Page 12 of Her Viking Master

“And what of your Camille, Erik?” I asked, turning to my shield-brother. “Did that defiant spirit of hers hold out?”

Erik’s grin was wolfish as he replied, “Oh, she pretended to fight me at first, cursing in that lovely French of hers. But by the second time I fucked her, she was moaning my name like a prayer.”

More laughter filled the hall, along with good-natured jeers and jests. We passed around horns of mead, toasting to our success and to the blessings of Odin.

As the initial excitement settled, our talk turned to the metaphorical voyage that lay ahead. The ritual cleansing complete, we would soon return to our thralls for the next phase of their training.

“I can’t wait to feel those soft lips around my cock,” Aksel mused, his eyes glazed with lust. “Sophie’s mouth looks made for sucking.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. I nodded, picturing Mary’s full, pouty lips and imagining how they would look stretched around my manhood.

“Remember, brothers,” I cautioned, my voice taking on the authoritative tone of a leader, “this is about more than just our pleasure. We must train them not just in providing enjoyment, but in the mental process that accompanies their obedience to our wishes: it is their minds, as much as their bodies, that will send them to Yggdrasil.”

The other men nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of our responsibility. We were not simply using our new bed thralls’ pussies, mouths, and—when the time came—backsides. These intimate acts, for all their lewdness, represented an ancient tradition that would make the young women whom we had bound to the rowing benches into something much greater.

“We’ll use the straps if needed,” Erik added, his voice hard. “They must learn to suppress their gag reflexes, to take us deep into their throats, if they are to reach the necessary state of perception.”

I felt my cock stir at the thought, imagining Mary’s eyes watering as she struggled to accommodate my full length. Yes, I would train her well, mold her into a skillful bed thrall—and, I hoped, much more.

As we climbed out of the pool, water streaming down our muscular bodies, I noticed a faint red glow coming from the far corner of the bathing hall. My brow furrowed as I realized it was the warning light on our lone concession to modern technology here in the ritual caverns—the control panel that connected our most ancient sanctuary to the outside world.

“Brothers,” I called out, my voice echoing off the stone walls. “Continue with your preparations. I must attend to something.”

They nodded their ingrained understanding of the importance of my hereditary role as leader. I strode across the damp floor, my wet footprints leaving a trail behind me. As I approached the control panel, I felt a sense of unease settle in my stomach. We rarely received communications through this channel—it was meant for emergencies only.

I entered the access code and the screen flickered to life. My eyes widened as I saw the source of the alert:Groupe Synergistique. Our supposed allies in the corporate world, though I had always been wary of their true motivations.

The message was brief, but concerning:

Urgent: Detected major Pretorian Guard construction activity near Arctic Circle. Possible threat to our mutual interests. Immediate discussion required.

I frowned, running a hand through my damp hair. The Pretorian Guard had long been a thorn in our side, their pseudo-Roman ideology clashing with our Norse traditions, making it difficult at times to gather necessary intelligence without revealing ourselves. We had managed to keep ourselves hidden from them, though, even as they worked against our allies. What could they be planning that would draw the attention ofGroupe Synergistique?

I glanced back at my brothers, still laughing and preparing for the next phase of our ritual. They deserved this night of triumph, this celebration of our ancient ways. But duty called, and as their leader, I could not ignore it.

With a heavy sigh, I typed out a brief response:

Acknowledged. Will make contact within twenty-four hours to discuss.

I shut down the terminal, my mind already racing with possibilities. Whatever the Pretorian Guard was up to, it could not be good for the Sons of Odin. We would need to tread carefully in the days ahead.

For now, though, I pushed those concerns to the back of my mind. Tonight was about claiming our thralls, about continuing the traditions that had sustained us for over a thousand years. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges.

I turned back to my brothers, forcing a smile onto my face. “Come,” I called out. “Our new bed thralls await us. Let us show them the pleasure and pain of serving the Sons of Odin.”

* * *

Mary

I strained my ears, trying to make sense of the muffled shouts coming from the adjoining chamber. The words were indistinct, but the tone was unmistakable—boisterous, triumphant, masculine. My cheeks burned as I imagined what the Sons of Odin might be discussing; boasting, perhaps, about their conquest of their new bed thralls.

A faint splashing sound reached my ears, and I furrowed my brow in confusion. Were they… bathing? The thought of those powerful bodies submerged in water, droplets cascading down muscled chests… I shook my head, trying to dispel the unwelcome image.

“This is all so strange,” I murmured, more to myself than the others. “Like something out of a fever dream.”

“I have to pee,” Amélie’s soft voice broke through my musings. “Oh, God, I have to pee so badly.”

I suddenly became acutely aware of my own bladder, uncomfortably full. How long had we been bound here? Hours? It felt like an eternity.

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