Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane)

by Byrne, Lily

  Ifay hurried back to her corner.

  “Have you been fucking her?” demanded Saehild. “You could at least wait until I’m not here before you fuck the slave.”

  “I haven’t.” Bjarni blushed, wondering what Ifay thought. “It’s none of your business anyway.”

  “I am your wife. It is my business who you stick your cock into.” Her face flushed, her eyes dark, Bjarni wondered if she’d been drinking.

  “Oh, just go and …” He couldn’t be bothered to finish the sentence.

  “I will! I’ll go and find myself a real man!” She stormed out.

  He’d seen her like this so often, overexcited and horny. She didn’t want him anymore, she’d grown tired of him. And he of her. He’d tried everything to keep her happy but he couldn’t provide the level of excitement she needed. He refused to wonder anymore where she went and what she did. It was not worth feeling the pain of his scar again.

  Ifay sat quietly sewing. “I am sorry to cause trouble,” she said.

  “You never cause trouble. She’s the one causing trouble, she’s the …” The scar on his arm began to throb warningly and he slumped down on the bed, fiddling with the bearskin covers. To stop it hurting, he glanced up at Ifay, as she’d made him feel better. If he invited her into his bed she couldn’t refuse, but … He’d just won her trust, and he didn’t want to scare her off again. He stood up.

  “I just have to go and – and - do something. Will you be alright here?”

  “Of course. I am always alright.” She smiled. He couldn’t just leave, so he wandered towards her, shifting from foot to foot in front of her.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Why are you telling me? I am a slave, remember? What you do is no business of mine.”

  He hesitated, then strode out, cursing himself, feeling frustrated, unsatisfied.

  *

  Saehild headed out of the village, but walked into her sister and nephew, carrying a bundle of kindling.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Aelfwyn, shading her eyes against the sun, warmer now as the spring was at its height.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Is it Bjarni?”

  “No!” She turned her head away, impatient to go.

  “Because if you leave him alone too much, he’ll stray.”

  “What do you know about it? How dare you judge me and Bjarni?”

  “Because you’re acting like a fool. You need to be a better wife.”

  A couple of passers-by stared, but it didn’t affect Saehild.

  “I don’t care! Leave me alone! Go back to your perfect little house and carry on with your perfect duties. It’s enough for you, but not for me!” She tossed her hair and flounced off.

  How dare her sister interfere with her life? How dare her husband play around with a slave? Wasting her hand cream. She’d show them. She didn’t need any of them. She lived her own life now.

  *

  In a dark cave, yet another of those hidden in the hillside, all the men took it in turn to drink from the cup passed round by Ljotr. The dark red liquid simmered, but it didn’t put his brothers off.

  Saehild turned her nose up at it though.

  “Go on,” he murmured. “It’s like the wine we drink, only better.”

  She took a sip, then a gulp. What did it remind her of? Something bitter, but with a spicy after-taste, like parsley followed by black pepper. Ljotr drew her gently to the centre of the room, and his brothers encircled her.

  Standing in the middle of the twenty, she looked at each in turn, still not used to seeing clean-shaven men. Some had completely smooth chins, some the beginnings of stubble. Ljotr stood among them, smiling, a complete contrast with his longer hair and beard. They all paused, ready for something, watching her.

  She slowly undid the brooches holding up her apron dress, to see what they would do. The first let the side of the dress sag, then the other allowed the whole piece to drop to the floor, leaving just her under-dress and tunic.

  The men gasped and some stepped forward but she raised her hand.

  “You must all do what I do before I can choose one of you.”

  In haste, they took off their tunics and she admired the sight. Men of all shapes and sizes. Could they be her slaves? A quiver of excitement began inside her, not entirely sexual, but something else.

  She removed her under-dress easily, as Bjarni had paid for the best quality linen he could afford.

  The men exchanged glances in confusion, then the bolder ones began removing their trousers and boots. Saehild stood in her cream tunic, which reached to just below her knees. Her golden hair swung loose as she shook it out, and the men gulped in unison, some sliding their hands to their erect cocks. She slowly removed her tunic, little by little, looking round at their intense expressions, and by the time she raised it over her head, they were all caressing themselves.

  She posed in the middle of the circle, enjoying their attention. How long since she had been admired by so many? It must have been before her wedding to Bjarni a year ago. The bounty of admirers stopped the minute she married him, like a bereavement, or suddenly becoming invisible. Known as a fearless warrior, men hadn’t wanted to aggravate him.

  But here, in this warm, dripping cave, she enjoyed a captive audience. She slowly ran her hand up to her breast, and caressed the rosy nipple, eliciting groans from the frustrated, naked men.

  “I shall choose …” She gazed round, catching each of their glances, then moving on. After holding their attention as long as she could, she pointed to the dark-haired, narrow-eyed one she’d admired before. He grinned and stepped forward.

  Saehild noticed fur rugs beneath her feet; surely they hadn’t been there a minute ago? Her choice laid her down on them and pushed inside her. The watchers groaned and caressed themselves even more. A tiny pulse of fear jabbed her, but it soon left as her dark-haired lover moved deeper and deeper.

  “It’s time,” a voice said, but as she looked round, she saw no one there. The naked men hurried out of the room, leaving her alone with the one she’d chosen.

  “Where - are they - going?” she asked between thrusts, but he couldn’t answer. She wished they had stayed to watch.

  The stone floor pressed into her back, but not for long. Panting, he finished and collapsed on top of her. They lay side by side, both slick with sweat, hearts pounding.

  “They’ve gone to the other women,” he explained at last.

  “So I’m just one of many?” Her shoulders sagged.

  “No, no, you’re special. The wolf mother said so.”

  “The what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He sat up and went off to put his clothes on. Saehild’s euphoria receded. A sudden shriek, followed by raucous laughter, made her jump. She dressed herself, wondering about the noise. Familiar chanting and drums reassured her and she followed the sound.

  Entering the main cavern, she noticed a huge wolf’s head with gleaming eyes and its tongue hanging out on one wall. Had it been there before?

  In front of the wolf shrine lay nine men, fucking women in various positions. Most of the women kept silent, lying there accepting their fate, but some struggled and shrieked, exciting their partners more.

  “This is excellent,” said a voice next to Saehild, and she turned to see an older woman in a fur cloak and thick woollen dress. “Just what we need.”

  Saehild opened her mouth to answer when she noticed Ljotr was one of the men with a woman in front of the wolf’s head. Flushing with rage, she strode up to him.

  “You’ll fuck her, but not me?” she shrieked, making some of the drummers laugh. She hit him until he stopped and pulled out of the woman. Saehild gasped. His partner was the shoemaker’s wife, Mildrith, thinner and paler than she remembered her.

  “So you prefer her to me?” she demanded, trembling with rage. She’d always been more attractive than plain Mildrith. “You’ll fuck her on top but not me?”

 
; Ljotr actually blushed, looking away guiltily, then she slapped him and stormed off to the mouth of the cavern.

  The woman in the fur cloak appeared next to her again, so suddenly it must be sorcery.

  “You are just what we need here. Well done. So many weak and spiritless women have come here. We need one with fire in her breast.”

  Saehild smiled.

  “Put her back.” The sorceress clicked her fingers at Ljotr and another man. They picked up Mildrith and carried her up a path cut in the wall, up to a ledge. Saehild decided Mildrith couldn’t be upset, because she didn’t struggle. The men chained her to the rock and gave her a small piece of food, which she devoured. Noticing other small ledges, Saehild could see other prone figures chained to them. They must have misbehaved.

  “See if you can control the men,” whispered the sorceress, like honey in her ear.

  The men were finishing now, their partners subdued and accepting.

  “Get up!” Saehild ordered. “Now! There is work to do.” She didn’t know what they needed to do, but it sounded authoritative.

  The men obeyed, their naked, sweaty bodies glistening in the light of the torches.

  “Find your clothes. Quickly! Deal with these girls.”

  They hurried to do as she commanded. The drummers stepped forward and carried the limp figures back up to their ledges.

  Saehild felt a surge of exhilaration. These men followed her orders. They hung on her every word.

  The sorceress laughed.

  “You like this, don’t you?

  Saehild nodded. She wanted to say many things to Ljotr, though. But it could wait. The other men gathered in front of her awaited her words, and she could control them.

  *

  Kjartan stole out of Aelfwyn’s house and headed towards the gate of Hallby. Wearing Ragnar’s spare Huskarl cloak and hat, the guards didn’t question him so he set off at a swift pace, putting the village behind him. He threw the cloak and hat away into the undergrowth. How fortunate Ragnar hadn’t realised what he’d hidden in the cave where he used to meet Yngvild, or he’d have taken custody of it.

  Grinning, he thought about what to do next. Would he go back to Gippeswick with the spoils of his endeavours? He deserved it after all he’d been through. He’d done so much for Yngvild, tried so hard to please her, then she’d left him. The Danes had sentenced him to death, and the English hated him just because he’d upheld his honour and killed Eadbald for going back on his word.

  Anyway, he’d soon be far from here. Byrnham had taken great losses recently but it served them right. His plan to start a new life had worked and he could see a bright, luxurious future ahead for himself, thanks to the wealth he’d acquired - well, stolen. But after all the unjust harassment he’d borne, he deserved it. He had just one thing left to do.

  *

  The next morning, another Englishman banged on the gates of Hallby. Despite dawn arriving earlier now, it was still barely light when the guards peered out at their visitor.

  “There’s been another murder.” His face was white, his hair unkempt, his eyes wide.

  “What happened?” asked a guard.

  “It’s - it’s Godric, the leather worker. He - he …” The man descended into terrified babbling until the guard shook him.

  “Control yourself, man!”

  “B-but everyone’s terrified! We need help, please. Please! His throat was torn out, scratch marks all over him, and his wife and daughter were taken. Please!”

  “Get the Jarl,” ordered the guard, and a villager hurried off.

  A few minutes later, Steinar arrived. “Sorry, the Jarl is busy. What’s wrong?”

  He listened to the Englishman’s story and the additions from the guards.

  “We’ll come and look into it.”

  *

  Lately Saehild only came home at night to sleep so Bjarni sat by the fire alone, eating a breakfast of bread and cheese. He needed a break from the loud and raucous Huskarls; they were often tiring, so peace and quiet at home refreshed him. Strangely, he’d always liked and joined in their antics until recently. It was unclear in his mind how and when he’d become so easily worn out, but his shield arm ached all the time now, and it was draining him. Only Ifay made him feel better.

  As she swept the floor on the other side of the room he watched her ample bottom as she bent to pick something up. For a thin woman, her bottom seemed out of proportion, rounder and plumper than the rest of her.

  She sat down, avoiding his stare so he turned away. When he looked back again she was gazing at his food.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  So he beckoned her over to sit next to him. As usual, she shook, expecting mistreatment.

  He cut a bit of cheese off his own piece and offered it to her. She shook her head.

  “Please …” He held it out but she turned away. “You must eat this. You need to eat.”

  He held the cheese to her mouth and she couldn’t resist opening her lips, so he pushed it in gently and she devoured it. Tearing off a tiny piece of bread, he held that to her mouth too, and she chewed on it.

  “Wait a minute.” He went to the cooking pot where stew simmered constantly, and put some in a bowl.

  “Here, it’ll do you good.” He spoonfed her and after initial wariness, she smiled while eating. Encouraged, he spooned more and more into her mouth until she pushed his hand away. The gravy trickled out of her lips.

  “Do you try to choke me?” she spluttered, half laughing.

  “Sorry.” He watched the gravy slide down her jawline, her neck and down her cleavage into her shift dress. She followed his glance and tutted.

  “Oh! I don’t have a clean one.” She dabbed at her chest with a piece of cloth. He wanted to wipe it off for her but she’d already done it.

  “I must do some washing.” She stood up.

  “Sit! You’re still eating.” He tried to put another spoonful into her mouth but she turned away at the last minute and the spoon hit her cheek instead, leaving a gravy mark.

  “You are so clumsy.” She bit her lip, expecting a slap for her impertinence.

  He just smiled, and wiped the gravy off with his thumb, gazing into her eyes as he did so. How dark they were, like deep pools.

  Backing away, she upset the bowl, and the remaining stew splashed all over him.

  “Now who’s clumsy?” He smiled and took his tunic off.

  Ifay gasped. “What is that scar on your arm?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “A year or so.”

  “It should have healed by now. It is witchcraft. I have seen -”

  “I’ve only got a few minutes. Are you going to waste time talking about that?”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes but her glance was drawn irresistibly downwards.

  “You are so pale. Even the hair on your chest is blond.”

  “What colour did you think it would be?” He smiled, shaking a lock of his head hair to demonstrate.

  “I don’t know – I …”

  He took her thin hand and put it on his chest and she gasped, feeling his muscles, stroking his skin. It sent a shiver between his ribs and down his abdomen, to the core of his manhood. He wanted to put her hand on his growing cock but doing so would scare her away.

  Putting both hands against him, she slid them round to his back and stroked the muscles there, standing at such an awkward angle he took a chance and pulled her onto his lap, and they sat with their arms round each other. She felt his hardness and wriggled, making them both more frustrated. It would take such a little, easy movement to satisfy their yearning, but should they?

  Then there was a knock at the door.

  “Ready to go?” Ragnar’s voice.

  She jumped off Bjarni’s lap in an instant and hurried back to sweeping. He grabbed his tunic and stood up, thinking desperately of the forthcoming duties of the morning to su
ppress his desire.

  “What are you doing?” Ragnar eyed the stained tunic in his friend’s hand.

  “I just spilt my stew. Come with me to the stream. I need to wash it.” He strode off, dragging Ragnar with him. It would dry quickly in the warm weather. He could just put it on wet if he wrung it out well.

  “You still got that scar?” asked Ragnar, eyeing his arm. “You should go to a healer.”

  *

  As their voices receded, Ifay sat down, her heart racing. After that time Bjarni took her against her will and she hated it, she’d mellowed towards him. No other master had been so kind as to even talk to her, let alone wash her hands and give her food. Should she trust this one? She’d wanted him just then. His appearance was so different to hers, fair and golden compared to her duskiness, and cleaner than her other masters.

  She wondered if he’d come back for a fresh tunic. He couldn’t wear the wet one. Maybe if he did, she’d - what would she do? Did she want him inside her again? That would be extremely unwise as he’d certainly sell her after he’d had his way. But the place between her legs had become tender after feeling the hardness on his lap and it began something deep inside her.

  And what about his wife? A slave would never take precedence over the wife of a warrior. Surely he only played with her? He’d soon return to Saehild. Ifay gritted her teeth. She would not give in to desire, she would not!

  *

  Steinar, Ragnar and four other Huskarls hastened to Byrnham to inspect the scene of Godric’s death. Bjarni stayed behind with the others to protect Hallby.

  Cyneric, the thane, met them.

  “It’s not a pleasant sight,” he warned, letting them through the door.

  The body of the leather worker was indeed unpleasant. He lay in a pool of his own blood, his throat gaping open and a scratch mark along his cheek, and more on his arms and chest where his tunic was ripped open. Blood soaked the walls, the floor, everywhere. The terrible stench made the group of Danes’ eyes water. Some of them retched and most covered their mouths and noses with their arms or cloaks.

  “What about his family?” asked Steinar. Used to being around deaths in battle, he didn’t need to cover his mouth.

  “G-Gone.” Cyneric stuttered.