by Loki Renard
“Little wretch,” Rikiar growled, dropping the lash and covering Aisling’s body with his own. He kissed her deeply, freeing his cock to sink it roughly inside her. Though he had spared her the lash, he did not spare her one single hard stroke as he fucked her.
Grasping at the bed, Aisling joyfully took all he had to give. The effects of the tea were wearing off, but his lust and need were intoxicating in their own way. She could feel his emotion rushing through her with every thrust. She could feel the fear he had felt for her, and the relief he was experiencing now that he had her back in his arms. She could feel his possession and his need, his strength and his desire. Each and every stroke of his thick cock reminded her of all of it, swept her up and carried her away.
“I love you, Aisling,” Rikiar growled in her ear. “With all my body and all my heart.”
“I love you too. I would die for you,” Aisling gasped.
“You almost did,” Rikiar said, grazing his teeth across the back of her neck. “You came so close to it you almost took me with you. Never again, Aisling. Never.”
“The king will not come for me again.”
“But you will come for me. You will come for me time and time and time again,” Rikiar growled. “I take you as my bride, Aisling. You can have all the ceremonies you like. You can wear all the dresses in the world, you can have a procession from here to Ravenblack, but you will never be mine more than you are now.”
Aisling would have liked to make an equally poetic reply, but she could say nothing. The only sound that escaped her was a high cry of rapture as Rikiar reached beneath her and pressed his rough fingers against her clit, driving inside her hard and fast until the world shattered into a thousand pieces and she flew into a space beyond it.
He pulled out, and she was confused for a minute, but only a minute, for his fingers returned to her cunt, swept around gathering lubrication, then plied it across her sensitive little anal bud. Aisling made a small sound of complaint, but she knew she was facing the inevitable as first his fingertip breached her bottom, and thence the rest of his finger.
“While the king flees, I will be sinking myself inside your hot ass,” he ground out as he speared her with his finger several times before placing the head of his cock at the entrance of her bottom.
Aisling’s protests died on her lips as he thrust slowly inside her one remaining virginal hole. She had anticipated pain, but the tea seemed to be taking the edge off the discomfort, relaxing her to the extent that the tingling and stretching felt good.
Little by little, Rikiar’s great cock filled her rear. Her empty quim was left to pulse while her bottom accommodated the new intrusion. At first she felt only a sense of fullness; then, as he began to stroke in and out, the pleasure increased. It was a different sort of sensation, one which swamped her system with feelings of lust, excitement, and shame.
He was rampant inside her, growling and moaning as he eased himself in and out of her tightest cavity. “I’m going to cum,” he said, slapping her bottom hard. “I’m going to cum in your tight little ass.”
His slaps, his shaft, his superior strength, all served to make hot shivers rush through Aisling’s entire body. She was at his mercy, she who had made a king despair, she who made an army flee; how strange it was that she was so easily conquered by the barbarian chief with nothing more than the thrust of his cock.
Trembling and moaning, Aisling cried out prettily, promising herself to him forevermore. Her fingers curled in the furs while his hands ran up and down her spine, sending little shivers rushing up and down her back. Her whole body was consumed with sensation that seemed to come from within and without until she didn’t know where she ended and where he began. His fingers slid underneath her body and began strumming her clit and she screamed as a brutal orgasm overwhelmed her, making her buck back against his hips and impale her bottom ever more deeply on his cock.
Rikiar’s lustful cry rent the air, piercing the veil of the tent as his flesh swelled inside her and his essence came rushing forth. He collapsed over her, gasping out words of love and care. They were both crying, swearing, promising their troth, vowing forever and forevermore. None of the words were intelligible, but they understood one another for they were speaking a tongue native to the two of them. They were sealed as tight and true as any two mortals ever could be, the barbarian and his bride.
Afterword
Rikiar did not let his bride out of his sight from that moment until they returned in triumph to Ravenblack Village, which the women had decorated with flowers in anticipation of their arrival. Every inch of the place was festooned in bright blooms. Initial cheers soon gave way to enthusiastic greetings as each man found the woman he had left behind.
“There will be many born next year,” Rikiar said, casting an approving eye across the happy couples kissing and embracing in the streets.
“One of them will be ours,” Aisling said, smiling.
“Is that so?” Rikiar lowered his head and claimed her mouth most thoroughly.
“I have not had my monthly blood,” Aisling said when he allowed her the unfettered use of her tongue once more. “That is one sign…”
“And what is the other?”
“Merla told me,” Aisling said, beaming.
“Did she,” Rikiar cast a dour gaze about the place. “Perhaps she is simply trying to win back my favor.”
“I have no need of winning back your favor,” Merla’s rasping voice broke out of the nearby shadows. As usual, she was precisely where she needed to be at exactly the right time. “I am your mother. I will always have your favor.”
“So you think I will forgive you?”
“You already have,” the crone said. “Now I will take my leave. Celebrations make my stomach turn. Call me when the babe is ripe and I will make sure both survive the experience.”
“Thank you,” Aisling said, wrapping her arms tightly about the witch. Merla looked scandalized, but the corners of her lips turned up slightly.
“Get off me, you dim girl,” she said as affectionately as she was able. “I must take my leave.”
“Will you not join us for the feast this evening?”
“I would rather eat my own eyeballs,” Merla said succinctly.
Those who would not have rather eaten their own eyeballs, which turned out to be the entire rest of the village, met in the area that evening for a feast unlike any other before it. It was a celebration of the triumph of the Ravenblacks, the first of its kind against a king. There had been many barbarian scuffles over the years of course, but winning a princess in bloody battle was worth a special celebration.
Long tables set out in a great circle allowed every single man and woman a place to sit and feast upon wild boar, chickens, roots, and much more. A great fire in the very center of the arena lit the feast, casting a cheerful glow across ruddy faces made red with liquor, and of course, across the visages of the chief and his bride, neither of whom needed firelight to glow. Their shared happiness lit them from within as Aisling sat upon her husband’s lap, her head on his shoulder, her life in his hands forever more.
“Is it true?” Mara whispered under her breath to Aisling while they ate. “Did you truly drink the witch’s brew, fly across the river, and dance upon the king’s crown until he retreated?”
“Something like that,” Aisling half-confirmed for the benefit of her amazed maidservant.
“I was told that you grew wings and that you spoke a language none had ever heard before,” Mara said. “And Brynder, he says that you have a tail.”
“You know I don’t have a tail,” Aisling said patiently.
“You might have been tucking it away somewhere,” Mara said suspiciously.
“Mara, enough,” Berner drawled. “The only tales hereabouts are the ones you are telling.”
Mara sniffed at him. “I will tell what stories I like.”
“You will not,” he growled. “You are mine, Mara. I will no longer wait for your impetuous nature to c
alm itself. I will do the calming if need be.”
“You will do nothing of the sort!”
Berner immediately proved Mara wrong by turning the pretty maidservant across his thighs and slapping her bottom until Mara promised not to gossip about Aisling having a tail, or wings, or the breasts of a she-wolf, or anything else of the kind. The spanking did not draw undue attention amidst the raucous celebrations. Men and women were carousing all around, many of them retreating to the nearby bushes to sate their lusts.
When Mara was righted she was flushed, but she seemed pleased. In fact, she could not stop smiling the entire rest of the evening, though that might have been because Berner’s hand was slid up betwixt her thighs for much of it.
The bold full moon rose high above the celebrations, bestowing her blessing on the village and all who dwelt inside her. Though none could have known it, the Ravenblack dynasty had been born. In the following years, the king of Claddaugh’s health would wane and his throne be hotly contested. Ultimately it would be won by Rafe Ravenblack, the firstborn son of Aisling and Rikiar Ravenblack, he who was but a dancing speck in his mother’s womb that evening.
Subsequent generations would not only take Claddaugh, but many kingdoms besides. The blending of Rikiar’s barbarian and Aisling’s royal blood was stronger than any other lineage. It bred many kings and queens, lords and ladies, and of course, the occasional witch.
The End
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More Stormy Night Books by Loki Renard
The Lord’s Bride
When Mary de Vere’s closest companion Martin de Stafford—whom she secretly loves—is stolen from her by his long-promised marriage to another woman, eighteen-year-old Mary believes things can get no worse… until an assassin’s blade takes her father’s life. The laws of the land place her under the authority of her heartless uncle, but even as her world falls apart around her, Mary vows to one day reclaim her rights and her title.
Years later, Martin, now the Sheriff of Staffordshire and a widower since illness claimed his wife, encounters his childhood friend in the unlikeliest of places: a convent. Though Mary plays the part of a simple woman who dreams of becoming a nun, Martin is far from convinced. He knows the feisty girl far too well to believe that she aspires to a life of service in the church, and in any case, he has another future to offer her—a future as his wife.
When she spurns his affections, Martin only grows more determined to unravel her plot, and at last Mary is caught red-handed in an act of banditry. To save herself from the dungeon, she is left with no choice but to submit to the very thing she once longed for: marriage to Martin de Stafford. Mary soon learns that her new husband is more than her match and that from now on her bare bottom will pay the price for her scheming. In spite of her pride, Martin’s firm chastisement enflames her lust for him, but can she truly force herself to put aside the wrongs of the past and lay claim to a life at the side of the man she always wanted?
The Brat, the Bodyguard, and the Bounty Hunter
When runaway heiress Fiona Fayrefield hires bodyguard Harris Kingsley to protect her from her meddlesome father, Harris decides that his job includes putting the spoiled twenty-four-year-old brat over his knee for a long, hard spanking when he feels it necessary. For the first time in her life, Fiona discovers that doing whatever she wants, whenever she wants, is no longer an option.
After her father sends ex-military bounty hunter Tom Waters to bring her home, events take an unexpected turn and the two men soon join forces to protect Fiona, to tame her rebellious ways, and to bring her more pleasure than she ever imagined possible. But when they learn that she has more skeletons in her closet than they were counting on, will her fortune come between Fiona and the loves of her life?
Mail Order Brat
Soon after leaving her native Russia to marry an American, Annika discovers that her husband-to-be is a liar and a cheat. Rather than return home, she runs away and begins living on the streets. When she is caught by Pastor Steven Soames while breaking into his car looking for a place to sleep, she expects the worst—arrest and deportation—but instead the handsome preacher invites her to his house for a warm meal.
Steven’s kindness impresses Annika and she is excited when he offers to let her stay in the guestroom at the parsonage in the little town of Sweetville, even after he informs her that while under his roof proper behavior will be expected and defiance will earn her a sound spanking.
Though Steven is a widower and he’s never been interested in another woman since his wife’s passing, and despite Annika’s penchant for flagrant disobedience—something Steven knows will need to be cured with a firm hand applied to her bare bottom—the small-town preacher and the feisty Russian brat soon find themselves falling in love.
But when Steven proposes, Annika cannot help but worry that he is only offering marriage out of pity in order to let her stay in America. Can she bring herself to put aside her fears and trust the man who has claimed her heart?
Loki Renard Links
You can keep up with Loki Renard via her blog, her Twitter page, and her Amazon and Goodreads profiles, using the following links:
http://lokirenard.com/
https://twitter.com/lokirenard
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4262126.Loki_Renard
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Afterword
More Stormy Night Books by Loki Renard
Loki Renard Links
