by Sandra Hill
They found Slut sitting by the steps of the trailer. Her tongue was lolling out of her mouth, drool making a puddle at her feet, her tail wagging like crazy.
“She got some,” Cage concluded, and they all agreed.
“You dog, you!” Torolf said. You couldn’t help but admire a dog who knew what she wanted and went after it.
He led the way into the trailer with his buddies.
“Where’s Hilda?” Geek was already checking out Torolf’s laptop, making tsking noises about his failure to defrag regularly.
“She’s over at Serenity’s trailer.”
“You got any beer?” JAM asked.
“Is Slut a slut?” Torolf answered with a laugh.
Cage flicked on the tube. “NASCAR’s about to come on.”
“Why’s Pretty Boy down in the dumps?” he whispered to JAM.
“I think he’s missin’ Big Mama. He went home alone last night from the Wet and Wild, and he almost never does that.”
Everyone was soon comfortable, sitting around the tiny living room. Torolf was feeling pretty good. He was back in the present. He was drinking beer and watching the races. They were going to a party tonight. Yep, life was good.
Cage zapped him then as he said as blithely as if he was commenting on Junior’s latest win, “So, did y’all know what women’s favorite sexual position is?”
Even Viking women like to shop . . .
If there was ever anything that would make a woman want to stay here in the future, it was the mall.
Oh, my gods and goddesses! It was every woman’s dream come true. Hilda had been to market towns . . . Hedeby, Kauptang, Birka. And they had contained goods from around the world. But this!
First there had been the ride to the mall in Tissie’s horseless carriage box, known as a Jeep, colored bright red, of all things. They raced down the road at an ungodly speed. All the while, there had been dozens of other carriage boxes going in either direction, some even faster.
Hilda’s brain practically spun at all she saw at the mall. It was so big, with so many people, all of them in a hurry. Such different attire, much of which would have been considered scandalous in her time. Foods ready to be served, without any cooking fires. Bright lights everywhere. And noise: people talking and laughing, music coming from walls, babies crying. Holy Thor, ’twas enough to make a person put her hands over her ears. And so much color . . . almost too much brightness.
They were entering a department store, and a lady stepped up to her and squirted her with some substance. Accustomed by now to her surprise at every little thing, Linda took her arm and said, “Don’t be afraid. She was just squirting you with scent to see if you want to buy some perfume.”
“Huh?” Hilda sniffed her hand, and there was indeed a delicious flowery scent. “How wonderful!”
“It’s called Joy,” the squirting lady said.
“Joy? You name your perfume?”
The squirting lady looked at Hilda as if she was demented.
“Can I buy some?”
Soon she had a bagful of everything from a squirting container of perfume, body lotions, soap, and even bubble bath. Among her purchases were two pairs of braies, blue and black, so tight she could scarce breathe; women wore braies as much as dresses or short gunnas in this country. Then she had also bought colorful sherts, two pairs of soft-soled shoes, and one pair of running shoes—although she kept protesting that she had no intention of running unless someone was chasing her—and hose made of a magic transparent material.
They walked down the mall, planning to stop at a rest-runt to break their fasts when suddenly Hilda stopped dead in her tracks. “What is that?”
Her three companions grinned mischievously.
“We saved the best for last. Victoria’s Secret,” Linda said. “Come on, ladies. Let’s party.”
Hilda bought six pairs of different colored, silky undergarments called pant-hees, but disdained the bras, laughing at any suggestion that she might need support. She had also refused to even consider the outrageous item called a thong, even though the other three women purchased them with great glee. She did let them talk her into a tight black top, which the ladies assured her could be worn outside, called a busty-air. She had to admit her breasts did not look quite so small when uplifted like that.
Finally, Hilda made her most extravagant purchase of the day, what they called a baby doll nightie. It was made of red and black lace, exposed her neck and shoulders, and reached only to her upper thighs. To her, it was an extravagance because, really, who needed garments to sleep in?
After she’d eaten a hot dog—and, nay, it was not a real dog—and a cold root beer, which bubbled and tickled her nose, and tasted not at all like beer, they headed toward the sex shop at the far end of the mall, separated from the rest of the marts. The sign outside said, The Horny Toad, and under that, Tasteful Adult Toys.
“You can wait outside, if you want,” Lizzy told her.
“Why?”
“It’s too raunchy for some women.”
Hilda shrugged. She wanted to learn everything she could while in this country.
And learn, she did.
While Lizzy was picking up the gagging gift that Serenity had ordered, and Linda and Tissie made some purchases, she browsed the aisles. First, she noticed the big paper books, called magazines, showing nude women, even ones exposing their female parts, and ones with udders so big and firm that she wondered that the women could walk without falling on their faces. Then there were the men with manparts so big and long they nigh dragged on the floor when they walked. They made her three husbands . . . even Torolf . . . look like boylings in comparison.
She giggled and moved on. The massage oils and herbs, she could understand, but why would anyone want to put clamps on their nipples, and why whips and paddles?
The others were ready to leave, noting the lateness of the hour and the need to prepare for tonight’s event.
“I would like to purchase a gift for Torolf first.”
All heads turned to her.
“This,” she said, holding out a jar of chocolate with a brush attached. “He loves chocolate.”
They all laughed, as if at some private jest.
The lout did not deserve gifts, except that he had rid the Norselands of that beastly Steinolf, and that was no small thing.
“Should I be buying a gift for Spike’s birthing day celebration?”
“Nah!” Lizzy said, “Just tell him about the gift you bought for Max. That will be gift enough.”
What an odd thing to say!
Chapter 19
He was gonna become a chocoholic . . . or die trying . . .
Torolf looked at his wristwatch and wondered where Hilda was. She’d been at Serenity’s for several hours.
And, actually, he was getting tired of all these guys crowding his space. His and Hilda’s space, to be more precise. Oh, he knew why they came, and it wasn’t for some birthday bash. They were worried about him and Hilda and the threat from some nutcase alien hunters, especially after they’d researched the National Center for Alien Research. These pseudoscientists had pulled some deadly stunts in the past, in the name of science.
He picked up his cell phone, leaned against the kitchen counter, and waited for someone to pick up. The guys had watched reruns of Desperate Housewives after the races ended, and were standing, about to leave. There was no beer left.
He had his cell phone in one hand and Slut’s dog collar clutched in the other. Slut, straining at his hold on her, would love to shoot out the door when the guys opened it to leave. She hadn’t been out shaking her bootie since this morning, a dry spell in her doggie dating world.
“Hello, Morgan residence. Serenity, master tattoo artist.”
“Hey, Serenity, how about sending Hilda back here? The guys want to say good-bye to her before they leave.”
Said guys scoffed at his lie, but he didn’t want to sound anxious to have her back with him, which he was, dammit.
“Uh . . .”
Red flags went up in Torolf ’s brain. “Uh” is not a good sign. “Serenity . . . ?”
“Okay, she went to the mall with Linda and Lizzy and Tissie, and you shouldn’t worry about her, she’ll be all right, she’s in good company, and look, I think I heard their car pulling up right now.”
“You mean, Linda of the Ben Wa balls, Lizzy the stripper with the nipple rings, and Tissie of the ice cream cone tattooed breasts?”
Each of the guys, big ears tuned on high, turned around and sat down. No way were they going to leave now.
“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Serenity told him.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that Hilda doesn’t know her way around here.” And she’s from the bleepin’ eleventh century.
“She’s really sweet.”
“Who?”
“Hilda, of course.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d call her sweet.” Unless I’m eating her. Then she’s sweet, for damn sure.
The doorknob rattled, and he said, “That’s her now. Bye.”
Hilda came in carrying two shopping bags with mall store imprints on them. One of them was from Victoria’s Secret.
Every single male eye in the room took note of that fact.
“Greetings,” she said to each of the guys. To Torolf, she just gave a glower. Apparently, she was still in a snit over waking up in his bed. Why is it that women can engage gung ho in the deed, then blame it on the guy the next day?
“I thought I told you to stick close, that we have to worry about that alien research wacko.” Big mistake! He realized it the second the words left his mouth.
“You are not my master. I needed garments for the birthing day celebration, and Serenity asked us to pick up a gift for Spike that was being held for her in a store at the mall.”
“So, Max, spill. There are going to be babes at this party tonight who have nipple rings, tattooed breasts, and Ben Wa balls? Is that why you didn’t want us to come? Keep the goodies all to yourself, huh?” This was JAM speaking, a smirk on his face.
“Oh, do you speak of Linda and Lizzy and Tissie?” Hilda asked, unaware of the suggestive nature of their questions. “They are my new friends. I will introduce all of you tonight.”
“Thank you, chère, ’specially since Max failed to tell us about these lovely ladies.” Cage was enjoying the hell out of Torolf’s squirming.
He glanced at her bags. “Looks like you had a good day.”
“Yea, I did. I hope you do not mind that I took some parchment money from your pocket.”
“That’s all right.”
“I bought so many things. Garments, shoes, soap, even Joy.”
They all arched their brows at that.
She took out a bottle and squirted it into the air, filling the air with an overpowering scent.
Perfume. She meant perfume.
“We did not realize it was so late, but in the end we had to go get Serenity’s gift for Spike.”
“What did she get him?” Torolf had brought a box of Cuban cigars with him. Spike did love his cigars, though Serenity made him smoke them outside.
“I don’t know. It is from The Horny Toad.”
“Oh, my God!” Torolf put his face in his hands, just knowing what was going to come next.
“Uh, isn’t The Horny Toad a sex shop?” Geek asked.
“Yea, ’tis,” Hilda answered, not at all embarrassed. “Oh, I see you have a gift? Is that for Spike?” She was looking at the ribbon-and-foil-wrapped box on a side table.
He nodded, even as he was giving the guys dirty looks, encouraging them to leave.
Which they ignored, of course.
“ ’Tis good you brought a gift for Spike. I did not realize till too late that I had not bought anything for him. But then my new friends told me that if I told Spike about the gift I bought for you, that would be gift enough for him.”
I hope it’s see-through undies from Victoria’s Secret. No, I don’t. I’m just kidding. Hah! Who am I kidding?
Every guy in the room was grinning.
“Uh . . . what gift?”
“Do not be thinking that you deserve a gift, not after being such a slimy slyboots, sleeping with me after I distinctly told you not to touch me again, but you did remove Steinolf from this world, and for that I am thankful. ’Tis your favorite.”
This oughta be a whopper.
She leaned down and took an object from one of the bags, not the Victoria’s Secret one.
Cage, who was closest, took the object from her, looked at it, then laughed out loud. “Yep, it’s your favorite, Max.” Then he paused in a ta-dum manner. “Chocolate body paint.”
Amping up the ammunition . . . uh, temptation . . .
Hilda stomped away from her metal keep toward Lizzy’s metal keep.
The lout watched her progress, to ensure her safety, he’d said. No doubt he did so with that incessant frown on his face . . . or a grin. ’Twas ever one or the other with him.
He was sorely mistaken if he thought she was going to stay there and prepare for the birthday celebration with him watching over her shoulder, making observations on every little thing. The lip gloss, which he’d deemed unnecessary. The white silk pant-hees, which he’d wanted her to model for him. The tight black braies which he’d called slut jeans, even before she’d put them on. Slut had been lying on the bathing chamber floor at the time, splattered out like a rug, and had growled at his master’s apparent insult. Hilda was beginning to realize that Slut was not a proper name for a dog . . . or a woman.
She knew he just teased her, and he was just as uneasy as she about this unwanted attraction they both suffered from, and he was genuinely concerned about her safety, though she failed to see the immediate threat. Of a certainty, there was no need for Torolf to give her an irksome list of orders, as if she was a witless child. “Do not talk to any strangers.” “Do not tell anyone you have time-traveled.” “Do not mention the eleventh century.” “Do not discuss the mudslide and your stay in the hospital.” There were so many “do nots” she could have screamed. And when he’d said, “Do not flirt,” she’d had enough and picked up the parchment sack with her new clothing inside, declaring she would go to dress with the other women.
Lizzy opened the door at Hilda’s knock. “I’m so glad you decided to dress with us. I can’t wait to get my hands on that hair of yours.”
“Torolf was being a horse’s arse.”
“Enough said!” Linda peeked out of the bathing chamber.
When she got closer to the bathing chamber, she saw that another woman was in there with Tissie. That woman, who had seen no more than twenty winters, if Hilda guessed correctly, was sitting on the closed seat of the privy, with Tissie applying a flesh-colored, hiding lotion to her face. Her one eye was blackened, and there was a cut on her bottom lip.
It must be Jolene, the abused woman they had mentioned earlier. That fact was soon borne out when Lizzy said, “Hilda, this is Jolene. It took a lot of convincing, but she’s going to come with us tonight.”
Hilda assumed that the brutish husband must have left . . . for now. Otherwise, she misdoubted that he would allow the girl out of his sight.
Jolene looked up at Hilda through green eyes reddened from tears. Her black hair was lank and straight. Her petite body was broom-thin.
“Good tidings!”
“Hi!” the girl responded.
Hilda could not help herself. She knelt down in front of the girl and took her in her arms. “Oh, sweetling, in my country I have a sanctuary for women just like you. I cannot tell you how many times I have welcomed women with pain in their eyes . . . pain usually caused by brutish men. I will help you.”
The girl’s tears soon soaked her neck as Hilda made soothing noises. This country may be different than hers, this time period might be different than hers, but this one thing Hilda understood: Women needed other women to survive bad men.
Once the tears stopped and w
arm cloths held over Jolene’s eyes to reduce the redness, they all dressed and got ready to go. It took them two hours, but what a picture they made when they all piled into Tissie’s red Jeep and drove to Fire Hall.
Jolene’s bruises were still visible, but not so much as before. With some face paint and hair ornaments holding her hair off her face, she looked very pretty and younger than her age.
Hilda had also undergone an amazing transformation. Her hair had been curled with hot rollers, and subtle paint had been applied, giving her face a natural glow. And blessed Frigg, her eyelashes were so thick and long now, she could scarce lift her lids. She wore the tight black slut braies that Torolf had commented on, and it had taken her lying down on the floor and sucking in her stomach to get the zipper pulled up. She had no idea how she would manage if she had to relieve herself during the evening. As for her upper attire, the only word that came to mind was wanton. She would have never worn the busty-air, which also required her to suck in a deep breath, if not for the sure knowledge that Torolf would disapprove. In the end, she’d lost her courage and would not wear it unless covered with a sheer white blouse studded with gold stars, which she tied at the waist. It was still wanton, in her opinion.
A box inside the horseless carriage box was playing loud music, something about rolling stones and satisfaction.
Tissie, who sat with Hilda in the backseat, glanced at her and smiled. “Sweetie, you look hot!”
“Will Torolf think so, too?” Hilda realized that she was starting to care too much what Torolf thought of her.
“Oh, yeah! Him and every other male in the hall.”
