Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane)

by Byrne, Lily

  “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  “Trying to get inside,” he panted.

  “Get inside? Inside what?” She squirmed away from him, eyes wide.

  “Inside the house, of course. Not inside - anything else.” He couldn’t help eyeing her body beneath him.

  “You are just the same as all men, so don’t deny it! You just want sex.” She pushed him away and crawled to the chair, stood up and brushed dirt off her dress.

  “By Odin’s eye!” he shouted, sitting up. “I was just trying to get us to safety quickly, not trying to fuck you. I just tripped!”

  He stormed off towards the other side of the hut.

  *

  Tutting, she turned away but couldn’t help smiling a little at his annoyance. Unlike her other owners, who just had sex with her however she protested, she could control this one.

  He turned his back on her, took his boots off and started cleaning them.

  “You should do that outside,” she called, “or you’ll get mud everywhere.”

  Muttering darkly to himself, he strode past, flicking a glance of exasperation at her.

  She smiled even more, aware she played a dangerous game, teasing her master. But inside she knew he could take it. She knew intuitively that he didn’t mind her mischief. It made her warm inside. How long had it been since she’d felt like that? Could she be imagining it? But years of experience told her to trust her senses.

  *

  More torches than usual lit the main cavern and the smell of incense filled Saehild’s nostrils. Every rock crevice contained a bunch of burning herbs. But despite the strong scent, she could still detect sweat and the muskier odour of sex.

  “Sit,” said Ljotr, directing her to a seat carved out of rock but padded with a bearskin.

  The fire burned strongly and the smoke whisked up and out of a natural chimney formed by a fissure in the stone. Little by little her clothes began to stick to her.

  The men sat in two lines on the floor in front of Saehild, Ljotr at her right hand. She’d never seen so many short-haired, beardless men all together, with Ljotr the only remotely Danish-looking one. Even he, however, was far more dark-haired than every other man she knew. How exotic this was.

  “Bring it in!” he shouted, and two men came in carrying a pole on their shoulders, from which hung a huge dead boar tied by its feet. Its mouth hung open, and congealing blood covered its sides and head, the huge tusks stained and scratched from its death battle.

  They took it near to the fire, lowered it to the floor and pulled out the pole, leaving the creature lying with its feet pointing upwards.

  The men near Saehild leapt into action. Some ran to drums and began to beat out a compulsive rhythm, while the others fought to get nearer the fire, pushing and shoving like beasts. They began to chant, faster and faster, then one with straggly brown hair grabbed a nearby woman and began to fuck her, right near the fire, her blonde hair almost in the flames. The other men laughed and some took other women in whatever position they could, whether they were lying down, standing up, from behind. The chanting continued to resonate round the room, punctuated by groans of lust or screams of pain.

  Ljotr strode across to the boar.

  “This is a sacrifice to our lord!” he shouted, making Saehild jump. He beckoned and she had to obey. Handing her a knife, he demonstrated what she should do with it.

  Tired of men handling all ceremonial duties, Saehild felt honoured. Pausing to savour the moment, she glanced round at the expectant watchers, who held their breath. Everyone gasped as she raised the knife high and plunged it into the boar’s chest.

  The men cheered except those who were still fucking women, who did not cheer. But Saehild didn’t care. She brandished the bloody knife and glanced round at Ljotr, who bared his teeth into a smile.

  He helped another man push the boar into the fire. The skin and fat sizzled and popped, giving forth a sickly smell which soon became burnt and acrid. The beast’s carcass smoked, making Saehild’s eyes sting.

  Some more men came into the cavern, carrying a smaller, cooked boar on a spit. Ljotr beckoned two women forward who began carving up the animal for the meal. The others returned to sit at Saehild’s feet, waiting, rattling their knives and cups on the rocky floor.

  “I’ve got a good appetite now,” mumbled one to another, who laughed.

  “At last we’re getting the good treatment we deserve.”

  “Yes. When Fenrir arises we’ll be in control forever.”

  Saehild wondered what he meant. But then her plate of boar meat arrived, and she tucked in, relishing the rich, intense flavour. The nourishment quickly reached her stomach, warming her body and limbs like fire, filling her with vitality. So much better than the lamb and chicken stews she ate at home. She felt stronger already and smiled at the men round her, who grinned back.

  Vegetables accompanied the meat. The usual onions and carrots, small new spring ones, hadn’t been cooked in a stew but roasted on the fire, giving them a sweeter, creamier flavour.

  After everyone finished, Ljotr stood up. “Now it’s time.”

  He beckoned the same women towards him, but this time they carried a large bowl between them.

  The men lined up at once. As they reached Ljotr and the bowl, he put his hand in and brought out a bunch of small green leaves, crushing them in his hand. He put a little into each man’s mouth in turn. Some pushed and shoved, but most waited patiently.

  The fire roared like a furnace, making Saehild jump again. The large boar crackled in the flames, its body and face crumpling and charring.

  The men went back to their women and kissed them, spitting the leaf mixture into their mouths, forcing it in.

  “Now it’s our turn.” Ljotr smiled, handing Saehild some of the mixture.

  “What is it?”

  “Aha. It won’t hurt you, don’t worry.” He shoved it into her mouth, so she bit his fingers.

  He laughed. “Chew it.”

  Saehild decided to obey him. The flavour made her tongue tingle; it reminded her of the herb thyme she used in stews, but far stronger. The heat in the cavern increased, the smells of burning boar flesh, incense and sex mingled with it to make her lightheaded. She laughed above all of them, young again, and free, instead of a dull married woman stuck with household routines.

  The noise from the others grew louder and louder. Laughing, shouting, groaning, screaming, while the fire devoured the dead boar.

  “Come on,” said Ljotr, holding out his hand. He seemed to glow, or did he just reflect the fire? He led her out of the main cavern and into a smaller, darker one.

  *

  In the small cave which served as their bedroom, Saehild sat on top of Ljotr, as usual. Disturbed to see fur growing all over his face and body, she wriggled, arousal growing.

  “Do you usually do this?” She bounced on him, slapping herself down against his balls.

  “Do what?”

  “Grow hair during sex?”

  “Hair? No, never. Anyway, what about you?”

  She realised snakes curled round her arms and legs and shuddered.

  “You’re so hairy, you look like a wolf woman,” he laughed, sticking his tongue out, which was so long it could touch his nose.

  “I’m not hairy! I have snakes on me. Get them off!” But when she looked down again, they’d gone.

  He groaned harshly.

  She noticed the bearskins expanding, wider and wider, and fell backwards off them, Ljotr still connected to her. She lay on the floor as he fucked her, her legs round his back. It began to snow in the room and they were soon covered but not cold. He kept on thrusting, hurting her.

  “Stop! Stop!” she called, but he didn’t hear, just kept on pounding at her, like a blacksmith’s hammer. Bang, bang, bang.

  He groaned again and again, his groans turning into a growl. For a second, a wolf lay on top of her, a great grey wolf with red eyes, fangs and long tongue, but then it changed back into Ljotr,
subsiding after coming inside her.

  They climbed back onto the bed, Saehild lightheaded and floating. She soared above them, higher and higher, so she could see Ljotr’s shelter in the woods, the village, the river, before slowly descending, in softest, purest air, back to her satisfied body.

  *

  “We need help, sir,” said the English blacksmith to the Jarl the next morning. After much discussion in Byrnham village the day before, the English had decided to plead for help from the Danes, however much it injured their pride. And the blacksmith, being a man of high status, had been chosen to appeal, going as early in the day as he dared.

  Two Huskarls guarded the door of the Jarl’s official room as he sat in his carved seat, the wood worn smooth by generations of his ancestors sitting listening to similar appeals.

  “What do you want us to do?” The Jarl stroked his beard, not needing an explanation.

  “Find the monster that’s doing this, sir. Uhtred didn’t look like he’d been killed by a man or an animal. It was both.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Can your soldiers hunt it down? Or them, if it’s more than one?”

  “Hm. What would you do for us in return?”

  “Er - we’d do something, sir, anything.”

  “I’m reluctant to get involved. If a monster is attacking the English, perhaps you brought it on yourselves.”

  “No, sir, we did nothing. I swear.”

  “We don’t want to draw other people’s cursed luck. I have to protect my people.”

  “Please, I’m begging you.” The man flung himself on his knees, the light from the window highlighting his terrified, white face. “Soon all the men in Byrnham will be dead and the women will be missing.”

  “I could arrange more Huskarl patrols, but that’s all I can promise for now. I’m sorry. Take him away.”

  *

  “This is nice,” said Kjartan as Aelfwyn fed him the stew for lunch. “Better than being alone in that cold cave.”

  She didn’t answer, concentrating on not spilling too much food in his beard. A smile curled round the corners of his lips.

  “It was kind of Ragnar to think I’d be more comfortable at his home, even if he did drag me here like an animal in the middle of the night.”

  “He wasn’t being kind,” snapped Aelfwyn. “He just wanted to keep an eye on you. God knows how he smuggled you past the guards. Bjarni must have distracted them.”

  He laughed. “I know that. I was teasing you, foolish woman. It’s still better here.”

  She tutted and carried on feeding him in silence.

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll knock the bowl out of your hands and rape you? I could, you know.”

  “With your hands and feet tied? I don’t think so.”

  “I can do lots of things with my hands and feet tied.” He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “I don’t want to know, thanks.”

  Ragnar had gone out on some errand and she didn’t want to think what Kjartan could do to her in his absence.

  “If you let me go, I’d be out of your hair forever.”

  “I can’t. Don’t be stupid.”

  “I don’t know why you’re keeping me prisoner anyway. Are you going to present me to the Jarl and get me executed for killing Eadbald?”

  She shook her head.

  “I did you a favour. You’re much happier with the brawny warrior than you would’ve been with the fat potter.”

  She blushed.

  “I promise, I’ll never come back once I’ve got my -”

  “Your what?”

  “Something I need from the cave. Go on! Let me go and you’ll never see me again. I won’t come back to this shit-filled place.”

  She remained silent.

  “Or, you could come with me and have a more exciting life. You needn’t leave your baby. We could take him too.”

  He eyed her, half smiling.

  She glanced round at her home. Alvi slept in his cot. She’d swept the floor and the most exciting task waiting for her was washing the dirty dinner plates.

  “I can’t run away with you,” she shouted, surprising herself with her anger. “I love my husband and my child and my life. What the hell could you offer me?”

  He smiled even more. “Are you sure you’re happy here? Doesn’t sound like it to me.”

  She glared at him, then Alvi began to cry, and she rushed over, all thoughts of Kjartan forgotten as she fed her beloved baby.

  *

  That afternoon, Ifay gently cleaned the minor spear wound on Bjarni’s outer thigh, her touch light and tender. How careless he’d been to let Solmund injure him during their demonstration fight. First Ljotr last year, now Solmund. Maybe he was truly weakening and losing his skills.

  As she dabbed and patted his thigh, his head swam. He tried to think of boring things like axe hacking practice this morning, and cleaning his boots after a muddy walk, but he couldn’t. The exotic slave girl rubbing at his thigh made his cock spring up. He put his hand over it, trying to press it down. Had she noticed?

  “There.” She finished cleaning and sat back on her heels. “Is there - anything else - you need, master?” She glanced from Bjarni’s face to his lap, her brow furrowed, biting her lip.

  With a huge effort, he pulled on his trousers and stood up.

  “No, there isn’t. But your hands are so rough.”

  “Oh. Oh - I - I’m sorry, master.”

  “Call me Bjarni. I’m going to do something for you instead. Stay there.”

  He picked up the largest bowl he could find and strode out to the stream to fill it, ignoring the difficulty he was having walking.

  When he came back, she cowered on the bed, her eyes huge.

  “Have I displeased you? Have I -”

  “Shh. Show me your hands.”

  She held them out, shaking as he examined them. Darkest brown backs, warm pink palms. But he didn’t like them being so rough and calloused. She worked too hard.

  He warmed the water by the fire, then sat down next to her. He put her hands in the warm water and she gasped with pleasure.

  “Keep them there.”

  He went to Saehild’s secret store of beauty treatments. She thought he didn’t know of her obsession with anything which would make her skin smoother or her hair silkier. Picking up some handmade soap and a jar, he took them back to Ifay, who obediently still held her hands in the water, her glance following his every move.

  Taking her right hand, he smoothed soap onto it. Saehild spent hours charming the soap maker for a free supply, but he thought for once Ifay should benefit. He rubbed the lather over the dry back of her hand, the dark brown skin so thin that the bones showed prominently. Scars too, from previous punishments. Not by him, though.

  Her nails were short and filled with dirt, so he took a cloth and cleaned it away, intent on his task.

  “Master? I mean – er - why are you doing this?” Ifay’s hand shook.

  “Because I want to. Keep still.” He smiled at her. Had she given a tiny smile in return? He looked again, but her glance slid away.

  Turning her hand over, his eyes widened at the contrast: two colours on one hand. Her pink palm was lined and dry, roughened by endless manual work. With a gasp, he noticed her shortened little finger with no nail.

  “They chopped it off for misbehaviour,” said Ifay.

  So many people he knew with missing fingers - why should hers shock him so?

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not anymore.”

  He washed the palm, paying special attention to the mistreated little finger.

  “No one has washed my hands before.” She gave a small giggle.

  “Well, they should have.” He stroked the firm, fleshy ball of her thumb muscle and the one opposite, under the little finger. There were marks on the palm too, from beatings. How dare someone beat her?

  He took her left hand and for a moment marvelled at the difference between the clean right and dirty le
ft hands. One looked as young as it should, the other appeared overworked, dry and old.

  He washed the back and the palm, cleaning the nails and all the little wrinkles of skin. His fingers were much larger than hers and as he pushed his thumb between her first and middle fingers to clean in there, she made a small sound of pleasure. She clenched her hand round his thumb and gazed into his eyes, her mouth falling open a little, and he gazed back, her dark brown eyes reflecting his desire.

  Tearing his gaze away, he picked up the jar of Saehild’s hand cream, unsure of what it contained. But he knew she only chose the best. Taking the tiniest bit onto his finger, he sniffed it. Honey and something flowery. He dabbed the cream onto Ifay’s right hand, on the delicate pink palm, and gently rubbed it in.

  She giggled as it tickled, but he continued, massaging it into her dry skin, especially between the fingers, pushing back and forth there, as she seemed to enjoy that. He rubbed it into the back of her hand, pleased to see the dryness disappear and the dark skin gleam as if polished. She smiled openly now and he gazed at her, smiling in return as he kept going. Now the left hand, stroking the cream into every little fold and wrinkle, making her dryness moist.

  He wondered what the rest of her body looked and felt like. Dry and parched or smooth and soft? She didn’t work with her body so it should be soft.

  Then he remembered she did work with her body. Slaves always had sex with their masters and she’d let him inside her that time, when he’d hated himself afterwards. He gulped. Would she enjoy it if he did it now?

  They gazed into each other’s eyes, he still rubbing cream into her skin obsessively. He couldn’t stop.

  “God! I am so tired of all this washing.” Saehild’s voice broke into their thoughts.

  Bjarni and Ifay leapt apart, the bowl of water spilling in an unsatisfied gush between them.

  “What are you two doing? Is that my hand cream?” Saehild pushed past Ifay to grab the precious jar, throwing the clean clothes onto the table. “This cost me one of my fur cloaks. Don’t play around with it!”