by Folia Deux
TAMING THE WIDOW
By Folia Deux
Copyright © 2013 by Folia Deux
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods¸ without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the e-mail address below.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Folia Deux Books: [email protected]
Website: http://foliadeuxbooks.blogspot.com
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Other stories in the PILLAGED BY VIKINGS series:
Breaking the Witch
Claiming the Maiden
Ravishing the Nun
Mastering the Lady
Please check out Folia’s other books on Amazon.
Taken by the Incubus (Erotic Bundle including One Night with an Incubus, Revenge of the Incubus, and Taken by the Incubus)
Phantom Lust (The Complete Erotic Series, Including Phantom Lust, Phantom Possession, and Phantom Rapture)
Taken by a Mummy
Ravaged in the House of Horrors
Virgin Sacrifice to the Horned King
Breaking Him
Breaking Her
The Library Tryst
Taming the Widow
Sybil had expected the night to bring the usual kind of misery. Her husband would stumble in after a day on the fishing boat. He would have taken his catch to market and bartered most of it for mead. He would be deep in his cups and mad as hell when she didn’t lift her skirt fast enough for him. He would hit her a few times before bending her over the table--and lasting all of two jerks of his hips before coming with a groan. She was only nineteen and had been married for four years. It felt like a thousand.
But as horrid as her existence had been, this could very well be the worst night of her life.
Sybil shivered and tightened her arm around Eva, brushing the young woman’s red hair away from her face. They were squatting in a small hen yard in the small gathering place at the center of the village, surrounded by low stone walls on each side. They weren’t tied up.
The Vikings didn’t seem concerned about their ability to escape.
“Be strong. Stop crying,” Sybil whispered, then held the weeping maiden close. Just beyond the modest square, around which stout cottages stood dark, their planked wooden doors hanging open, fires burned. The little church on the hill was a raging inferno. The marketplace had been sacked, potatoes and turnips lying discarded in the mud. The bread, fish, cured meat, and all their stores for the winter--along with any gold they possessed--was on its way to the Viking longship that had pulled into the harbor a few hours ago, striking terror into their hearts.
A few of the Viking warriors had gathered to decide what to do with them. Sybil wondered if she was among the village’s only survivors.
The Vikings had stormed off their ship and cut through the menfolk as if they were cattle. The raiders were a fearsome bunch, tall and broad and thick-muscled, their iron helms glinting by the firelight, their axes and swords hanging from leather belts. One of those axes had felled Sybil’s husband. She could see him from here, lying on his back in the mud, blood covering his face. The dark Viking, the one who stood a few inches taller than the rest, had sliced through Thomas’s skull as if it were a fresh loaf of bread.
Sybil had run out of her cottage when she heard the horns blow, and had been grabbed by one of them, the one with the long scar on the side of his face. He’d dragged her to the square and thrown her down in the hen yard next to Eva. Next to them, sitting on the overturned food trough, was Osanna, the village whore, shivering as she watched the warriors conversing not twenty feet away. Their voices were deep and rumbling, their language harsh and brutal as their weapons.
“Are they arguing about something?” Eva asked in a raspy whisper.
Osanna let out a bark of laughter. “Yes, which of us they’d like to fuck first.”
Eva let out a whimper and huddled against Sybil’s side. Sybil glared at the whore. “You’re scaring her.”
Osanna leaned forward, her tits spilling out of her low-cut gown. Her full lips curled into a sneer. “She should be scared. She’s a virgin. They’re going to tear her apart.”
Eva wailed and Sybil spat on the ground at Osanna’s feet. Eva had been betrothed to Edmund, the town butcher, but the Vikings had slaughtered him like one of his pigs, and now this. Sybil was about to tell the whore exactly what she thought of her when an ear-splitting screech drew her gaze to the ale house. Osanna clucked her tongue. “They’ve found Lina.”
A moment later, two burly Vikings, their fur cloaks making their shoulders look massive, dragged Lina the witch out of the ale house. She’d been chained to one of the heavy oak benches inside. The menfolk had planned to burn her in the morning for selling potions and charms. Sybil felt awful about it … she’d considered visiting Lina a time or two, wondering if she could brew up a potion to make Thomas love her like he had when they’d been wed. The witch had a reputation for brewing just the right herbs to make a man’s prick iron-hard and a woman’s pussy soft and wet, ready for a lover. Thomas, Sybil’s husband, had grown fat and stank like a hog--one who’d soaked himself in ale--but if she didn’t have to look at him, she might enjoy a good, hard pounding, and she’d wanted to ask Lina for help. But when Lina had been caught and tried as a witch, Sybil hadn’t said a word in the woman’s defense. Thomas had shouted for the witch’s death, and if Sybil had disagreed, she would have felt his wrath.
With Lina shrieking and writhing between them, her curly, dark hair tangling around her face, the two Vikings dragged her through the square and dumped her in the pen with Sybil, Eva, and Osanna. Lina landed face down in the dirt but was up again instantly, crouching against the stone wall. Osanna quirked an eyebrow at the witch as she smoothed her wavy brown hair. “You’re saved, sweet. One would think you’d be happy.”
Lina bared her teeth. She was a beautiful woman, but right now looked fierce as a wolf. “Saved for what?”
Eva shuddered. The girl’s freckles stood out stark over her pale skin, bright in the moonlight. Sybil held her tight. There were no grannies in this pen, no children. Only the four of them. She looked up at Osanna, who nodded as if she could read Sybil’s thoughts.
“Prettiest in the village,” said Osanna. She inclined her head toward the Vikings, who at that exact moment turned toward them. There were seven of them, the raiders who had destroyed this tiny village while their comrades sacked the church and cottages down the road. “Here they come to claim their prizes.” Osanna’s voice shook a little as she said it. Even the whore was afraid.
It filled Sybil with dread. She hadn’t cried in ages, even when Thomas had taken the horsewhip to her back, but she wanted to cry now. The Vikings strode toward them, leather boots and britches, tunics beneath fur cloaks, their weapons glinting in the torchlight. The dark one, his black hair pulled away from his face, his beard short but thick, stopped at the corner of the pen. His eyes, coal-dark, met hers. Sybil felt his gaze like a hand around her throat, cutting off her air, making her heart kick against her breastbone. His eyes slid over her face and down to her chest, where her tits nestled heavy and full within the confines of her woolen gown. She folded her arms over them, but there was no covering them. In fact, as the Viking ran his tongue along his bottom lip, a
s his eyes grew darker still, Sybil realized it had only aroused him. The other Vikings elbowed each other and smiled, like they were making jokes, but the dark one merely stared at Sybil. He didn’t stop, even when one of his comrades, slightly leaner but nearly as tall, shoved his shoulder.
And then, the dark one pointed at her. He said something in that harsh language of theirs, and Sybil’s stomach clenched. She had no idea what he’d said, but she knew. He’d just staked his claim to her. She released Eva as the dark Viking swung his leg over the fence and came toward her. Eva’s wide blue eyes found Sybil’s, pleading, questioning, and Sybil realized she had a choice. She could kick and scream and fight--and lose--or she could accept her fate without a sound. If she struggled, Eva would be even more terrified than she needed to be.
Tears burning her eyes, Sybil backed herself against the stone wall, but the Viking just kept coming, stepping past the whore, the virgin, and the witch--and heading straight for Sybil.
He’d made her a widow, and now he was going to kill her.
His massive hands closed over her arms, and he pulled her to her feet. He smelled of sweat and iron. On her toes, her head was only level with his chest. He could snap her in half.
“Come,” he said. Nothing else, just that. No expression, no smile. At his belt, his axe blade was still crusted with Thomas’s blood. He wrenched her against his hard chest. “Come.”
She couldn’t get her feet to move. The dark Viking’s jaw clenched, and he dragged her across the hen yard. Eva screamed, and Sybil caught a glimpse of Osanna and Lina, holding the girl back. The Viking’s thick, muscular arm coiled around Sybil’s waist, and she whimpered as he lifted her over the stone wall, her feet barely touching the ground. He lugged her right into the old cooper’s cottage and kicked the door shut behind him, shutting out some of the noise from the square.
The living space was cluttered with the barrel maker’s possessions, all picked through and scattered by the raiders. The Viking kicked them aside, dragging Sybil to the old fur floor covering in front of the hearth. Amazingly, the fire was still burning within. The cooper must have just laid a log or two before the horns blew, before he ran into the square to be cut down by the Vikings.
Nearly everyone she’d ever known had been killed today.
Rage rose within her, burning her fear to ash. She slapped and clawed at her captor, screaming her hatred of him, of all he had done. It was like hitting a stone wall. The Viking let out a low laugh, and when he pressed her against him, she felt the hard length of his prick within his britches, thick and jutting. He palmed her ass and pressed her hips to his, thrusting while he grinned. Sybil’s grasping hands slid along his belt …
And came up with a small knife. She whipped it back, intending to stab him, but he caught her wrist midair. His eyebrow rose, and he looked at her with humor, as if she was a naughty child. He stripped her of the weapon, then wrenched her hands above her head. She screamed and kicked at him, but it did no good. He held her wrists with one hand and brought the knife down.
Sybil screamed, knowing the blade would pierce her breast, her heart, her soul. But all she heard was ripping fabric. She looked down to see him draw the knife from the neck of her gown to the waist, making it fall open to reveal her tits. The Viking’s eyes hazed with lust. In one swift movement, he threw her to the floor, atop the thick fur that lay in front of the fire. Throwing his muscled thigh over her legs, he held her arms above her head with one hand and leaned over her.
“Grim,” he said in a low voice. He pointed to himself with the knife. “Grim.”
Was that his name? It seemed an odd thing to do, to introduce himself before raping her, but these men were foreigners, so who knew what customs they carried with them. If he knew her name, would he hurt her less? Would it save her from the knife in his hand? “S-sybil?” she squeaked.
He smiled. “Sybil,” he rumbled as he lowered his head over her chest, as if knowing her name was permission to take her body.
Sybil gasped and bucked as he took one of her nipples between his teeth. Her movements only seemed to arouse him more, though. He tossed the knife to the side and took her other tit in his callused hand, rolling the hard bud between his fingertip and thumb. Sybil clamped her mouth shut and closed her eyes as the Viking’s beard scraped against her tender flesh. He suckled her ample tits like he was starving for them, his tongue circling and toying with the tight lump of her nipple before biting them just hard enough to hurt. Sybil writhed beneath him, tears stinging in her eyes.
Grim’s large hand smoothed over her belly to her thighs, and he wrenched her shapeless, torn wool gown to her hips. Sybil cried out in terror as his fingers skimmed up her thigh to delve between her legs. She hissed as he probed, twisting this way and that to avoid his invasion, but he was so terribly strong. He raised his head from her tits to spit on his fingers, then reached between her legs again. She whimpered as his thick fingertips slid along her cleft. Grim watched her as he stroked her, his other hand pinning her wrists above her head. Sybil stared into his face, those nearly black eyes, the stark ebony of his eyebrows, the hollows of his cheeks and the angle of his jaw. Everything about him oozed power and brutality. His gaze was fierce on hers as he pushed two of his fingers into her cunt. Sybil yelped at the violation and squirmed, but Grim only smiled.
Sybil’s breaths were too fast, and her heart was galloping. Deep in her belly, something curled heavy and hot. His fingers were slick as he slid them in and out of her--and not just with spit. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to believe her body was betraying her like this. Grim chuckled low and pushed his fingers deeper, stroking her from the inside. His thick manhood was nudging against her hip. Helpless under his weight, Sybil panted as he fucked her with his hand, shocked at the involuntary flex of her hips, at the slick liquid mess between her legs. Grim lowered his head and nibbled at her tits again, moaning low in his chest.
Abruptly, he released her and rose up on his knees. With his eyes on hers, full of promise--or maybe threat, he shed his cloak and belt, his long dagger and axe clanking heavily as they fell to the floor. She stared at the bloody blades, wondering if she should try to reach them--or if she even had the strength to lift them if she did. Doing so would only mean her own death, she knew.
But as he unlaced the ties of his pants and freed his massive prick, she wondered if this did, too. It was thick and veined, jutting in front of him like yet another weapon, one meant only for her. His pants gaped at his lean hips as he grabbed her legs and spread them wide to stare at her cunt. He rumbled something low, a sound seductive in its certainty, and moved between her legs. Sybil pushed at her gown, but it was no use. It was pooled around her waist and her tits were on full display. Grim was looking at her like he was going to devour her.
“Please don’t,” said Sybil, even as he reached between her legs again. “I--”
She squealed as he rubbed her cleft again, his hand sliding through what was undeniably her own craving. Slowly, he raised his fingers to his lips and licked them, and Sybil could not help staring at the movements of his tongue. He smirked and lowered himself above her. She put her hands on his chest to stop him, but again, it was like pushing against a stone wall. The thick head of his prick nudged at her thigh, hot and threatening. Sybil’s heart was in her throat. “No,” she whispered.
Grim smiled and took his shaft in his hand as his hips dipped lower. “Yes,” he said.
Sybil began to struggle, slapping at his shoulders and chest, writhing as he descended, but even as she did, she knew she could do more. She could gouge at his eyes. She could jab at his nose or throat or ears. But if she did, he would hurt her. She would have to grit her teeth and endure this.
The plump tip of him breached her body, and Sybil arched at the feel of her body stretching beneath the onslaught. Grim groaned and bucked his hips, and his heavy prick slid in a few inches. Sybil’s mouth dropped open. Thomas had been small, and his body weak and disgusting, but this Viking was mass
ive, strong and thick and hot and merciless. His hard hand grabbed one of her breasts as he pulled out a little and thrust in further. Sybil screamed.
Grim ignored her. Between her knees, pressed tight against his hips, she felt his ass flex as he withdrew yet again and snapped forward, pushing himself to her absolute limit. Sybil had never felt anything like it, so painfully full, so completely dominated. Her hands curled into the muscles of his shoulder as he began to fuck her, steady but relentless. His shaft slid easily in and out, every thrust drawing a cry from her, half pain … but half pleasure. Her body began to tingle with it. Her nipples began to ache for his mouth again.
“No,” she whispered again, but this time, it was to herself. But her body couldn’t be denied. Her lips parted, and she traced her bottom lip with her tongue. His cock was deep inside her hot, tight channel, and her knees had fallen open, spreading for him, surrendering. Something forbidden twisted along her spine as he continued to fuck her, his pace increasing, his thrusts more brutal and hard. His heavy balls slapped against her ass with every invasion, yet another strike of pleasure, another slice against her conscience. Was she not a good, Christian woman? How could she possibly want to dig her fingernails into his ass and scream for more? Sybil’s head fell back as he braced himself above her, his long braid hanging over his shoulder and tickling her chest every time he pounded his cock into her hole. Her tits bounced with every push and swayed every time he withdrew.
She was going to come. The friction was pulling her apart. Her screams were louder now, but not from pain. She needed more.
He pulled out of her, staring at her face, his chest heaving. In one smooth yank, he’d pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was massive, muscled and covered in black hair. He was a wild animal, made for war, made for fucking. With battle in his eyes, he climbed over her gaping legs to straddle her chest. His long, thick shaft bobbed over her tits. Never taking his eyes from hers, he reached down and ripped her dress all the way down the middle, until her entire body was revealed. He grabbed her tits and pressed his cock between them. With a grunt, he held them tight and thrust, his prick slippery with her juices. It slid between her tits and nudged her in the chin. She could smell the tang of the sea, the scent of her desire and his, and fought the desire to touch herself. He pinched at her nipples as he rutted against her tits, his face a mask of pleasure. She watched the purple head of his cock disappearing into the ample flesh of her breasts before poking out again, and she was shamefully desperate to feel it inside her again.
