Her Rogue Viking

by Ashe Barker

  Fiona covered her bottom with her hands and stepped back, horrified. “That is cruel, both the punishment and forcing me to wait. Two weeks? I cannot wait two weeks. I would… I would…”

  “Quite so. My exact thoughts, little Celt. You were always an impatient little soul. I, too, prefer to resolve this matter today. I wonder, would you be so good as to fetch me some rope, two pieces, at least ten feet in length. I shall also require a lamp and do please make sure it is fully laden with cod liver oil. And a blanket, rolled up. Oh, and whilst you are about it, perhaps you would bar the door from the inside. I have a suspicion you may feel moved to speak rudely to me again in the next hour or so, and I would bear in mind your comments regarding privacy.”

  Speechless, Fiona gaped at him. Rope? A lamp? A blanket? A barred door? What did he mean to do to her?

  Ulfric smiled, his expression pleasantly bland. “Please be quick about it, my sweet. And when you have collected the items we shall need I would suggest you also bank up the fire. You will be naked for the next few hours and I know how you detest the cold.”

  Still she remained, rooted to the spot.

  “Move, Fiona. And while you are at it, you should breathe also. You are going quite red in the face. Be quick, or I might yet resort to a thorough switching in a fortnight’s time.”

  His words finally penetrated and spurred her into action. Her head whirling, Fiona rushed to seek out a lamp and a jug of cod liver oil. She poured the liquid into the bowl of the lamp and set it on the table.

  “Leave the jug. I may require a lubricant.”

  She groaned, his meaning perfectly clear. He intended to fuck her arse, then. Well, it could have been worse…

  She was quickly able to procure a blanket from their chamber and placed it on the bench next to the table. The rope was more difficult to obtain as they did not tend to store such supplies indoors. She had to run to the shed beside the longhouse where their cattle spent the winter, and there she procured two suitable lengths. He would use it to tie her up, she was certain, though why he needed quite so much of it she could not fathom.

  Back in the longhouse she shut and barred the door, then laid the rope on the table beside the lamp.

  “Good. Are you happy with the fire or would you prefer to throw more wood on it before we start?”

  With a gulp she picked up the largest of the logs heaped next to the fire pit and dropped it onto the glowing embers. Within seconds, flames licked around the edges of the knobbed bark and the firewood caught alight. For good measure, Fiona added a second log then stood back as the heat rose to warm her already heated cheeks.

  “You will undress for me now.”

  He spoke from behind her, his tone low and oddly seductive.

  “You mean to do it here? Not in our chamber?”

  “Yes, here. On this table.”

  “On the table,” she squeaked, turning to face him. “You intend to fuck me on the table?”

  “I might well do, yes. So, naked. Now.” His voice firmed, that stern timbre creeping in. She recognised that tone, the one that would tolerate no further questions, no more delays.

  As quickly as her shaking fingers could accomplish the task Fiona released the shoulder pin that held her cloak in place, then pulled the pinafore she usually wore up and over her head. Her loose linen smock was all that remained, and her leather shoes. She kicked those off and nudged them under the table, then she tugged the smock down over one shoulder. It slithered to the floor easily enough and she stepped from the pool of fabric to stand nude before him.

  Ulfric’s eyes gleamed, the blue darkening to a midnight shade. As she watched, his cock swelled within his woollen trousers, tenting the garment. Fiona knew a moment’s triumph; she always loved the knowledge of how she affected him. Should she offer to kneel before him and suck his cock? That usually softened his mood somewhat.

  Before she could make such a suggestion he tilted his head toward the table. “You will lie on the top, on your back, your arms above your head and your feet wide apart. Will you require help in climbing up?”

  “N-no, I do not believe so.” She ignored the rope and the lamp, which he had moved down to one end, and scrambled up to sit on the table, her knees tucked up beneath her chin. She looked up at him, then slowly lay back and lifted her arms.

  Ulfric did not speak to her. He selected the first of the lengths of rope and tied one end around her right wrist. Then he passed the rest under the table, and secured the other end to her left wrist. Fiona tried an experimental tug and found no give at all.

  “Not too tight? I want you held still, but not uncomfortable.”

  “I… I am fine, Viking. Thank you.”

  “Good. Lift your hips.”

  She obeyed, and was surprised when he rammed the rolled-up blanket under her bottom. She had assumed, foolishly, that he meant for her to have it as a pillow.

  “Now you will bend your knees and spread them wide. Show me your delectable cunt, my little Celt.”

  “Do you have to be quite so… explicit?” She obeyed his directions, despite her grumbling.

  “I find it best. We will avoid any misunderstandings if I make my requirements quite clear to you.” He looped one end of the second piece of rope around her knee as he spoke and tied it as he had her wrist. Fiona groaned as he tossed the rest beneath the table. She knew what came next. He smiled at her as he bent to pull the rope out at the other side. Her other knee was soon secured, her legs spread wide and her most private places laid open for his use.

  She was scared suddenly, the unfamiliar hardness of the table against her back, her utter vulnerability at once apparent. “Please, do not hurt me. You have no need to hurt me, not like this…”

  He moved to stand at the foot of the table and he regarded her from her wriggling toes to her clenching fingers. He took his time, raking his gaze up her body, pausing to properly peruse her exposed slit, the damp curls that shadowed her cunt, her flat belly, the lower curves of her breasts, her hard little nipples. At last he spoke.

  “You are right. I have no need to hurt you. I believe I shall though, just a little.” He leaned over her to place his lips on her quivering belly. “Just enough.” He straightened. “But I would never harm you, you know this. Do you not?”

  “I do know, but I cannot help it. You are scaring me.”

  “Which is as it should be. However, I believe you will be less apprehensive if I explain what is to happen. Would you like that, do you think? Shall I tell you what I mean to do to you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He strolled around her to the head of the table where the lamp still stood, and the jug of unused cod liver oil. He picked up the lamp and used a taper from the fire pit to light it. The glow illuminated his features as he moved to stand in her eye line again.

  “This lamp is full, yes? It burns bright. And hot, casting its light about the room.”

  She nodded, her eyes wide. Surely he could not intend to burn her with it…

  “If we do not refill it, how long, do you think, this lamp will burn before the light finally gutters out?”

  “I… I am not sure. An hour?”

  He narrowed his eyes as though considering her suggestion. “No, it would be more than that. This is good oil, high quality and the finest cotton grass wick. I would imagine two, possibly even three hours. Do you not agree?”

  “Perhaps. Yes.” She writhed within her bonds, desperate to be free.

  “Be still, you will hurt yourself. You cannot escape so there is no point in rubbing your wrists raw. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the lamp. I shall set it over here where you may see it easily.” He placed the glowing light upon a shelf let into the wall of the longhouse.

  Fiona stared at it, mesmerised and utterly baffled.

  “Now, for your punishment.” Fiona cringed as he turned to regard her again. “All I require of you, little Celt, is that you refrain from climaxing. Whatever happens, whatever I choose to do to you, you will
not allow yourself your release until that lamp is extinguished. Simple, is it not?”

  “I am not sure I understand. How can I prevent it, if you… touch me? I assume you do mean to touch me?”

  “Oh, yes. I do indeed intend that. And you shall prevent it by sheer force of your will since that is all that will be at your disposal. You have been rude to me and you need to learn to curb your tongue, little Celt, to exercise restraint when your temper rises. This will be a lesson in restraint, so learn it well.”

  She took several moments to digest his meaning, then groaned. He knew exactly how to arouse her, how to bring her to her climax. She could never resist, had never managed to hold back though once or twice she had tried to do so. “I cannot. You know this.”

  “I know that you have not, thus far. Cannot is different. I believe you can, or at least that you might try harder. And you will, given the right incentive.”

  “What… incentive?”

  “I mentioned a couple of dozen strokes with the switch. You recall that?” At her nod he continued. “Those are set aside for the time being. But every time you slip up, every time you take your release before the lamp dies, I shall restore two strokes. So, you could manage to avoid the switching entirely if you are successful in doing as I ask, or you could end up receiving all of those strokes, or more if you are particularly undisciplined. I wonder how it will work out?”

  “You know full well how it will end. This is unfair, I will have to endure your treatment of me now, and still be whipped after.”

  “Ah, well, you may be right, but if you are, just consider the pleasure I shall give you to cause such an outcome.”

  Her stomach clenched, a heavy sensation low down denoting the rapid building of her arousal. Her treacherous pussy was already becoming damp at the mere suggestion of his wicked touch. There would be pleasure, without doubt, but tinged with fear, with anxiety, with dread of the switching she would surely earn.

  “I cannot, I cannot…” she wailed, her head thrashing from side to side. “Please, just do it now, the switching.”

  “Not now. My shoulder, you remember.”

  “Then in two weeks, if you must. This is horrible, I will not be able to do it, any of it.”

  “I fear that you are right, so I shall assist you. You may have three respites during our little game. On three separate occasions, if you feel you cannot endure another moment without disgracing yourself, you may call for a rest. I shall cease and allow you, say, ten minutes in which to regather your wits and regain your self-control. Does that sound more to your liking, little Celt?”

  “Ten minutes, when I ask for them? You will stop if I ask you to?” She could not quite believe it.

  “Three times, that is all, so use your judgement wisely.” He smiled again, and this time the warmth reached his eyes. “Shall we begin?”

  Fiona closed her eyes, and she nodded.

  * * *

  “I know you like it when I do this…” Ulfric sat on the table, one hip hitched on the edge beside her hips. He reached for her nipple and rolled it between his fingers as Fiona arched her back in a helpless, unguarded response. Her nub swelled and hardened as he continued to tug on it gently, then he flicked it with his thumb. “Ah, yes, you do like this, but not enough to cause you any real problems, I daresay. Perhaps you would like me to continue though?”

  She would, partly because she enjoyed the intimacy of his caress, but also because he was right. She would warm, soften, relax under his tender caress, but there was no serious danger of earning strokes of the switch this way. She parted her lips and licked them, then murmured her assent.

  “Yes, please. That feels good.”

  He continued to toy with her nipples, first one, then the other. They pebbled under his gentle ministrations and Fiona arched her back in an unthinking gesture, seeking, demanding more.

  He lowered his head to take one hard little peak between his lips and applied delicate suction. Fiona squealed as he ramped up the sensation, but was still in control, her response graduated, muted even. She could handle this.

  Ulfric shifted to her other breast and suckled there also. Fiona sighed. This was beyond pleasant, but still perfectly restrained. She glanced over at the lamp. Was that a slight dimming, a flicker of the small flame? Perhaps not, but she was fine. She stretched, raised her hips just slightly.

  Ulfric released her turgid nipple and lifted his head to meet her eyes. “I believe we are ready now. Time to test you a little…”

  Oh. She chewed on her lower lip. He winked and shifted his position so that now he still hitched one hip on the edge of the table but his back was toward her and he was gazing down at her pussy. Her wet, exposed, utterly vulnerable pussy.

  “So pretty,” he murmured. “And already so wet. I suspect I shall be requiring a decent switch in due course.”

  Fiona chewed harder, until her lip hurt. She resisted the urge to whimper, to plead. It would do no good. Her previous languor evaporated. She braced and stiffened as he traced the outer contours of her slit with one extended fingertip.

  Oh, sweet saviour, that felt nice.

  “Please…” she began, despite her best intentions.

  He ignored her and instead leaned forward to better examine her moist folds. Using both hands now he parted them to open the entrance to her channel, then without further preamble he slid two fingers deep into her.

  Fiona yelped, thrust her hips up then sought to wriggle from side to side. Her movements were jerky and restricted, he had bound her well and she was powerless to obstruct his insistent probing. He withdrew his fingers then drove them deep again, somehow twisting his hand to increase the friction. It was glorious, and terrible, and quite irresistible. Her arousal coiled and threatened to surge forth. She was about to succumb, and he had barely laid a hand on her.

  She opened her mouth to beg him to stop, to allow her the first of her respites, but as suddenly as he had ramped up the pressure he ceased. He pulled his fingers out and turned to smile at her.

  “You see? It would be so easy. Perhaps after your first climax you will be less… volatile, though I doubt it. I wonder if you should turn your thoughts to something else, something less… evocative.”

  She squeezed her eyelids shut, unwilling to even look at him. Tears of frustration trickled from the corners. This whole experience was so erotic, so absolutely sensual, so perfect, yet she could not savour it. She had to fight, to resist, to deny herself the exquisite pleasure that was multiplied many fold by her restraints, her absolute helplessness.

  How had he known?

  “Little Celt, you are crying. Have I hurt you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then why?”

  “I will disappoint you. I cannot control how I feel, how you will compel me to respond whether I wish to or not. You will think me weak…”

  “I will think you beautiful. I always do.”

  “The next time you touch me, I will… I will…”

  “Do you wish for your first respite? A drink, perhaps?”

  She nodded and opened her eyes. “Yes, please. I believe that I must.”

  He ambled over to the barrel where their mead was stored and scooped some of the liquid into a tin cup, then he helped her to turn her face to his and take a few sips.

  “Enough?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He grinned. “See, you can be polite when you choose to be.” He wiped her damp face with his thumbs. “So, any more tears?”

  “I am sorry, it was just… just…” She frowned, searching for a word to convey the depth of sensation and tumult of emotions he evoked in her.

  “Overwhelming?” he offered, with a soft smile.

  “Yes. Overwhelming,” she agreed.

  “Are you still afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of me?”

  “No. Never of you. I am frightened by what you make me feel.”

  “Ah, then in due course we shall discuss what, ex
actly, I make you feel.” He leaned in to kiss her lips and Fiona wished her hands were free. She longed to tunnel her fingers through his blond locks, to hang on to him tight and burrow into his solid, dependable strength. He made her feel many things, this Viking, but she preferred not to be called upon to give a name to them all.

  “Shall we continue?”

  “Has it been ten minutes?” Her belly churned, her lower abdomen heavy as a solid knot of unspent lust lodged there. Her clit tingled, though he had not yet teased her there.

  “Aye, it has.”

  “I see.” She closed her eyes again, and offered a brief, resigned nod.

  He turned his attention back to her hot, weeping pussy. First, and with aching slowness, he used his fingers to spread her inner lips apart, then drew the tip of his tongue around them. Fiona jerked, caught off guard. She had expected him to simply resume where he had left off but again he surprised her, upsetting her equilibrium once more.

  He was unhurried, patient, circling her sex with his tongue, tasting her juices, lapping at her drenched folds, then dipping his tongue into her entrance. She squeezed around him, longing for more even as she dreaded what came next.

  “Ulfric, please, no more…”

  “If you want me to stop again, allow you your second respite, you must say ‘halt.’”

  “I did not mean that. I… oh! Oh!” She was cresting again, soaring upwards toward the glorious release she craved. But it was too soon, she must resist. Fiona clenched, hard. With everything she had, she squeezed down tight as she battled to delay the inevitable. She willed these sensations away, prayed for them to fade, to recede, just for the few precious moments she would need in order to—

  “Aaagh!” She let out a keening wail as her climax seized her and she tumbled, shuddering and shaking, into the inexorable abyss.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ulfric remained still for several moments, simply gazing at the woman spread out before him on his table. He wondered what superlative service he might have performed that had so pleased the gods that they had seen fit to grant him this female. She was beyond lovely, beyond beautiful. He had cared deeply for his wife, but that sentiment paled in comparison. He simply adored this little Celt, this woman who he had plucked from her home, enslaved, then freed.