Page 10 of Her Viking Master

With each new penetration, my embarrassment seemed to lessen, and a strange sense of… ofbelongingto increase. Belonging to Sven, and his brothers—and belonging to something bigger than myself. These men were my masters now, and it was my duty to please them. I was their thrall, theirs to do with as they willed. The very thought sent a shiver down my spine and made me wetter than ever.

Finally, Sven’s turn in my pussy came round again. His blond head appeared above me as he positioned himself behind me. “Mary,” he whispered in my ear, his voice a soothing balm to my senses, “this time will be different.”

He entered me slowly, his cock sliding in with ease thanks to the generous lubrication provided by his brothers. But this time, there was no pounding or roughness. Instead, he moved in and out with a tenderness I never thought possible from such a large man. His hands caressed my breasts gently, thumbs flicking my nipples to hard points.

“Oh… God…” I moaned loudly as he hit an especially sensitive spot deep inside me. My back arched involuntarily as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me. The pain of taking his enormous manhood seemed only to build my need higher.

“That’s it,” Sven murmured in my ear, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Feel how well we fit together.”

I closed my eyes, lost in the terribly ambiguous sensations whirling inside my body. I sobbed at even these gentle thrusts, unable to discover how Sven’s cock could feel so good inside me, so right, and yet could hurt so much. Each slow stroke was a painful, ecstatic declaration of ownership, a reminder that I belonged to him now, and only him. I would take what he gave me, even when he had to punish me. He would choose where to put his hard penis, when to whip me, spank me, fuck me.

I cried out as a final orgasm shook me, and I felt Sven go still as his hardness pulsed out his seed. His hands tightened on my waist, and he shouted in his pleasure. As if they had waited for their leader, I heard the triumphant cries of the other Sons of Odin, mingled with the moans and sobs of the girls they had taken as bed thralls.

My face burned like the sun, and yet the warmth in my chest represented a very different sort of response. A man had just come in my no-longer-virgin pussy. Myfissebelonged to him, and he, myHerra, would plant a baby in me if he wished and the gods allowed the seed to blossom.

I felt Sven’s cock twitch inside me one final time before he slowly withdrew. The loss of his presence left me feeling strangely empty, and I whimpered softly at the sensation. My entire body ached, muscles I didn’t even know I had protesting from the hours of vigorous use.

Sven’s hand came to rest on the small of my back, his touch surprisingly gentle. When he spoke, his voice carried clearly through the cavern, the French words rolling off his tongue with the lilting Scandinavian accent I recognized more clearly than I had before.

“Bed thralls,” he began, “you have sailed into the shallows, on your voyage into servitude. Your bodies have been claimed, your virginities offered up to your masters. But this is only the beginning. There is deep water to cross, on our longship.”

I shivered at his words, my mind reeling as I tried to process everything that had happened. The sensations in my body were overwhelming—the soreness between my legs, the ache in my muscles, the sticky wetness of semen and my own arousal coating my thighs.

Sven continued, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone. “You will remain here, bound to these benches, available for your masters’ use until we reach our destination. Remember that your bodies are no longer your own—they belong to us, to use as we see fit.”

A chorus of soft whimpers and muffled sobs echoed through the cavern at his pronouncement. I felt my own eyes prick with tears, a confusing mix of emotions swirling within me. The logical part of me demanded that I protest, to fight against this insanity. It screamed its anger at that other part that to my confusion seemed to be growing stronger with each passing moment—the unnamable, archaic part that felt a thrill of helpless excitement at the idea of being so utterly possessed.

I heard the rustle of clothing as Sven and the other Sons of Odin dressed themselves. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls as they moved about the cavern, gathering their things. I strained my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening, but the way I was bound made it impossible to see much beyond the rough wood of the bench beneath me.

Finally, I heard Sven’s voice once more, speaking in that rough but also graceful language to his brothers. Their responding grunts of assent sent a shiver down my spine. Then, with a final caress of my bottom that made me gasp, Sven moved away.

The sound of heavy footsteps receded, followed by the creak and thud of a massive door closing. Silence fell over the cavern, broken only by the soft sobs and ragged breathing of the other girls.

For a long moment, no one spoke. I lay there, my cheek pressed against the bench, listening to the sounds of the other thralls around me. The air felt thick with the scent of sex and sweat, and I could hear the occasional drip of fluid hitting the stone floor beneath us.

Finally, a tentative whisper broke the silence. The words were in French, too soft and rapid for me to make out. I strained to grasp a thread, but the words went beyond my limited comprehension of my peers’ daily speech. Frustration welled up inside me. I needed to understand, to connect with these other girls who had shared this bizarre, terrifying experience with me.

Gathering my courage, I cleared my throat and spoke up in my halting college French. “S’il vous plaît… parlez plus lentement et clairement. Je ne comprends pas bien.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Camille’s voice rang out, sharp with anger. She spoke in heavily accented English, but much more fluidly than I could manage in her French. “You! You dare to speak to us? You, who clearly knows our captor?”

I flinched at the venom in her tone. “Non, je?—”

“Don’t lie!” Camille spat, sticking to English as if to shame me. “We all saw how he looked at you, how he spoke to you. You’re in league with them, aren’t you? Some kind of… of collaborator!”

Tears sprang to my eyes at her accusation. “Non, c’est pas vrai!Je vous jure… je ne…”

“Camille, arrête!” Another voice cut in—softer, gentler. Amélie. She spoke in slow French. “Be kinder. Can’t you see she’s as frightened as we are?”

I heard Camille scoff, but she fell silent. Amélie’s voice came again, slower and clearer this time. “We were discussing the Vikings, Mary. Their connection to this… this madness.”

“Merci, Amélie,” I said gratefully. “I… I don’t understand what’s happening. Please, tell me what you were saying.”

Amélie’s voice sounded thoughtful as she explained. “We were talking about Normandy’s Viking heritage. How this might be connected to that somehow.”

The words struck a chord in me, tickling at some half-remembered lesson. “Viking heritage?” I repeated, struggling to piece together the fragments of knowledge floating in my mind.

Camille’s voice came again, dripping with scorn. Again she spoke in her heavily accented English, even more clearly meant to mock my incomprehension because of how slowly she uttered the words. “It’s in the name, you ignorant American. Norman. North-man. Don’t they teach you anything in your schools?”

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