Viking Beast: Viking Warriors Series

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  A lump formed in my throat, but I gave no thanks. Whatever kindness he showed me was for his own ends.

  Being partially free, I should have felt better able to defend myself, but there was no truth in that. He’d merely gained power to position me in other ways. My hands were still bound, after all.

  I resolved to do nothing to help him.

  Fuck me, and it shall be as if I were a corpse.

  His leg brushed mine as he ran his hands along my calves and thighs, keeping my legs parted around him, until he clasped my hips.

  Leaning forward, he brought his lips to my buttock—his breath as warm as his tongue.

  “You feel nothing?” He grazed me with his teeth, moving from one cheek to the other, devouring my flesh with open mouth, sucking and biting—though without force enough to hurt me—all the while holding my hips fast.

  I squirmed, but kept silent.

  Moving one hand to the small of my back, he used his other to probe my wetness. “You desire this.” He pressed with his thumb, circling, teasing. “You want me inside you.”

  My head buzzed with fury even as I writhed under his caress, still giving no answer.

  He laughed low. “What have you been thinking of, waiting for me?”

  “That you want to torture me,” I hissed, “—to punish me for something of which I’m innocent.”

  “Punish you.” He withdrew his hand. “Is that what you desire?”

  “Nay! That is not what I said!”

  He rose from the bed, and I heard the chest’s lid open.

  I dared not look, but heard the switch pass through the air. The pain was immediate—a burning sting across the crease of my lower buttocks.

  “This is what you want, thrall?”

  “Nay!” I cried, fearful that he would strike me again.

  I attempted to push my legs together, but his hand intruded upon me. Three fingers slid easily inside.

  Against my will, liquid rose from deep within the flesh that he sought to make his own.

  “You deny this pleasure, but soon, you’ll think only of the man who masters you now.”

  Kicking my feet, I tried to wriggle away. “If I take pleasure, it will be my doing—not yours.”

  Withdrawing again, he struck me twice with the switch, across the fleshiest curve of my behind.

  The moan from my lips came unbidden. I abhorred him, yet there was a tug inside me. My body opened to him, despite the rebellion of my mind.

  I was alone and frightened, aching, angry, and aroused. To say what he wanted to hear would make all easier, but I could not yet surrender this piece of myself.

  “I do not wish it,” I sobbed, burying my face in the covers.

  I waited for him to punish me again but felt instead his hand smoothing my hair.

  Without speaking, he untied the final sashes. As I curled up, he brought his arm across my body, pulling me into the warmth of his chest.

  I was aware of his nakedness, of his arousal pressed to the crevice of my cheeks, but he made no move to force his penetration, nor did he ask again what I wished from him. I lay tense, aware of him behind me, his breathing becoming that of a man who slept.

  Wearily, I closed my eyes.

  I no longer knew myself, nor understood the man who held me captive.

  9

  Elswyth

  August 3rd, 960AD

  Ragerta woke me, helping me sit up, placing a bowl of grøt in my hands.

  “Where is he?” I hadn’t felt him rise from the bed. If he were close by, would he tie me again, now I was awake?

  “At the harbour. There’s a new trading boat in,” she whispered. “But he won’t be long.” She indicated the pail standing by. “I’ve water for you to wash. He told me to help you quickly.”

  “Ragerta.” I placed my hand upon her arm, wanting to say something, wanting to explain away my shame, make her understand that I was here against my will. It was unnecessary, of course. What did she care? I was her master’s bed-thrall, and there was nothing to excuse or judge.

  “Thank you,” I said simply.

  The water was hot and welcome—not as refreshing as the barrel in the bathhouse, but I could hardly expect that privilege, unless it was Eldberg’s wish that I be taken there.

  “He said I was to watch you.” Ragerta gave an apologetic smile.

  There was naught for me to do but await his return. He’d take whatever pleasure amused him, I supposed, then leave once more. I could try again to persuade him that he didn’t need to restrain me—that I’d be compliant.

  This was my best hope, wasn’t it? Only if I were free could I hope to escape. Not yet, perhaps, but as soon as I had a plan.

  But what did compliance mean? Resigned acceptance? No.

  Submitting was not enough.

  He wished more than that—to bend me to his will, to have me writhe and beg for him, and disavow the love I’d borne Eirik.

  This I still could not bring myself to do, but there might be another path.

  I would not be passive like a slave.

  I would invite his passion, but on my own terms.

  * * *

  Ragerta was right; he was not long in returning. Entering the chamber, he immediately dominated all around him. Ragerta scurried away, leaving us alone.

  I’d thought carefully of how I would present myself and what I would say. Already, I’d wasted almost two days and nights. The sooner I made him believe I was pliant, the sooner I might escape.

  I lowered myself on the sheepskins, raising my arms and parting my legs in simulation of the position in which he had tied me.

  His gaze was wholly upon my body as I did so, and I felt a new energy fill the room, as if there was nothing else but my nakedness and his desire to possess what he saw.

  “You await me, thrall.” It was a statement rather than a question, but I nodded, parting my legs a little farther and turning one knee outward, that he might see what I offered him.

  Neither of us spoke as he unstrapped the leather at his waist, from which his short-bladed dagger and axe hung. He pulled his tunic roughly over his head and jerked open the drawstring of his trousers, kicking them away.

  With the mid-morning sunlight filtering through the central opening in the longhouse roof, I was able to view him as I had not before.

  The burns which marred his face travelled the length of his body, but only upon his left side—from his neck, across one shoulder, and down the muscles of his arm.

  Ugly, raised welts broke the contours of his body ink, scars dappling the hard plane of his chest and the ridges of his stomach, reaching the deep crease of his abdomen and continuing down his thigh, even to his foot.

  His arousal was already prominent, springing from the russet hair at his groin. The sight made the breath catch in my throat.

  Stepping closer, he took my hand and guided me to encircle him.

  Rubbing my palm to his thickness, he said, “Now, you see what I will thrust inside you.”

  My punishment, and your revenge. My mouth was suddenly dry. Will you be happy when this is done?

  With his hand over mine, he stroked upward from the root, squeezing hard so that my fingers were nearly crushed beneath his own. It took nothing more for him to become rigid as iron, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.

  He gave one final stroke and released me. “Another day I shall teach you how to take me into your mouth. For now, I wish to discover fully what I own.”

  Leaning close, his voice was huskily soft. “Hold nothing back.” He nodded to the curtain that divided us from the greater chamber. “Let them all hear that I am your master—that you are no longer a woman of Svolvaen, but mine.”

  Touching my hip, he rolled me to my front. My cheeks were still tender from the three strikes visited upon me.

  He knelt to retrieve his leather belt, and I froze in horror. Was this what it meant—to be owned by the Beast? He meant to flog me with the thick leather which carried his weapons?

/>   Perhaps he heard my gasp, for he looked up.

  Holding the strap in his hand, he watched me with curiosity. “This excites you?” He regarded my buttocks and then the belt. “You appreciate pleasure only when tempered with pain?” He appeared to think upon it, rubbing the leather between his fingers.

  “I shall first give you pleasure and then we shall see.”

  He extracted a small pouch and then a vial from within.

  A potion? I wondered. There were such things, I’d heard, that heightened sensation and passion. Only once had I experienced such a thing—breathing the sacred smoke of Svolvaen’s Ostara celebrations. I’d not been myself that night—my inhibitions lowered, until I’d welcomed a coupling that should never have been.

  Eldberg came again to the bed, sitting above me.

  When he opened the bottle, it brought a strong scent—ginger and sage? I wasn’t sure. Those could be drunk when prepared as a tincture.

  “Neroli,” he murmured, “and sandalwood. I paid a fine price this morning. You see, thrall, what I do to coax what I desire from you.”

  It made no sense. He had only to thrust himself between my legs and the act would be done.

  His hands, though calloused, were rendered slick and slippery—caressing my shoulders, pulling my arms to my sides. His thumbs travelled downward, until he found the dimples of my lower back. There, he gripped my waist, and his arousal brushed against me.

  Kneading, he rubbed the curve of my hips and the fullness of my cheeks, his fingers working the fleshiest part, moving to the crease where they met my thighs. Again, he returned to my buttocks, the fragrant oil aiding his movements. Back and forth he worked, his fingers dipping lower, slipping into the cleft of my behind, skimming my curls, encouraging me to accept his fondling.

  All the while, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that it was Eirik who touched me, but I could not deceive myself. These hands were not Eirik’s.

  Eldberg lowered onto my back, his cock nestling where his hands had caressed, between my cheeks. His thigh pushed insistently between my legs, obliging me to open wider.

  He was breathing hard, rubbing, then nudging where he wished to enter.

  No! I cannot! I’d taken a man inside me there before, but Eldberg was bigger than any lover of my past, and I feared what he was capable of—that he might use me too roughly. Suddenly, I feared taking him at all. What was I doing! In the throes of desire, he would tear me asunder.

  He shifted, drawing my legs between his own so that he fully straddled my hips. In that moment, I turned swiftly and the slickness of the oil permitted me to slip onto my back.

  In this position, at least, I would have a better chance of diverting him.

  “My lord.” I was aware of my voice quivering. “I beg you—” I tipped back my head, making myself look at him, saying the words I knew he wished to hear. “You shall own me everywhere.”

  Reaching for his fingers, I brought them to my breast. “But first, caress me here.” I wetted my lips. “Spend your seed here, if you wish it—or over my belly. Let me rub you into my skin, that I may smell of you.”

  His expression was inscrutable, his eyes half closed. His erection rested on my stomach—a hard rod pressing where there was no entry to be had.

  Drawing back, he sat on his haunches, his arousal above me.

  Grasping my legs, he brought them on either side of his. Reaching beneath, he raised my hips, so that my sex rested upon his testicles.

  Only then did he pour more of the oil into his palms.

  His fingers, light and firm, swept over my belly, circling, moving ever higher, until he gathered my breasts in his hands—covering then revealing, holding their weight, then releasing. Rubbing my nipples until they ached.

  Even through my fear, I did not wish him to stop. Beneath the rhythm of his caress, a strange languor overtook me, and a warmth low in my womb.

  And, all the while, I was aware of his manhood—the head dark and swollen, the shaft, thick-veined.

  At last, he brought his mouth where his hands had caressed, gently biting, grazing with his teeth, then suckling hard, so that I arched into his hunger. His mouth was fiery hot on my skin, his beard softly grazing, making me moan, even as I was repulsed.

  When our eyes met again, his glinted darkly, and he touched his tongue to my lips.

  I cannot! That intimacy is for lovers—not for what exists between us. I’m no more than a body for your pleasure, and for the perverse revenge you think to take.

  I twisted away, but he threaded his fingers through my hair. I was helpless again, my throat exposed.

  His mouth was insistent, kissing my neck and my jaw, then returning to my lips.

  He had shifted, bringing his arousal to my core.

  I’d known this moment would come, yet I struggled—only to have him capture my wrists and drag them above my head, palm on palm.

  In the next moment, he entered me, gaining possession in a single stroke. I cried out, though more in shock than pain. My own traitorous arousal had helped him.

  He held himself inside me, the soft hair of his chest pressing to my breasts, his breath soft on my cheek. I’d thought to have taken him all, but he pressed forward again, and I realised he was not yet at the hilt.

  I bit my lip to keep from moaning. He was so deep.

  Easing back, he paused before his second thrust. It came more easily, as did the next, and the next.

  He lowered his mouth to my nipple, pulling the point into his wet warmth. Once there, he did not release it, consuming and demanding, drawing harder, sending a searing flame to my womb.

  As he bucked and shuddered, his features contorted.

  With the last throbs of his pleasure, he grew still, and the look upon his face was wretched. I saw there an echo of all I felt—despair and pain, and a chasm of terrible loneliness.

  Eirik was dead, and I was slave to this man’s bed—as I had been to Gunnolf’s. I knew this path and the soulless, aching emptiness that would come.

  10

  Elswyth

  August 4th, 960AD

  The next morning, it was not Ragerta who brought me food. The woman who swept aside the curtain was no thrall.

  “Stand up. Let me see you.” I recognised her voice—one I’d heard many times since I’d been brought to Eldberg’s chamber. In some manner, she was mistress here, though not his wife, I knew.

  The room smelled of coupling—thick with sweat and the scent of sex. Scowling, she pursed her lips, and the lines it brought to her mouth made apparent her age. Her hair, worn in a thick braid, was a similar hue to my own, only slightly lighter at her temples. She bore the expression of one who’d seen too much of life’s bitterness. It was etched in her face. Perhaps mine was the same, or would soon come to be so.

  I rose from the bed, drawing my hair over my breasts and clasping my hands to cover my sex. That part of me was sore, for Eldberg had taken me twice more through the night.

  She made no bones of surveying my nakedness, then my face, staring long and hard at each feature, as if there was some puzzle she wished to decipher. She met my eyes, and something flashed in her own.

  “I’ve no wish to be here,” I said quietly. “And I do not remain willingly.”

  The woman waved her hand in dismissal. “Were it up to me, you’d be thrown from the cliff and that would be the end of you.”

  Her mouth tightened again, and she frowned. “As it’s not my decision, you’ll make yourself useful. Not just in here—” she glanced briefly at the bed. “But in other ways.”

  My heart gave a sudden leap. I was to escape this confinement? To do so would be the first step toward my finding a way to leave this place.

  “You can weave, I suppose? You know how to prepare meat, how to make bread and porridge?”

  “Yes—all those things.” I nodded.

  “Then get dressed, and we’ll find you work.” From a sack at her side, she tossed a bundle of fabric. “It’s too fine for a thrall, bu
t he insists you wear it.”

  It was my own soft undershift and gown—sewn for my wedding day. Holding them to my chest, I felt a stark pang.

  To have me wear the gown as I served in his household was a cruel joke. Yet, I was glad—for it was my own, and wearing it would keep to mind all that I’d lost. It would give me strength to make my escape and have my revenge upon the man who’d inflicted so much suffering.

  The woman had not returned my cape. That, with its soft collar of fur, I imagined she’d kept for herself.

  “You’re not to go outside, and if you give us any trouble, he’ll tie you again. Perhaps you’d prefer it, being used for whoring and none of the real work.” She sniffed with obvious distaste.

  “Nay, I only wish—”

  “Don’t speak unless I ask you a question!”

  The glare she gave assured me I should avoid baiting her temper.

  “And keep a civil tongue! Know your place, and call me mistress.”

  With that, she swept out.

  I shook out the gown. There was still mud on the hem, but dry, it would be easy to brush out. Checking its deep pocket, my fingers closed over what I’d placed there when I’d undressed in the bathhouse: the amulet Eirik had gifted to me—the hammer, Mjolnir, Thor’s magical weapon.

  All those months before, Eirik had left with Helka on their mission to Bjorgyn and had placed it about my neck, promising to return. More time had passed than either of us had anticipated, but I’d worn the pendant, always, and he’d kept his word.

  Did I dare wear it again?

  It no longer had the power to bring him back to me. Nothing could do that. And Eldberg would likely take it from me if he saw it.

  Better to leave it where it was.

  They were all together now—Eirik, Gunnolf, and Asta.

  Helka, too, and Astrid? Were they watching from that other realm? That I could not think about. While I lived, my concerns were in this world.

  Entering the main hall of the longhouse, I was astonished again by its size—twice that of ours in Svolvaen.