He leans forward and takes them from me, an odd expression on his face.
“I have much reading to do and will require complete silence, do you understand?”
“Yes, my Lofðungr,” I reply, wondering what I will do whilst he attends to his paperwork.
He picks up the top parchment, casting his eyes over it and then pauses.
“My feet are terribly sore from today’s activities,” he says, catching my eye again. “Unlace my boots, please—I wish to rest them.”
I stare at him as he makes this latest request, deciding whether it is too humiliating for a lady of my status. With reluctance I consider my options and realise I have little choice. Without a word I drop to one knee in front of him and consider the long leather boots in front of me. They are quite unlike those that the men of Donrose wear and I have never seen lacing like it before. I assess it for a moment, before reaching for his right leg and untying the black lace there.
His right hand leaves his lap and sweeps down my hair gently, before resting under my chin. The unexpected movement stops me in my tracks.
“I would appreciate you acknowledging my requests, Aurelie.”
The hand lifts my chin north to meet his gaze. His voice is full of warning.
“Yes, my Lofðungr,” I gasp in a smaller voice than I’d envisioned. He nods again, removing his hand. “Proceed…”
I return to the lace, making short work of the knot there, before gradually releasing it from the countless hooks that hold it in place. Once freed, I loosen the fastening at his feet, the way I had seen countless servants do for my brother in the past. I dismiss the comparison in an instant, not allowing my pride to be beaten by this menial task. I set about his left leg, freeing the lace and working down the length of the boot to the bottom of his foot. Here I pause, unsure how I can remove the boots without his cooperation. I look to him, apparently deep in thought at the parchment in his hand.
“Excuse the interruption, my Lofðungr,” I begin. “Can you assist me to remove the boots now?”
Anders’ eyes dart to the boots and then to me and for a moment I freeze, thinking I have displeased him without even trying. The sudden smile reassures me a little and then without another word, he kicks first the right and then the left boot from his feet, revealing the dark material beneath. I watch both fly in opposite directions, wondering if he expects me to scurry after them like a slave.
“Leave them,” he instructs. “You can collect them later.”
I bite down on my lower lip until I can taste blood; anything to stop me from articulating how I really feel about this latest command. Apparently choosing to ignore my obvious disdain, he puts the pile of parchment down to his side and considers me.
“What is that gown made from?” he asks, all of a sudden.
Taken aback by this perplexing question, I sit back on my haunches and deliberate on the answer.
“I am not sure, my Lofðungr,” I confess after a time.
“Mmmm,” he replies, clearly thinking on his private riddle. “Is it coarse or smooth?”
Confused, I run the fingers of my right hand over my thigh. “Rather smooth?” I conclude.
“Then it must be removed,” he decides. “Can you do so alone or should I fetch Brigida to help you?”
I stare at him agog, replaying his words in my head as though I did not understand them. I mean to protest, to tell him that I have nothing else to wear, and then I notice the look in his eyes and the reality dawns upon me. Anders is well aware of this fact already. Flustered, I feel the heat rising to my face.
“Well?” he demands impatiently. “Can you remove it alone or not?”
“Y-yes,” I reply, still wide-eyed, “but…”
He glares at my hesitation, suddenly fit to burst. “This is your final warning, Aurelie. If you choose to defy me then you will be taken outside, paraded, and spanked naked for the entertainment of my men.”
I jump at those words, rising to my feet and reaching for the hem of the gown as if in a dream. His tone is uncompromising, and so despite the voice in my head screeching for me to halt, I grab the hem and pull it north. It rises over my thighs, past the patch of damp hair between my legs, and gradually over my bosom. I pass the material over my head, and finally I stand there completely nude in front of him. My body, never before seen by any man in this way, aches to be hidden again. The buds at the end of my breasts form into hard knots at his stark appraisal of me. Feeling ashamed and utterly embarrassed, I move my arms to cover my midriff and breasts.
“No!” he barks from the bed. “You are mine and this is how I want to see you—revealed to me in all of your beautiful, natural form.”
I blush, knowing my face must be crimson.
“Drop the gown and get back onto your knees.”
I can barely catch my breath, let alone process his words. My eyes, which have been downcast since my revealing, look to his briefly and I understand in an instant that he not only means what he has said, but is already angered by my hesitation. I fall slowly to my knees in front of him again. This time I feel the soft bounce of my breasts as I do so and I cringe inwardly, knowing that it will not have escaped his attention either. He moves forward toward me and I recoil without thinking. The hand that had previously propped up my chin finds my face again. He presses the palm against the left side of my face, absorbing the heat in my cheek.
“There is no reason for shame,” he reassures me. “What I have said is true—you are a beautiful woman. But as you choose not to allow me to ravish your beauty, then I will use it in another way; onto all fours, Aurelie.”
I glance at him and then comply. I reach forward with both hands, allowing my hair and breasts to fall south.
“How fabulous you look, but do remember your manners, my lady.”
His tone is more amused than annoyed, but given my current vulnerability, I chastise myself for forgetting again.
“I am sorry, my Lofðungr,” I reply, my voice a sob that almost catches in the back of my throat.
“Hmm,” he replies, laughing softly. “Some contrition at last?”
From my position between his feet I am glad suddenly that I cannot see his face and the knowing smile that is bound to be plastered all over it.
“Now turn sideways, to your left, so that your front faces the fire.”
I try not to overthink as I slowly perform for him. He retracts his feet back toward the massive bed, allowing me room to manoeuvre.
“Good, Aurelie,” he purrs. “Now you are ready to be my footrest!”
I gasp as he reveals his true intentions and before I can think, my head spins around to face him. “Footrest?” I say, spitting the word out.
Without a word he reaches down and wallops my naked backside with his left hand. I wince at the unexpected pain and feel the warmth reigniting my earlier tenderness.
“Footrests do not speak!” he barks. “You will remain silent and obedient or you will be gagged and bound that way!”
My head falls forward in defeat. I can’t actually believe what is happening to me. I am naked and on all fours at the foot of my enemy, and now he is planning to use me to rest his feet upon! This is well beyond any indignation I had ever imagined in my nightmares. Being forced to cook and wait upon him would surely be better than this. Hell, even being forced to consort with him would be better. I cringe inside, wondering if I made the wrong decision when I rejected his advances earlier.
As I kneel there on all fours in silence, fighting back the choke of a sob in my throat, I hear Anders moving on the bed and then the weight of one and then the other of his feet lands on my back. The weight is distributed in the space between my shoulders and the small of my back and is initially not as heavy as I had expected, but after a few long, lonely moments I begin to find it increasingly uncomfortable.
“Lower yourself to your elbows,” he says matter-of-factly, over my head.
I do so in an instant, feeling the immediate relief in my shoulders.<
br />
“Better,” says Anders, his voice brimming with unrestrained glee, “and much more comfortable for us both, I suspect.”
I say nothing, remembering my smarting behind and his words from just a few moments earlier.
“Is it easier for you this way, Aurelie?” he asks me directly.
I flinch slightly at the mention of my name, as though hearing it in this context is the greatest humiliation yet. Could the honourable Aurelie of Donrose really be this naked woman being used as a footrest for the Viking prince?
“Yes, my Lofðungr,” I reply, my voice little more than a whisper.
“Good,” he purrs, “and so what do you say to your merciful Lofðungr?”
I blink at his question. What does he expect me to say? ‘Thank you for only stripping and degrading me, my Lofðungr’? I baulk at the prospect, knowing already that this is exactly what he expects.
“Thank you,” I murmur miserably.
He says nothing further on the subject and yet I know that he is grinning to himself as he flips through his reading material. I have no concept of time as it passes. I know only how stiff and tense my body is, forced into this position for his ease and comfort and also how demoralised it makes me feel. I realise of course that this is entirely how Anders wants me to feel, as though my worth now depends only upon serving his needs in some way. My natural defiant disposition is angry and mortified at my predicament. It reminds me of who I am and what I represent and chastises me for allowing myself to have become this thing for him. Again I wonder if it would not have been better to have died in the halls of the castle in battle, or be bound and forced to comply with his sexual demands. Somehow this—this humiliation—seems all the worse, and the fact that I am in no way bound or coerced physically makes it even more difficult to process.
At the same time, I am aware of the dull, yet growing ache between my legs. Just as I had felt when Anders had taken me over his knee earlier, I feel a warm tingling there, welcoming this absurd and disgraceful treatment. For some unknown reason my body is betraying me, warming to my new place as Anders’ footrest and silently hoping for more of the same. I press my thighs together and clench the muscle between them, wondering if the giant above me knows how stimulated I am feeling. The relentless combination of fear, arousal, and anger swirls inside of me, producing the queerest mix of emotions I have ever known.
I take a deep breath, trying to flex my muscles, which are tightening and threatening to cramp in certain areas. I move my hips a little and slowly shake out my head, appreciating the ferocity of the fire more than ever. The movement attracts his attention and finally, after what feels like forever, he removes his right foot, leaning forward toward me as he repositions his body.
A small, yet welcome amount of relief floods through me, only to be replaced with a new anxiety as all of a sudden the drape now to my left is swept back to reveal the royal guard. I look up for a split second, registering what is taking place and who has just entered. The guard assesses the situation quickly, absorbing my ample breasts hanging naked in front of him and I note a small smirk before he addresses Anders. I look down again at once, mortified that another individual has now witnessed me this way.
“My Lofðungr,” the guard starts, clearing his throat. “Magnus The Strong requests a private audience with you and yet I see that you are busy… reading?”
He chooses his words carefully, clearly just able to stifle a chuckle at his reference to me.
From my right, I hear Anders flick through the pile of parchments once more, before letting out a low sigh. Then repositioning his right foot back onto my exposed skin, he replies to his servant.
“Send him in!”
Chapter Eight: Objectified
A new flood of shame rushes to my flushed cheeks as I process what now awaits me. Magnus—the very brute who nearly killed me, and who actually took me hostage, carrying me here on his mare and then over his shoulder—is about to see me this way. As if the indignation of Anders keeping me naked at his feet is not excruciating enough, now my humiliation is to be doubled. I keep my eyes locked to the hard floor, resisting the urge to move my knees and relieve their growing agony.
I hear the heavy boots of Magnus approaching and a small exchange between himself and the guard outside of the partition. I am certain that it is me they discuss, and the confused knot of emotion in me contorts. Then from the corner of my vision I see those boots appear to my left at the far end of the room and pause.
“My Lofðungr!” the voice of Magnus—so easily recognisable to me—comes booming from where the boots stand. I dare not look to meet the eyes of the man to which it belongs.
“Magnus!” Anders greets him, “please do enter. I am reading through some reports and had not expected a visitor.”
“Forgive the interruption, Sire,” comes the reply, as the boots come closer to where I am kneeling. “Had I known you were so occupied I would of course have waited…”
His tone is genuine enough, yet it’s tinged with something else; some unspoken jocularity at my expense.
“Yet you are here now, my friend,” Anders says, seeking to reassure him. “Pull up that chest and let us talk.”
Without looking I know to which chest Anders is referring. The memory of my earlier spanking over his lap is still fresh in my mind. Magnus makes his way over to the wooden trunk, and then to my amazement he bends and picks it up, carrying it effortlessly over to just beyond where I am kneeling. Gently he lowers the chest, and as he does so, he eyes me keenly. Despite not raising my own eyes to look his way, I can feel his stare drilling into my nudity, taking in every inch of my curves. As he seats himself where Anders had been earlier, my breath quickens. I look up briefly, seeing his own long leather boots, his thick arms and coarse hands.
“My Lofðungr, I am pleased to see you are making good use of your new property!”
I cringe as the words slip from Magnus’ lips, lowering my eyes immediately and wishing that the dirt would open up and devour my embarrassment whole. I know he chooses them purposely, realising that I can understand each one.
“Yes,” replies Anders, laughing out loud at my shame and dishonour. “She makes quite the addition to my chambers, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh, absolutely,” agrees Magnus, leaning in toward me and twisting so that he can see my face hiding behind the fragments of my braid. “Quite an asset, Sire!”
“Thank you again, Magnus,” exclaims Anders, “for delivering her to me as I commanded.”
Magnus dips his head in deference. “Of course, my Lofðungr,” he answers. “I serve your will alone. Although, if I may be permitted to say so, I did hope that I might try this sweet fruit? Once your majesty has tasted and is sated by it?”
I listen to his words, almost panting at them. That mixture of arousal and disdain thunders through me. The fact that he has the audacity to speak about me this way angers me to my very core, and yet I cannot shake the image of Magnus’ towering masculinity claiming me, as well as that of Anders. The idea of both of them mastering me is almost too much to conceive.
Anders chuckles from above me, twisting on the bed and adding just a little more weight to my load. I shift at the discomfort, sending a small motion through my curves hanging below me.
“Magnus, you are one of my oldest friends and most loyal servants,” he declares. “I respect you and do permit you to speak freely in my presence. However, you should know that this prize is mine and mine alone.” He pauses and the silence weighs down on me as we all await his conclusion. I consider his choice of words, secretly pleased that he has rebuffed Magnus. “Aurelie remains my property and for now, she will serve as my furniture—her choice, you understand?”
The final remark causes both men to laugh again, the sound smarting at my already fragile pride. I hang my head shamefully, knowing better than to speak out, despite my frustration at their remarks.
“I will however be visited by the gorgeous little Brigida soon. You will
be welcome to claim her when I am finished—if you do not have a woman of your own this evening?”
This news startles me, perhaps even more than my current predicament. The idea that Brigida will be returning to consort with Anders is utterly disconcerting, and a wave of concern and envy overwhelms me at the prospect.
“You are too kind, Sire,” replies Magnus, from ahead of me. His tone is clipped after Anders’ refusal to share me, but he swallows the disappointment well. “I will take Astrid this night and allow you to enjoy sweet Brigida.”
“As you wish, my friend,” answers Anders. As he speaks, he finally removes both legs from me and stands, dropping the parchments on the floor next to me.
Relief that the weight has literally been lifted from me fills my senses, and trepidation about what now awaits me returns to the fore of my mind. From above me, Anders calls loudly in his native tongue and almost immediately the guard stands at the entrance.
“My Lofðungr?” he asks, waiting for his instruction.
“Bring us mead—and wine!” cries Anders, his tone excited.
I see the legs of the guard move away and by the time Anders has re-seated himself on the large bed, he is back, walking toward the three of us.
“Place the tray on my new table!” commands Anders.
There is a short pause as we all process his words and then, to my horror, I realise that it is to me which he refers.
“No!” I gasp, the word out from behind my lips before I can halt it.
“Wait!” calls Anders, stopping the guard in his tracks. “Magnus, did you just hear a sound?”
I catch sight of the size of Magnus’ grin as he answers. “Yes, my Lofðungr,” he replies, feigning the gravity of the situation. “I think the table spoke.”
“But, how can this be?” Anders asks. “When furniture does not speak and has already been instructed so?”
There is another pause or maybe time just takes on a new quality. Things appear to happen in slow motion around me. I see Magnus leaning in toward me. He laughs at my predicament as the guard still to my left remains in my peripheral vision. There are unknown sounds from behind me and then I see Anders walking to where my face hangs.
The Viking's Conquest Page 6
