Page 3 of Her Viking Master

“Good girl,” he murmured, and despite everything, I felt a surge of pride at his praise. “That’s only the beginning of what you’re going to experience as my thrall.”

As the aftershocks of my climax faded, my body still trembling with residual pleasure, I heard a sharp knock at the door. Before I could process what was happening, even as far as to remember what athrallwas, I felt Professor Hallstrom’s strong hands grip my waist. With shocking ease, he lifted me as if I weighed no more than a feather, tossing me over his broad shoulder in one fluid motion.

To my absolute horror and my burning shame I felt a fresh surge of arousal course through me at being so effortlessly manhandled. My still-sensitive pussy throbbed, pressed against his muscular shoulder. I could feel the warmth of his body through my thin blouse, smell the intoxicating mix of his cologne and the musky scent of his skin. It was primal, animalistic, and it spoke to some deep, hidden part of me I had never known existed.

I heard the door open, the creak of hinges impossibly loud in the tension-filled silence. Then Professor Hallstrom’s voice rang out, but not in English. The words flowed like honey, lilting and musical even with the authoritative tone. It was the same language he had used on the phone earlier—Icelandic? Danish? I had no idea.

Two male voices responded, their tones equally confident and casual, as if finding a bound and gagged girl slung over their colleague’s shoulder represented an everyday occurrence. I strained to make out individual words, to glean some understanding of what was happening, but it was useless. The unfamiliar syllables washed over me, beautiful but incomprehensible.

I felt utterly helpless, completely at the mercy of these men. The rational part of my mind screamed in terror, urging me to fight, to struggle, to do something. But my traitorous body had other ideas. Each shift of Professor Hallstrom’s shoulder sent little jolts of pleasure rocketing through my womb to my overstimulated clit. The sheer strength he displayed in holding me so effortlessly made me feel small, feminine—and mortifyingly needy.

The conversation continued, the three men speaking in that mysterious Scandinavian tongue. I caught what sounded like my name, again—‘Mary,’ accented in a way that to my distress felt swoon-worthy—amidst the foreign words several times, sending fresh thrills of fear and excitement through me. What had they said about me? What plans had they made for my future?

I felt Professor Hallstrom’s hand come to rest on my bottom, which was still stinging from the spanking he had delivered. His touch was possessive but also almost casual, as if I were nothing more than a piece of property to be discussed and handled at will. And despite my fear and confusion, I found myself helplessly arching into his touch, seeking more of that forbidden contact—as if this all constituted some kind of game, rather than the dangerous, even maybe deadly reality of a kidnapping.

Professor Hallstrom carried me swiftly down the hallway. I could feel how his long strides ate up the distance, and I heard the sounds of his feet, and those of his companions, come faintly through the fabric of the hood. The fabric of his shirt rubbed against my bare thighs, a constant reminder of my exposed state. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and unwanted arousal making me dizzy.

As we emerged from the building, the cool night air hit my skin, raising goosebumps across my exposed flesh. The sounds of the city assaulted my ears—distant traffic, the rustle of leaves, the echo of footsteps on pavement. I prayed desperately that someone, anyone would notice my plight.

With renewed determination, I screamed into the gag. The sound came out muffled and weak, barely audible even to my own ears. Still, I tried again and again, my throat growing raw with the effort. Surely someone would hear, would realize something was wrong?

But no rescue came. Instead, I heard the distinctive sound of a van door sliding open. Before I could process what was happening, I felt myself lifted off Professor Hallstrom’s shoulder. For a brief, terrifying moment, I was suspended in midair. Then I landed hard on what felt like the metal floor of a vehicle, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.

I lay there, stunned and aching, as I heard the men climbing into the van around me. Their voices were low, still speaking that incomprehensible Scandinavian language. The door slammed shut with a finality that made my stomach lurch.

The engine roared to life, and I felt the vehicle lurch forward. As we drove away from the university—away from safety, away from everything I knew—I couldn’t help but imagine what might lie ahead. My mind conjured images of Viking longships, of fierce warriors carrying off captured women. It was like something out of the very sagas Professor Hallstrom had lectured about, come to terrifying life.

The van’s movement jostled me, and I struggled to find purchase on the smooth metal floor. Every bump and turn sent me sliding, helpless to control my own body. The hood over my head seemed to grow tighter, making it hard to breathe. Panic clawed at my throat, threatening to overwhelm me.

Over the top of the fear and to my humiliated mystification, the wayward, fantasizing part of me—a voice in my mind that refused to shut up—thrilled at the danger, at the feeling of being utterly powerless. As the van carried me away into the unknown, I found myself slipping helplessly into a fantasy. In my mind’s eye, I was no longer Mary O’Toole, Selecta scholarship student. I became an Irish maiden from centuries past, captured in a Viking raid, being carried off to a new life of abject servitude—as if that debased existence… thatsexualservitude… represented some kind of lunatic adventure.

The rational part of my mind screamed at me to fight, to resist. But as the van drove on into the night, I only found myself sinking deeper into the insane fantasy.

“Mary.” Professor Hallstrom’s voice cut through my reverie, startling me back to the present. “It will probably run counter to, shall we say, your modern values, but it’s important for you to understand that you should feel honored to belong to a warrior, as you now belong to me.”

For a moment, I struggled to reconcile his words with reality. It took long seconds for me even to realize that he’d spoken in English. My mind had been so deeply entrenched in the fantasy of being a medieval captive that hearing him speak of the modern world seemed jarring. I blinked beneath the hood, trying to orient myself.

“You are part of a long tradition,” he continued, his accented English sending shivers down my spine. “For centuries, young women like you have been chosen, taken, enjoyed—and thus also molded into something greater than they ever imagined.”

His hand found my leg, fingers tracing patterns on my bare skin. I shuddered at his touch, the too-familiar mixture of fear and desire swirling inside me.

“Soon,lille en, you will learn a very great deal about what it means to belong to a Viking.” The professor’s voice was low, almost hypnotic. “The old ways are not dead. They have merely seemed so to the great mass of people, as beyond their sight the true Vikings preserved our culture.”

As he spoke, I felt the van slow and then come to a stop. The engine cut off, leaving us in eerie silence. My heart pounded so loudly I felt sure everyone could hear it.

Strong arms encircled me, lifting me effortlessly. Again I smelled his scent.Sven.I couldn’t think of him asProfessor Hallstromanymore, could I?

I felt myself being carried, the motion making me dizzy inside the confining hood. The air changed, becoming cooler and damper. The echoes of our footsteps suggested we were in some sort of large, open space.

Voices drifted to me—men speaking that same Scandinavian language, their tones confident and casual. But there were other voices too, female ones, speaking rapid French. They sounded my age, scared, like me. My blood ran cold as I realized there were other girls here, other victims like me.

My heart raced as I tried to make sense of the cacophony of words around me. The cool, damp air felt clammy on my skin, and I shivered involuntarily. Suddenly, a man’s voice cut through the din, speaking in accented French.

“Take off your clothes. All of them. Now.”

His tone sounded as cold as the temperature. I heard a young woman’s voice respond, pleading in rapid, native French.

“Please,monsieur, I beg you. Let me keep my underwear on. Please, I’m not… I’ve never…”

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