The Viking's Conquest

by Felicity Brandon

  “Yes,” he purrs, his head so close to my quivering core that I can feel the heat from it. “Very bad…” he agrees.

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, frantic for him not to stop this unbelievable feeling between my legs.

  “I know you are,” he whispers again, “but your punishment is not through.”

  I close my eyes again, just before his right palm spanks my begging behind.

  “You need to be punished, Aurelie, don’t you?”

  “Yes, my Lofðungr,” I cry, sounding desperate. “Please… Please spank me!”

  I can barely believe the words spilling from my mouth and yet I care not for them, and only for the burning ache between Anders’ hands.

  Accordingly, he complies, landing one and then another smack. I buck between his hands, my wet core some greedy living thing. It’s as though I have no control over my own body whatsoever. Anders is now the one pulling my strings and I am powerless to prevent it. In fact, on the contrary, I absolutely love it.

  “Count those strikes, Aurelie. From now—count them and beg me for more.”

  This is almost too much. The rational part of my mind, usually so dominant, wakes briefly and cringes at the mere suggestion of begging. As though he can read my mind, Anders applies just a little pressure between my legs, dipping one digit down into my hot wetness. The feeling is like nothing else I have ever experienced and I want more of it.

  “Yes,” I say breathlessly. “Please, spank me more, my Lofðungr.”

  Without a word, he does, landing a hard impact against my now tender behind. Of course the strength of the impact sends my pelvis crashing against his hand and that finger.

  “Ooh!” I moan, unable to restrain myself.

  I hear him chuckle. “How many, Aurelie?”

  “One,” I reply, already desperate for a second.

  He spanks me again, impacting at the base of my bottom and adding impetus to my excitement.

  “Two!”

  I am practically screeching, no longer caring how I sound or who hears me. He lands the third before I can speak again, the momentum taking me to the verge of somewhere I have never been before. My body is a tense, contorted thing, no longer capable of independent thought.

  I answer Anders, telling him that this is the third strike. From some distant place I become aware of the sounds of footsteps in our direction, but still—even now—my will for this pleasure holds me there, suspended in my own desire.

  From the entrance behind me I hear people arriving and then the now familiar voice of Magnus, directing the clean-up of my earlier blunder. A part of my brain freezes at this latest ignominy, and yet even now I cannot control my hips, sliding across the sweet friction of Anders’ hand.

  “Do you want me to continue?” Anders asks, sounding genuinely interested in my answer.

  “Yes,” I squeak, completely unwilling to accept the depths I have sunk to, and yet so unprepared to cease the sweet sensation building between my legs.

  The spanking continues, strikes four and five landing hard against my tender behind. I wince at each impact, although the pleasure that follows is starting to overwhelm even my smarting backside. I relish the low, burning throb between my legs, obediently stating the number of the spank after each one.

  Magnus and a few other men arrive in my eye line. I notice their bemused expressions and do my best to shut them out of my mind as Anders lands the sixth strike. This time the friction is so intense I fear my body might implode before their numbers are concluded. I squeeze my eyes shut, processing the intensity and trying to catch my breath. When I open them again, Magnus is standing directly in front of me. I catch his eye and he laughs at me, half amused and half interested in my latest punishment.

  “I see your captive is enjoying her punishment, my Lofðungr?” he chuckles.

  “Oh, yes,” replies Anders, with glee. “She is utterly receptive to this treatment. What a fascinating woman you have brought me!”

  He smacks my right cheek and I yelp at the contact, relishing the smarting burn, the heat, and the relentless vibration.

  “Seven,” I say breathlessly, trying to ignore the physical presence of Magnus, although a man of that size is almost impossible to overlook. I drop my head, relaxing my neck muscles for a few moments. As my view falls south I catch the outline of Magnus’ groin and see his manhood straining under the cloth of his breeches. I gasp at the sight, gaping at both his masculinity and his excited response to my spanking. For a split second I imagine what the organ would feel like inside my body, and then Anders lands the eighth strike, this time to my left cheek.

  “It seems you have got my lady’s attention, old friend,” quips Anders, aptly assessing my reaction to Magnus. From between my arms, I feel my face flush an even deeper shade of crimson. I muse that it now probably matches my behind perfectly.

  “My apologies, my Lofðungr,” Magnus says jokingly. “I cannot resist the look of such a thing.”

  “I agree,” Anders answers, stroking the hot orbs of my behind. “She is delectable and so much more malleable to me than before.”

  His hand drops between my legs, assessing my arousal. Even I cannot believe the wet neediness he finds there. One long digit dips into my damp hair and stokes my hot, excited lips. I let out an unconscious moan at the intrusion, apparently completely unable to control myself.

  “My Lofðungr,” Magnus continues. “I appreciate that she is yours, but if you ever require assistance with her, then you will find me entirely at your disposal.”

  Anders laughs. “Thank you, my friend! I am sure you will be dedicated in your duty—as always?”

  “Valhalla, yes, I will!” comes the reply, just as Anders’ finger pushes gently between my most intimate parts.

  I pant, twisting my head left to look at him in surprise. Those blue eyes smoulder back at me, and I find I am unable to protest at all. Instead my mouth falls open as the irresistible caress continues.

  “How many spanks have you received, Aurelie?”

  For the longest moment, I freeze, realising I have quite forgotten the spanking altogether! Then taking a deep breath, I recall the correct number.

  “Eight, my Lofðungr,” I say, my voice dripping with wordless need.

  He smiles, those eyes loaded with debauchery and the faintest hint of victory. I chastise myself mentally for having become this wet, dripping mess. So much for my stoic resistance of the Viking oppressor! I groan, half in arousal and half in self-disgust.

  “Two more then, my lady,” says Anders happily, and then removing his finger, his hand disappears, before it reconnects with my flesh.

  I miss the contact in an instant. His finger had been so tender, and combined with his left palm I might have reached some sort of soul-shattering climax with the sustained stimulation. The old sting inflames my desire, pushing my wetness against his hand again.

  “Nine,” I pant, hoping yet again that the spanking will not cease at ten as planned.

  The tenth strike is hard and the sound of the impact echoes through the air as the men away to my right finish clearing up my earlier spill.

  “Ten.”

  I sound disappointed and I’m sure I am not the only one who notes it. Something entirely unexpected has just happened. Not only did I enjoy the spanking that this man—my captor—has handed out to me because I failed to be an acceptable table for him, but I have found emotional release in the act. The myriad feelings that this produces take me by surprise and overwhelm me.

  “Rise, Aurelie.”

  Anders’ voice permeates my thoughts. He removes that strong hand from the front of my core, moving it north to my chest, before pushing gently against me from underneath. Breathing hard, I move slowly, allowing my upper body to re-join my legs in an upright position. My lower back screams in relief as I go. As I move to stand, Anders does the same and now I find both he and Magnus towering over me once again. I cast my eyes down to the rug beneath us, too embarrassed to register the looks on their fa
ces.

  Anders pushes the wooden chest aside and takes a long stride toward me. He brushes away the wet hair from my face with his right hand and moves the other to my chin, moving my face upward so that I am forced to acknowledge him. My frightened eyes find his self-assured ones. I know not what he will do with me next, but I do know that my body has betrayed me this day, disclosing my true feelings about my punishment. As I gaze up him, he brushes his left hand against my cheek. I inhale deeply, noticing the scent on his palm, and am mortified when I realise that it actually belongs to me. I feel the burn of shame in my face as he strokes it, but am unable to tear my eyes away from his commanding visage.

  “Aurelie,” he begins. “You have been punished for your transgression and yet it seems that this act has left me with needs of my own.” He winks at me as he speaks and I start to pant again, not daring to allow my eyes to wander to where his needs are, but knowing full well of which organ he speaks. “As you yourself have indicated a desire not to consort with me, then you will not be required for an hour or so.”

  A surreal weight of disappointment falls over me, threatening to crush my burgeoning emotional vulnerability. The deep ache within me swells, calling to him in silence to take me to bed. Yet I know that Anders speaks the truth. I had rejected his earlier advances, and I remind myself, for good reason.

  “You may well prove to be useful later, so for now you are to wait in the corner for me.” He nods his head backwards in the direction of the earlier spill. “Kneel there with your legs well apart, and your hands at the back of your head.”

  I eye the spot he means and I imagine myself there, kneeling nude with my red, punished bottom on display with anyone to see. I swallow hard and open my mouth to protest, but the look in his halts me in an instant.

  “Go now!” he instructs.

  I glance at him again, my hopes utterly deflated and make my way past his body. On the way, I pass Magnus, grinning from ear to ear. I reach the dark corner and kneel as Anders commanded. As I move I hear the two remaining men in the room converse again.

  “Go now, my friend and find Astrid! Send word to Brigida that I am ready for her.”

  “Yes, my Lofðungr,” says Magnus, and I hear his heavy footfall as he exits the pavilion.

  “How did I tell you to wait, Aurelie?” Anders barks from behind me.

  I flinch at his angry tone, remembering his words, as I lengthen the distance between my thighs in response. The movement rouses my damp core and I understand in that moment why he wants me this way; I am utterly incapable of pleasuring myself in this position.

  “And your arms?” he asks brusquely.

  I raise them quickly to my head, interlinking my fingers in my hair and breathing hard, hoping this is enough to appease him.

  “Do not let me catch you touching yourself, or I’ll have you in the stocks outside in a heartbeat!”

  The mental image of this punishment flashes in front of my eyes and I gasp. “Yes, my Lofðungr,” I whisper into the shadows.

  Chapter Ten: Unused

  I wait, still breathing hard and staring into the cold, dark corner. My knees are already aching and that is nothing compared to the complaints of my arms and shoulders, which apparently vehemently oppose Anders’ plan to keep them this way.

  He says nothing further and yet I swear I feel him watching my trembling limbs. My behind is red hot after its punishment and I wonder if it is his handiwork that he is admiring. It’s then that I hear movement from the far corner behind me. I know without looking who has arrived and envy simmers within me.

  “Brigida, come, come!” says Anders, his voice now all silky and smooth for the newest arrival.

  She says nothing, but I hear her much softer tread enter and move toward Anders. I wonder if she has seen me here, naked and punished, unable even to witness her entrance and I feel sure that she has. I mean, how can she miss the nude woman in the corner with such an inflamed behind?

  I remember her long, flaxen hair and slim body from earlier and the knot of jealousy within me contracts. After all, she is going to get what I want. She is going to allow Anders deep inside her hot core and I am going to be forced to remain here whilst it happens! The sudden realisation dawns on me and I choke back a small sob.

  “You asked for me, my Lofðungr,” she says demurely.

  “Sweet Brigida,” purrs Anders, “you know, I think, why I have called you here. Will you consent to share my bed this night?”

  There is the sound of her small, girlish laugh and then various small, yet telling noises. Of course I can see nothing of this interaction, but I hear what I imagine to be the sound of moist lips on flesh, although I cannot tell to whom either belongs. I wonder if he is going to intentionally put on a show for me, knowing that I can neither witness nor protest. My fingers clench into small fists behind my head as I acknowledge my piteous plight.

  There is a small crescendo and what I think is the sound of their bodies hitting the soft bed. I imagine the naked Brigida, all yielding curves and long limbs, intertwining with the musculature of Anders. Between my legs my own curves are aching, but unlike the one in my knees, this ache is turning into a constant throb of unanswered desire. I exhale sharply, leaning back on my thighs and shifting some weight from my tired knees. Moving helps me to try to push away the thoughts of what is transpiring behind me, but soon the audible clues become impossible to ignore.

  The sound of kisses becomes evident; hard, fast caresses between lips and flesh. Then comes the murmuring. Tiny gasps from a female mouth and then the voice of Anders:

  “Brigida… I can wait no longer to possess you once more.”

  There’s a soft moan before she whispers something in their native tongue. I ball my fists again, knowing that he is deliberately speaking in a language that he knows I will understand. He is torturing me; stirring a chronic level of arousal and then deliberately tormenting me with his own protracted intimacy.

  I strain my hearing for further clues about what is occurring, every fibre of me suddenly needing to know their mutual pleasure. I wonder if pleasure by proxy will do anything to cool my burning ardour, but I highly doubt it. Then there is an unmistakable sound. Brigida lets out a long, deep groan and I know Anders has penetrated her. I mentally envision his hard body sliding into her wetness, moving into her slick, hot space and creating their own personal rhythm. I imagine her core being filled, over and over again and the aching emptiness of my own need grows and threatens to explode.

  They cavort for some time. I hear movement and imagine them tumbling across the bed. I wonder if she is riding his hardness or whether he pinions her to the bed. I begin to smell the scent of their lovemaking, wafting into the air around me. My arms tremble as the strain and the frustration builds in me. Tears swill in my eyes, but I blink them away, absolutely refusing to give in to this ridiculous emotion. How can I now be distressed about not allowing this man—this invader—into my body? Do I really want him to take my maidenhead? The swirl of emotions consumes me as I am forced to remain in the corner and wait.

  Time drags and still they romp, making me kneel here, listening to their intimacy. Every part of my body is starting to shake and hurt. Stiff limbs and joints taunt me almost as much as the urge between my thighs. After some unquantifiable period of time, their activity crescendos, building to a searing intensity of carnality. I squeeze my eyes shut as Anders climaxes, wondering how much longer my thighs can withstand this position. There are the sounds of contented panting and some further gentle kissing, until finally there is movement from the bed.

  The sound is a soft padding and I know it’s her. “Thank you, my Lofðungr,” she giggles, presumably for my benefit.

  “Thank you,” his voice whirrs from behind me. I shudder, pushing down the jealous nausea that threatens to surface.

  “Brigida, please ask two servants to join me. I will need their help before I retire.”

  “Of course, my Lofðungr,” she replies and pads out of the room the w
ay she had come.

  Alone with Anders again, my breathing quickens almost instinctively. What will he do next? Will he make me wait? Will I have to stay here? My questions are answered almost immediately. I hear his heavy footsteps behind me and I know Anders is close; maybe just a few inches behind me. I can barely catch my breath as I contemplate what will transpire next.

  “Aurelie…”

  That soft purr again, the tone is low and almost hypnotic. I swallow hard.

  “Yes, my Lofðungr?”

  I am not even certain that it had been a question…

  “I am ready for you to be useful again, but first—to show I am not such a Viking brute—I would like to tend to you.”

  My head spins at this new information. I have no idea what he has in mind, but am desperate to be out of this position as soon as possible. Tentatively I turn my head to the right and sneak a look back at him. He stands there, towering over me. The first thing I notice is that his shirt and tunic have been removed, leaving his strong and toned chest visible. I can just make out his face and that knowing smile.

  “You may move,” he says, reading my mind again. “Why not crawl toward the bed and let me take a look at you?”

  The prospect of crawling anywhere does not enthral me, but the need to rest my arms and knees takes precedence. I let my elbows fall, hearing myself groan out loud at the relief as they are finally allowed to move. I have no idea how long I have been kneeling here—maybe only about thirty minutes—but it feels like forever. Slowly I turn, wincing as my knees finally shift my weight, before falling forward onto my outstretched arms.

  I do not wait for another instruction and crawl gingerly over to the bed, the small chain at my ankle running behind me. I notice that the covers are in a tangled mess and repress the resentment that resurfaces. Anders has followed and stands directly behind me as he speaks.

  “Good, now up over the bed.”

  I hesitate, overthinking his words and wondering if my knees will cope with yet more of this treatment. However, I quickly realise that the bed is so high I will need to bend from the hip, rather than the knees, so I do as he says and move forward. The blue and gold bedding has been thrown backwards and I find myself now lying across its unruly covers, arms down by my sides.