Page 62 of Her Celtic Captor

He knew the exact moment of her release and used the sudden, uncontrolled softening of her body as his opportunity to drive his cock fully home. She screamed, a rasping, guttural sound of pleasure laced with pain, and her cunt convulsed around him.

Taranc held still, his palms now on her buttocks to hold her in place. Brynhild was unmoving, her body reshaping to accept his intrusion. Taranc kissed her hair, murmured words intended to calm, to reassure, to thank her. Brynhild tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

"So, Celt, you are finally fucking me." Her tone was triumphant.

"Twould seem so."

"Is this it? All that there is?" She rotated her hips in a large, slow circle.

He shook his head. "Not entirely. I prefer to take my time though. We shall go slow, and gentle, and with infinite tenderness."

"Tenderness?" She furrowed her brow. "Why tenderness? Why is that necessary? I thought?—"

He kissed the end of her nose. "I know what you thought, and why. But you were wrong. There will be tenderness between us. You ask too many questions, little Viking. I have one for you though. Is there any pain still?"

She frowned all the more. "Why, no. No, there is not. How? I mean, I thought..."

"Tenderness," he repeated, tightening his grip on her sore buttocks to rotate her hips since she had stopped. He groaned as she instinctively squeezed her inner muscles around his cock. "Oh, Sweet Jesu, you feel so good."

"As do you, Celt." She clenched again and resumed the motion herself now, rolling her hips and picking up on his sensual manipulation as she moved to take control of her own pleasure and his.

Typical Brynhild, he mused. Always taking charge, always wanting to lead, to give rather than to take. He would allow it, this time, this first time because he sensed that she needed this in order to start to restore her confidence. But it would not always be thus.

Brynhild rocked her hips above him, lifted her body then sank back down to take him fully inside her. His hands on her waist helped to take her weight, but the initiative was all hers. He allowed her to play, to test and experiment, to explore what felt right and good and where the pleasure pooled. Her breasts bobbed and swayed before his eyes, the plump, rosy-tipped mounds begging to be licked. Taranc took one nipple betweenhis lips and sucked hard. Brynhild arched toward him, thrusting her breasts at him, wordlessly demanding more.

Her second release was swift, more intense than the first he fancied as she shook with the force of it. Brynhild wrapped her arms about his head to hug him to her pressing her breast into his mouth. She pumped up and down on his cock, greedy and insatiable now, demanding and insistent as she ground her body down onto his.

He could not hold out much longer, but neither would he allow himself to finish before she was done. He slid his hand between their bodies again to take her clitty between his finger and thumb and roll the sensitive nubbin. She panted, ready, straining, seeking, reaching...

Taranc reached around her with his other hand to insinuate his fingers in the seam of her bottom. He found her rear hole, circled once, pressed, and slipped the tip of his middle finger inside.

Brynhild screamed. She screamed long and hard and loud, the sound barely muffled at all against his shoulder.

He blessed the foresight which had led him to bar the door as he entered. The last thing he wanted at this juncture was his mother and his aunt bursting in armed with pitchforks and torches, bent upon rescue.

His own release followed hers but scant moments later. Taranc let out his own groan of satisfaction as his balls tightened, twisted within their sack and his semen surged forth to fill his she-Viking's hot, tight channel. He grimaced into the darkness, a smile playing on his lips.

He was content.

Days passed,stretched into weeks, then months. Taranc found no cause for complaint at the bargain he had struck. Brynhild set his home to rights, assisted by Annag. His meals were wholesome, hearty, and hot. She weaved, she marched about his village, cloak billowing in the stiff northerly breeze which heralded the onset of the colder month, ordering his people about. She showed them how to salt the fish they caught, and insisted that a deep pit be dug in which to store ice in the winter. They could preserve their meat in ice, she insisted, enjoy fresh food in the depths of the harshest blizzards when it was impossible to hunt or fish. She never stopped, was always moving, always working, as though by constant movement she might stave off the need to think, to reflect upon the injustices which had brought her here.

Did she long for her home? For those left behind?

He did not know and would not ask again. He had offered, just once, to take her back to the Norseland if she so wished and he would have aided her in presenting her case to her brother, if not Ulfric then the other, Gunnar. Brynhild had refused, insisting that she had no desire to ever see Ulfric again.

If there was one thing he could say with certainty about his lovely Brynhild, it was that she held a grudge well. She swore she would never forgive her brother for his betrayal and Taranc saw no cause to doubt it.

Privately, Taranc could find no reason to quibble with Ulfric's decision, wrong-headed though it had been. Taranc had emerged the victor.

Brynhild was happy, he was sure of that. He knew she found pleasure in managing her household and enjoyed the companyof Dughall. She spent most evenings at the manor house in Pennglas, but was always pleased to accompany Taranc back down to the coastal village and to writhe with undisguised lust in his arms the moment their door was closed and barred.

She was a truly glorious lover, responsive to his touch but equally ready to initiate their lovemaking. She was inquisitive too, and inventive, a sensual creature who once awakened revelled in her own pleasure and in his. He would chuckle and insist he had unleashed a siren of old, a Nordic goddess devoted to sensuality and lust. Brynhild would laugh and assure him that the goddess Freyja had far weightier matters to concern her than the state of a Celtic fisherman's cock, but she would have no hesitation in dropping to her knees before him and releasing that same swollen cock from within his woven trousers. She would cradle his erection in her hands, lick the tip, taste the juices which flowed from the slit there before taking as much of the head and shaft as she could inside her mouth. Then she would work her tongue and teeth and throat until his seed spurted forth. She would swallow hard and lick him clean, a contented smile playing about her sensual lips as she sat back on her heels inordinately pleased with herself.

Cold? Never.

Distant? Lacking in affection? He believed not though she was not even remotely demonstrative in other ways. Always proper, always respectful toward him in public, Brynhild was quietly efficient and fair in her dealings with his people and seemed to have found contentment here at Aikrig. This was all that mattered to Taranc. He loved her. It was that simple.

"Doyou have a few minutes to walk with me?"

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