by Ashe Barker
She had remained with him, as a karl, a free woman, by her own choice. She had fought to protect his son, and had aided him in the defence of his home. Then, she had permitted him to bind her, to tie her to his table and do with her as he would. Had she refused, fought him, demanded that he release her, he would have done so. He knew it and she also knew it. This was why she did not fear him. And her lack of fear was the reason he loved her.
Ulfric glanced at the lamp, then moved over to check it more carefully. He allowed himself a wry grin and returned to lean over his prone captive.
“Your estimate was truer than mine.”
She opened her eyes, the pools of dark grey reminiscent of the northern skies just before a storm. Her brow furrowed.
“My estimate?”
“Aye. The lamp. It is already one third empty.”
“Ah, I see.” Now her lips curled in a shy smile. “I do not have to endure your vile attentions for a great deal longer, then.”
“You are right. We should press on. I shall keep the tally since you will be somewhat distracted I daresay. One stolen climax has earned you two strokes of the switch. I shall expect you to select and prepare a decent one, when the time comes.”
“There will be no need. You instructed me to ensure a supply is ever to hand. I am an obedient thrall.”
“No longer a thrall since I had the smith remove your leg shackle, but I do appreciate obedience even so.” He strolled around the table to the head and picked up the jug containing the remaining cod liver oil. “As a reward for your compliance, I shall do you the service of oiling my fingers.”
He enjoyed the faint blush that spread from her neck and up across her delicate features. She knew what he intended, and despite her usual protestations when he insisted on making use of her arse she never failed to find her release this way. He was confident the tally would soon rise.
Ulfric leaned on the edge of the table as she watched him, wide-eyed. He shifted his gaze to admire her cunt, pretty and plump and pink as a summer apple. He angled his perusal lower. Her tight rear hole glistened, already damp from her juices. He might have managed without the additional oil but this was about pleasure for her, pure, irresistible delight designed to sweep away her control and release the wild, unrestrained lust he knew lurked beneath. He would witness this and relish it.
“Open for me, little Celt.” He laid the tip of his middle finger at her rear entrance but did not press. Not yet.
“I cannot…” she groaned.
“Open,” he insisted, and now he did apply pressure. Not much, the merest hint would suffice. The ring of muscle relaxed and his slick digit penetrated her tight barrier.
Fiona gasped. He glanced up to meet her anguished gaze, then held it as he drove the length of his finger into her narrow channel.
She groaned now, and lowered her eyelids as though to shut him out that way.
“No. You will look at me while I do this. I want to see the need in your eyes, the desire which will heat even as you try to fight me.”
She obeyed, her irises darkening as he plunged that oiled finger back and forth. Her arse loosened as he worked her, opening despite any efforts she might make to expel him. He quirked his lip when she squeezed, unsure if she did it on purpose of if her body was already taking over, her response unbidden and beyond her control.
“Please, not so hard.”
“You are uncomfortable?” He had been gentle, he was certain of it, but felt compelled to ask.
“Yes. No… it is too much. Too intense.”
“Ah. Good.” He withdrew his finger and drove it deep again, this time with a second digit alongside it.
Fiona lifted her hips, rolled them against the blanket beneath her. He knew what she sought, and she would have it. But not yet. He would get to her engorged clit soon enough, but for now…
He swirled his fingers within her, and rubbed them against each other. She contracted around him, her sensitive walls starting to convulse as he brought his other hand into play. He inserted three fingers into her eager pussy then pressed his hands together. Only the thin inner skin separated his fingers as he stroked her.
Fiona was going wild within her bonds, thrashing, groaning, pleading with him to stop, or to never stop. He narrowed his eyes, his concentration unwavering as he brought her to the very edge of reason. He judged the moment to perfection, relented, slowed his demanding thrusts. His fingers were still now as she quivered around him.
He looked at her, met and held her gaze. Her eyes were glazed, she had little fight left and he knew he could send her soaring as and when he chose. Should he be disappointed as she had suggested? Would he have expected a more determined fight, relished more effective resistance from her?
No, he thought. Her responses were exquisite, her sensuality quite dazzling. He would have her no other way.
“Halt.”
The word was more a prayer than a command, he reflected. But her need was clear enough. He withdrew his questing fingers, left both her channels empty as he stood upright and regarded her flushed face.
“How much longer? The lamp…?” Her tone was breathy, her throat working as she sought to gather her wits. He wished her every success with that, the effects would be short-lived.
Ulfric strolled over to check, and was interested to note that over half the oil had burned away. He did a rough calculation in his head and concluded that he would have this climax from her, this release that hovered on the margins of her control, and perhaps one more by the time the light finally guttered. Even then, though he would release her and carry her to their bed, it would not be over. She might earn no more strokes of the switch, but he would have more from her.
“How…? How much?”
He turned his head. Fiona watched from her position on the table top, her expression verging on desperation. He was surprised. She did not fear the switch so much, he was sure of it. He returned to stroke her cheek, then on impulse bent to kiss her.
Fiona parted her lips and he drove his tongue into her mouth, tangling, dancing with hers.
She made a little sound in her throat, one he recognised. It was desire, always there, always hot, ever ready to flare and consume. He twisted strands of her hair around his fingers to hold her head still as he deepened the kiss, demanding, tasting, hungry for her. Her flavours were heady, spicy, enticing. He would never—could never—have enough of her.
He released her mouth but continued to kiss her. He left a hot, damp trail across her neck, her shoulder, then down to her breast, neglected since he had devoted his sole attention to the delights to be discovered between her thighs. She arched when he sucked on her nipple, let out a small cry when he bit her.
Her lips were open, wet and shining from his kiss. She rolled back her head and thrust her breasts higher as though inviting him to hurt her, to make her scream.
Ulfric would be delighted to oblige. Later. He abandoned her taut peak and descended lower. Her belly shivered as he traced patterns there with his tongue, she shook when he reached the damp, ebony-coloured curls at the apex of her thighs. He nuzzled there, inhaling the sharp, musky tang of a woman aroused beyond coherent thought.
Had she had her ten minutes? He suspected not, and they did have an agreement. In good conscience he could not add strokes to her tally if he had played their game unfairly. He kissed her abdomen, and stepped away.
“Ulfric…” Her groan was animalistic.
“You called halt. I will honour it. A drink?”
“No, no… I want…” She chewed on her lower lip again, her features contorted in a grimace. Pleasure? Pain? He was not sure, perhaps a blend of both since unsated lust had a way of turning to utter torment. He knew this from his own experience when he first captured his little Celt and she had not yet agreed to yield her virginity to him. That unhappy state passed quickly enough, but he recalled it now with vivid clarity.
“You need to drink,” he asserted and refilled the cup.
When he brou
ght it to her he had to insist that she took a few drops, then he set it aside. Now, as he combed his fingers through her damp hair, he resisted the urge to kiss, to taste, to tease. He simply caressed her, and smiled when she turned her face to place her lips against his palm.
“I do not care about the switch. I want you. I want you to fuck me and I shall die of pleasure.”
“I will fuck you, little Celt, but you will not expire from it, I promise you.”
“I am dying now. I cannot get my breath…”
He chuckled. “No, you are not. Not quite.” He tightened his grip on her hair. “Look at me, little one.”
He waited until she turned her brilliant slate-grey gaze on him. “Breathe. Breathe slow, deep, one breath after another. In… yes. Now, out.”
She did as he bade, and when he was satisfied that she had settled he laid his free hand just below her left breast. Her heartbeat was rapid, but slowed as he rested there, as she drew in one calming breath after another, as he continued to caress her scalp through the tangled mass of her hair.
He suspected more than ten minutes elapsed as he soothed and steadied her but he was not concerned with that. This had never been about punishment, not really. It was a game, one of their sensual, even slightly perverted games, and he needed her to relish it as he did. Too little, and it would lose that edge they both craved; too much and she would be genuinely afraid of what he might do to her in an unguarded moment. Ulfric knew the importance of getting this right. The power was his, as was the responsibility. He would bring her right to her limit, and back again, and she would be forever bound to him.
He had freed her, but he would never let her go.
“Finish it.”
“Little Celt?”
“Finish it, Please. Just… do it. Anything. Everything. I want you to fuck me, and kiss me, and make me lose control. I will not call a halt again.”
“Will you not? Why?”
“Because…” She hesitated. He might have pressed her but sensed it would be better to wait, to let her articulate what she felt. He was rewarded when she turned to look at him. “Because I love you, Viking. I want you, and I want all that you can do for me, to me.”
“You shall have it, little Celt. You shall have all of it.” He smiled as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. “I love you, too.”
“I know. I always knew that you would. Eventually.”
He shook his head, quite mesmerised. She might be the one bound to the table, but he was as much a captive as she was.
Ulfric started again on his quest to cover her body with kisses. He traversed her neck, shoulders, breasts, stomach, the intriguing little mound topped by dark curls, the hollows where thigh met the very edges of her soft pussy. There he paused to tease and to explore, loving the way her breath hitched, her hips jerked as she sought to draw his tongue to her greedy clit. He had enticed her to the very edge of her sensual endurance, and had yet to touch her there.
He paused to slick his fingers with oil again, then drove two into her arse. She sighed, circled her hips, lifted her bottom up in silent entreaty. He added a third, and knew he tested her limits. Fiona gasped, her body tensed, then slackened again as she accepted what he did to her. He brought her back to her previous level of abandonment with just a couple of deft thrusts, then he waited until she opened her eyes.
“Ulfric? Viking…?”
“You shall be my wife.”
“I… yes. I shall.” She offered him her shy, tentative smile. It was enough. He lowered his face to her plump clit and took the quivering nub between his lips. He caught it between his teeth, flicked with his tongue, and he sucked.
Fiona screamed. Her body convulsed, writhing and jerking against her bonds. Her inner muscles clamped around his digits as he rammed them hard into her arse. She ground out his name, then another word in her native Gaelic. He considered it expressive enough and resolved to ask her about that… later.
Her release seemed endless. Wave after wave of pleasure gripped his fingers, caressed his tongue. Fiona bucked and twisted on the table, eventually slowing though aftershocks continued to rack her slender form. Only when she went utterly still did he withdraw his fingers and release her clit.
“Four strokes, little Celt. And there is oil left, though the flame gutters now. I shall make it six, I believe, before we lose the light entirely.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
He lifted one eyebrow though he knew she could not see. “Do I detect a note of belligerence?”
“I want… Please, I meant no insult, but I need you. Now.”
“I know what you want, what you need, but I would have you surrender one final release to me first.”
“Yes, anything.”
He pondered briefly, but the rapid flickering of the dying lamp urged him into action. He might have teased, might have nudged her more gradually toward this final precipice but there was not sufficient time for such luxuries. He trailed the backs of his fingers down her stomach, combed them through the triangle of curls, then drew a lazy circle around her clit.
“Will this do it, do you imagine?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “You know that it will.”
“What do you prefer? Shall I stroke, like this…?” He rubbed the pad of his finger over the very crest of the swollen nub and was gratified when she let out a long, low moan. “Or this?” He squeezed now, and she winced. “Does that hurt you, little Celt?”
“Yes, but…”
“But you love it?”
“Yes,” she whimpered. “I love it.”
He increased the pressure, tightened his grip. She opened her eyes, her gaze pleading as she met his. He tugged as he pinched her clitty. She trembled, but still did not succumb. He had the sense she was not fighting him, had relinquished such efforts, but still her body held out. It would not take much, the merest increase, just the slightest touch more…
He shifted around to position himself at her side, and bent over the table. Her nipple was there, ripe and turgid and his for the biting.
So, he bit.
And Fiona screamed her release as her arousal peaked again. She shivered, bucked, wriggled, and eventually lay still. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing even. Ulfric drank in the sight of her sated, utterly conquered body.
The lamp guttered and finally died.
* * *
He might have taken the time to loosen the knots but impatience won out. Ulfric drew his dagger and sliced the ropes, then lifted her from the table. Three strides took him from the main hall into his private chamber where he set Fiona on the bed. He would have left her there for a few moments while he undressed, but she reared up to wind her arms around his neck and would not let go. He eased alongside her and covered her mouth with his.
His little Celt was both yielding and demanding, giving and insatiable at once. It was she who slipped her tongue between his lips, she who explored, tasted, angled her head to deepen the kiss. It was she who rolled him onto his back and clambered up to drape herself over his body.
“I need you. Inside me.”
“That is my plan.”
“Now.” She grappled with the fastenings of his trousers, her fingers clumsy still from having been bound. He chuckled as he set her hands aside and completed the task, then he pushed her back onto the mattress and covered her. She spread her thighs wide, her fingers sinking into the muscle on his uninjured shoulder. “Hurry,” she pleaded. “I cannot wait…”
Neither could Ulfric. He drove his cock balls deep into her welcoming heat and held still, savouring the moment. Her cunt contracted around him, her inner muscles rippling to send intense sensations the length of his erection. She shifted beneath him, rolling her hips as she sought to increase the friction between them.
Ulfric withdrew then thrust again, the stroke long and deep and silky smooth from her juices. She cried out, arching under him. Would she find her release again, so quickly?
He hoped so, for he could not hold his own bac
k very much longer. Abandoning restraint, he pounded her with his cock, each stroke deep and hard, driving his own arousal as well as hers. Her tightness, her wetness, her small, breathy cries all served to stoke his fire and Ulfric approached his peak with thunderous speed, hurtling toward the point of no return. He offered up a curse, then a plea, then gave up any semblance of control as Fiona lurched under him and her cunt tightened around his throbbing cock. She climaxed hard, gripping him like a hot and greedy fist, and he swore his aching balls twisted in their sack.
His semen surged up and out to fill her snug channel. A second spurt followed, and a third. At last he was spent and he collapsed onto her. Only at the very final moment did he scrape together sufficient wit to shift his bodyweight to the side and avoid squeezing the breath from her heaving lungs.
He lay motionless, face down, his heart thumping. Gradually it slowed, his breathing quieted, his world steadied. Ulfric turned his head.
Fiona’s profile showed a woman at peace. A faint smile played on her lips, her cheeks were flushed but prettily so. She appeared content, but he should check.
“Celt…?” He had been rough with her, unusually so.
“Viking…?” she murmured.
“You are… well?”
She seemed to consider this question for a while, then turned to regard him, her expression unreadable. “No, I am not well.”
He shoved himself up onto one elbow to peer at her anxiously. “I hurt you? It was not my intent. By Odin, I would not have—”
“I am better than well,” she interrupted. “I do not yet have a word for it, at least not in my clumsy rendition of your Norse tongue, but ‘well’ does not suffice. ‘Perfect’ is perhaps not quite the appropriate word…”