by Nia Farrell
The physical transformation for the role allowed her to fully get into character. She and Rowena had already done prep work to make certain that they looked the part for the scene. Their short cropped wigs were ginger. By the time they’d finished, everything matched. Jewell helped them pin their wigs in place and tested them. Putting on her Domme face, she grabbed and pulled Rowena’s hair and smiled at their shock. She tested Breanna’s wig the same way. Knowing how the Vikings played, she added extra pins, just to be safe.
Their habits were next. Tunics and scapulars, wimples and veils, with sandals for their feet, cloth belts at their waists, and wooden rosaries around their necks.
Jewell, for once, actually looked happy, excited even. “What?” she laughed. “You know I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss this one for the world. It’s gonna be the stuff of legends.”
Breanna looked at Rowena, who returned Jewell’s smile, as if she thought Jewell was talking about her. Breanna knew better. Jewell wanted to watch Gunnar, which meant that she’d be watching her, too.
The Domme caught the flash of distress in her eyes. Pretending to check her wig again, she whispered in her ear. “You’ll do fine, pet. You will. You’re in good hands. But it will be easier if you narrow your point of focus to one thing. Ideally, that’s Master Gunnar.”
All too soon, it was time to go down. Breanna took her place in the kitchen set. Rowena went next door, into an adjoining room made to look like a cell in a nunnery, where she would portray the flagellate and begin their scene, using the discipline on herself.
Breanna busied herself, checking the bundles of herbs drying by the fireplace, pulling one down and stripping leaves to grind with the mortar and pestle, listening to the sounds of the lash being administered by her sister. Each stroke echoed in Breanna’s core, and she swore she could nearly feel it. Eventually the whip fell silent. The heavy oak door opened, and Rowena stumbled inside, carrying the discipline with her.
“Sister? Come, let me help!” Speaking the Gàidhlig they’d learned in their youths, Breanna took the whip and laid it down, then guided her twin to the table farthest from the hearth. She helped her undress, removing the veil and wimple to reveal rough shorn ginger locks. She slipped the scapular from Rowena’s shoulders, then helped pull her tunic over her head. Her sister held it to her front, shielding herself with false modesty, but the very real welts on her back demanded attention.
Breanna rummaged through the crocks and jars on nearby shelves and found the ointment she had been told to use for aftercare. She applied it as gently as she could—a task made harder with tears clouding her vision. “Poor dear. There. There.” She crooned words of comfort and encouragement, promising her that all would be well.
The scene had a soundtrack. From somewhere outside the room came recorded sounds of conflict, female screams, doors broken down, ax blades hewing wood, steel ringing. Then, she heard the thunder of actual footsteps. It was almost like being thrown back in time when the great oaken door crashed open.
All eyes went to Rowena, naked save for the tunic clutched to her chest. The Viking horde flooded into the room; six Northmen headed her twin’s direction. Keeping in character, Breanna backed away, clutching her wooden rosary with one hand, her lips moving in a wordless prayer for deliverance. She nearly reached the hearth when she was stopped short by six-and-a-half feet of solid muscle.
Gunnar banded her front with his steel corded arm and grasped the slim column of her throat. Tearing off her veil and wimple, he flung them aside, took hold of her ginger wig, and dragged her across the floor. She cried out, clutching his forearm with one hand. As long as she kept her other on her rosary, he would know the pins were holding. The minute she felt her wig slip, she was to grab him with both of her hands.
Jewell’s efforts were rewarded. The pins held, long enough for them to reach the table by the hearth.
Doing her best to ignore what was happening on the far side of the room, Breanna kept her eyes locked on Gunnar. He wore a rougher kyrtill, and beyond his helmet, the hunger in his eyes made him look as if he’d been too long at sea, a hunger magnified by the blood lust that accompanies struggle and conquest.
And he was looking at her to assuage it.
Gunnar took off his helmet, teasing her with a slow reveal. He hadn’t shaved since she’d seen him, and the beard stubble gave his face a rough, exotic appeal. Ignoring her pleas in Gàidhlig, he released his hold long enough to remove her rosary and strip off the rest of her clothes.
A Medieval nun would have hidden herself. Breanna tried to, banding her breasts with her right arm and lowering her left hand, but the Viking Dom refused to allow it. He captured her wrists and forced them away. His lips curved when he saw her delta of tight ginger curls.
Gunnar glanced across the room, called out something in Old Norse, and turned his full attention back to her. Not understanding what was said made it eerily real, creating a touchstone to their cultural pasts.
“Are we good?” he whispered, breaking character when he saw her shiver. “Do you need sanctuary?”
Even here, even now, he would let her stop their part of the scene if she needed to. Breanna shook her head, wanting everything he’d promised her. “I need you.” She answered in Gàidhlig, but there was no mistaking the meaning of the look she slid to the bulge below his belt.
Gunnar bound her hands in front of her with the cloth belt from her habit. Holding the trailing end in his fist, he fastened his gaze on her mouth and reached beneath his kyrtill to loosen his trousers. When he pulled his shirt and undertunic over his head, he bent his head for a punishing kiss, ravaging her mouth with his teeth and tongue. She trembled in his arms, her bound hands trapped between them, helpless to do more than moan when he gentled his kiss, demanding her obedience and coaxing a response.
Their tongues mated, locked in an erotic dance that left her feeling breathless. Tasting of mint and mead, he sucked her tongue into his mouth and refused to let go until she sighed and melted against him. Holding her head against his chest, he turned so that she could see her sister, on all fours with two partners, one cock in her mouth and another one poised to take her from behind.
Gunnar turned again, blocking her view, but when his thumb brushed her mouth and he pushed her to her knees, even the most innocent nun would have no doubt what he wanted.
He freed his cock from his loosened trousers and brought it even with Breanna’s lips. Kneeling with her hands tied, she inhaled his essence—male musk, leather, and wool. He fisted himself, sliding his hand the length of his shaft, until a drop of pre-cum wet the slit of the plum-colored head. When she hesitated to taste it, he grabbed her hair in a move that made her gasp, and he pushed his way inside.
Breanna remembered what Gunnar had said at the beach, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth wider, focusing on the taste and smell, the heat and the feel of him. Soft-as-suede skin. Musky scent. Salty tang. More skin, more flesh, velvet sheath and oaken core.
Gunnar was a large man, in every way.
She listened to his breathing and thrilled to the feral sounds he made when he scraped against her back teeth. A master of control, he took his pleasure yet was careful to not choke her. Grateful, she opened her mouth wider yet, taking in more and more of him, until the head of his cock was bumping the back of her throat.
Breath hissed between his teeth. He went deeper, faster, as hard as she would let him, as far as he could go. A strange tension took hold, and he took her face in both of his hands, chanting something in Old Norse that might have been a blessing or a curse. Holding her exactly where he wanted her, he fucked her mouth. Eventually his movements roughened, becoming jerky and slightly erratic. His balls tightened, drawing up close to his body. He gave two last stilted pumps, then climaxed.
Breanna felt his semen flood her throat and swallowed as fast as she could. When she had sucked the last drop dry, she sat back on her heels and bent her head, awaiting Gunnar’s pleasure, finding herself unexpectedly aroused by
the sounds of group sex across the room.
Her eyes flew open when he grabbed her bound hands and pulled her to her feet. Dragging her to the wall by the hearth, he shoved her against it, pinning her in place with the strength of his stare while he unwound the woolen strips from his calves. He slipped the end of one through her bound hands, looped the other end around a wall brace, and pulled, slowly hoisting her arms over her head as casually as he would hang quarry from a hunt.
She was defenseless, completely at his mercy. He robbed a lit candle from its brace and held it between them. The look on his face was layered in depths beyond measure, as if he planned to take her to the fourth circle of hell and bring her out again.
“Please,” she begged him in Scots Gaelic, then bit her lip when Gunnar tsked. The only liberties he would take were ones that she’d given him in their contract—and she had agreed to wax play.
He cupped one breast and lifted it. The next thing she knew, he tipped the candle and dripped hot wax on her right nipple. She gasped at the sensation. Gasped again, and again, when he dared to repeat it.
When he was satisfied with his handiwork, Gunnar snuffed the flame and set the candle aside. The look that he gave her was inscrutable, reminding her of what he’d said about using candles in the scene and warning her that he might not be finished with it. For now, though, he came to stand beside her. Holding her gaze captive with the pure heat of his own, he removed the rest of his clothes until he was gloriously nude.
His erection was rampant against his front when he bent to suckle her left breast. Catching the tip between his teeth, he flicked it with his tongue and pinched the other, hypersensitive waxy nipple at the same time, making her moan.
He tasted her thoroughly, running his tongue from her heart to her navel, from her navel to her belly, from her belly to her clitoris. Parting her folds, he pressed his face against her curls and inhaled deeply. Sliding his hands to cup her buttocks, he pulled her hips forward and teased her with his tongue, licking her mound, stroking her clit, tasting the cream that coated her inner folds. When the tension grew, he put her legs over his shoulders and buried his face between them. Thrusting into her pussy, he fucked her with his tongue.
“Have mercy!” She continued to beg him in Scots Gaelic as he brought her to a swift and shattering release. When he was done lapping her juices, he eased her feet back onto the floor and untied her from the wall bracket. Seizing her bound hands, he dragged her to the nearest table and threw her on top of it, grabbing her hips and pulling them to the edge.
“Please,” she whispered, keeping in character. “I have known no man.” That was about to change, of course. Everything that they’d shared this past week had been leading up to this point. There was no mistaking the determined set of Gunnar’s jaw, the sensual flare of his nostrils, the searing heat in his eyes. He was done with foreplay. Done with waiting.
He slid his hands up her thighs, thumbs rubbing along the inside as he spread her legs to stand between them. He pressed the base of his cock against her clit and ground it against her mound. She caught her breath, held it, when he took his erection and parted her folds, readying her for his possession. Wetting himself with her juices, he pushed against her until he’d squeezed his glans inside.
Breanna caught her breath. Held it. She winced at the pinch when he pressed in deeper. Gunnar was huge. Huge. How could he possible fit?
He eased out and pushed his way in again, deeper this time. Stretching. Tearing. Out, and in. Again. And again. He rocked his pelvis, working his way inside, breaching her walls and plundering her defenses, not stopping until he was poised at the gate of her womb. When she flinched from the pleasure/pain of it and her eyes welled with tears, he gripped her face, refusing to let her shutter her gaze, refusing to let her avert it. He kept his pale blue eyes locked on hers, watching to see how she fared, mentally and physically. How was her body adjusting to his possession? How much more could she handle?
He thrust in, harder this time, deep enough to steal her breath. He thrust in again, and again, stronger, faster, hips snapping, finding a rhythm, setting a pace that made his balls slap against her bottom. She felt the tension take hold, building, as he pounded into her. He put a hand on her belly, pressing just above her pubic bone while his thumb teased her clit. Her breaths grew shorter, sharper. He kept driving into her, pushing her toward completion, taking her to the edge of the precipice but not letting her go over just yet.
It was hard, so hard, not to whisper to him in English, to let him know what she was feeling. She was close. So close. The orgasm he’d promised her was there, just out of reach. If he didn’t let her come soon, she’d be begging for it.
And then…it happened. Pinching her clit and twisting her nipple, Gunnar made her scream.
“Ah!” Breanna’s body stiffened, then erupted in an orgasm that she could only describe as ejaculation. Her body’s fluids shot out, bathing him. Her sheath spasmed, walls gripping his length, drawing him even deeper inside. Smiling like a heathen, Gunnar squeezed her breast and pinched her other nipple, a sensation that she felt all the way to her womb.
Still locked deep inside her, he caught her bound hands and pulled her to a sitting position, positioning her hands behind her head, as if to display herself for him while he fucked her. Gripping her hips, he feasted his eyes on her breasts, which bounced with every thrust. When his gaze slid down to where they were joined, her eyes followed. She wondered if he found it as erotic, and as beautiful, as she did. His cock was slick from her climax; the shaft was streaked with traces of blood.
Breanna was virgin no more.
“Tha gaol agam ort.” Whispering “I love you” in Gaelic, she raised her hands and looped them over his head, yielding to her Viking lord. Gunnar went still for a moment, then buried himself to the hilt, surging into her, again and again. He drove her to the edge and beyond, this time joining her, pouring himself deep inside her, sharing his lifeforce.
He hooked her knee and raised it for a kiss, then eased out his erection, his cum escaping to drip down her crack. She had given him her virginity—and had found pleasure in their joining. The “shame” of doing so on a stage, with witnesses, when she would have preferred differently, had her reaching for the whip.
Kneeling at Gunnar’s feet, she kissed the discipline and offered it to him, depending on him to choose how best to wield it. He was her Master. She was his to punish as he pleased, to do with as he would.
He tied her to the wall again, this time facing it, breasts pressed against the cool, hewn stone, leaving her back exposed. She closed her eyes, listening for the Viking Dom and hearing Rowena on the far side of the room, finding her own pleasure.
Gunnar came up behind her. The heat from his big body felt like a furnace. He took hold of her throat and grunted Old Norse in her ear—talking about the whip, she decided, and what he planned to do with her.
He stroked her cheek with it, slid it down the side of her neck, down her spine, between her cheeks, to flesh that wept for want of him. When he let go of her hair, she turned her face to the wall and narrowed her focus on Gunnar. She imagined him standing behind her, imagined him happy with her performance as she kept her muscles relaxed, the better to take the punishment he would deal.
Gunnar started out slowly, laying strokes on her back, her hips, her thighs. The blows came harder, and closer together, until he found her rhythm, the one that made her breath catch and the tears fall, while she tried not to moan, tried not to think about how wet he was making her. The rhythm that allowed her to slip into subspace, until he leaned against her and brought her back to semi-awareness of him, of them.
He fisted her hair, turned her face, and kissed her. Whispering to her in Old Norse, he bit her lower lip. The next thing she felt was the bite of the whip, setting her skin on fire. This set was harder, the pain more intense. She whimpered, panting, as he lashed her time and again, until the pain went so deep into her pleasure centers that something inside her shifted
. In that moment, torment turned to bliss.
She couldn’t stay there, of course. He wouldn’t let her. He needed her here, with him, to finish what they had begun.
She didn’t know how long he whipped her, or how many strokes he laid. Awareness returned gradually. The heat and soreness on her back side. From the far side of the room, Rowena’s yes as she reached another peak of pleasure. Gunnar, breathing heavily as he freed her from the wall and carried her back to the table when her legs refused to cooperate.
Its top was stained with her orgasm, his semen, the proof of her virginity. She wondered absently if they’d bleach the blood or leave it, but the thought fled when Gunnar turned her to face it and bent her over, pressing the small of her back while she braced herself on her forearms. She felt his tongue, rimming her, readying her for his possession. Next came olive oil, on her, on him. She couldn’t see it, but she knew that he was fisting himself, lubricating his length.
Breanna felt the head of his huge cock, insistent, pressing, penetrating, squeezing past the tight ring and pushing just beyond. He worked his way in, easing out, going deeper with each stroke until, finally, he was seated to the hilt. Grabbing her hips, he pulled her back against him, the base of his cock pressing against her. He slid a hand up her spine and fisted her hair, pulling, making her back arch as she met his next thrust, and the next. Soon she was rocking back to meet him. When he sensed that she had moved past the initial discomfort and into the realms of pleasure, he gave her more, and more, until he was driving into her with sheer, sensual abandon.
He pushed her toward yet another orgasm, bending over her to grab a breast while his other hand dove into her ginger curls, searching for the hidden pearl. Finding it, he rubbed her clit with two fingers, pulled and pinched her nipple, and shoved the length of his massive shaft into her burning ass. Her body erupted in seismic tremors and Gunnar joined her, filling her with a stream of hot cum while her orgasm swept through her like a tidal wave.
