woman clinging uncertainly to his brother’s arm. There was no mistaking Gunnar’s devotion though as he regarded the auburn curls that framed her bent head.

  “We are delighted to make your acquaintance, sister.” Ulfric recovered his manners and stepped forward to kiss the woman on each cheek. He managed to deliver a sharp nudge to Brynhild’s ribs as he passed her. “Mairead, did you say?”

  Gunnar answered for her. “Aye, Mairead, of Aikrig, in Scotland. You will recall my bride, I do not doubt. And the lad here, for you made a fair enough price on him.” Gunnar beckoned the boy to his side. “Come, Donald, and greet your family.”

  Ah. Suddenly all became clear. The woman, the pregnant one at the roadside, the one his brother had taken an obvious liking to. More than a liking, it would seem. Ulfric had been somewhat distracted by his own lovely captive and had failed to properly appreciate the merits of the other female. He had been remiss, for clearly she was a beauty. But… a bride? A Viking did not wed his thrall, why would he?

  As Ulfric grappled with that question, Brynhild rediscovered her powers of speech. “But, she is a Celt.”

  “Aye, that she is,” agreed Gunnar, “and now she is wife to a Viking.”

  “But, I do not understand. Why…?”

  A fair enough question, if somewhat tactless. Ulfric opted to step in before matters worsened. “And a lovelier bride no Viking ever claimed. Welcome, Mairead. You must be tired after your journey, and your children will no doubt be hungry. Come, be seated…”

  As Brynhild scowled at her new sister, Ulfric ushered his guests to the table. He signalled to Hilla who jumped forward with a jug of fine ale, as Fiona leaned down to hug first Mairead, then Donald. Of course, they were acquaintances, at least, and would welcome the chance to renew their friendship.

  “Fiona, you will entertain our guests. Hilla, Harald, fetch more food, more ale. Where is Njal?”

  “I am here.” The lad rushed through the door and ran at his uncle who swung him into the air. The boy shrieked his delight and clung to Gunnar’s cloak, only then catching sight of the other boy. “Who is that?” he demanded.

  “That is Donald, my stepson. He is good with a sword and a fair enough shot with his dagger.”

  “Not as good as me,” asserted Njal. “I have been practising.”

  “Indeed you have, when not splashing about in the fjord.” Ulfric patted his son’s shoulder. “Perhaps you will show Donald your skills then, and in return perhaps he will demonstrate his own. Could you show him your pony too?”

  Njal wriggled out of his uncle’s embrace and glowered at the other boy. “Well, come on then.” He marched to the door then turned to make sure that Donald was following. The two were already chatting and trading boasts as they left the longhouse, quite oblivious to the tensions between the adults they left behind.

  Ulfric was glad of Fiona’s easy la
ughter as the evening wore on. She was friendly to Gunnar and at great pains to make Mairead welcome, which was more than could be claimed for Brynhild. She was clearly aghast at their brother’s choice of a wife, and her usual hospitality was nowhere in evidence as she uttered hardly a word to any but the servants. Njal and Donald appeared to hit it off, to Ulfric’s relief, but he was beyond irritated by his sister. When would she let this ridiculous grudge drop? Her irrational hatred of the Celts threatened to split their family apart, and at a time when the bonds of kinship had never been more vital. When all else failed, a Viking relied on his kin.

  * * *

  “I owe you my thanks for today, little Celt.” Ulfric pulled Fiona to him and wrapped his arms around her as they snuggled together in the pallet they shared in a corner of the longhouse. Their usual sleeping quarters had been made available to the guests so they were spending the night in one of the chambers off the main room.

  While Gunnar, Mairead, and the baby, Tyra, enjoyed the relative privacy of the alcove behind the curtain, Njal slept a few feet away, and Donald too. Brynhild had made up her bed as far away from the rest as she might accomplish in such unusually crowded conditions.

  “It was pleasant to see Mairead again. And I confess, your brother is not as fearsome as I remember.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, yes, Gunnar did not endear himself to you on the occasion of your previous meeting. So, Mairead is your friend?”

  “Oh, no. I barely know her really. Mairead came to Aikrig, the village close to Pennglas but a year or so ago. Her husband was a fisherman.”

  “Her husband? Did he perish in the raid?” Ulfric would not wish the man ill, but he would prefer not to contemplate the awkwardness should this husband still live.

  “No, she was widowed a half year ago. His fishing boat capsized…”

  “Ah. But the lad, Donald, he is what, seven summers of age? You say she only came to the village a year ago?”

  “About that. She had a previous husband, before Alred the fisherman.”