Page 19 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
He shifted and groaned, pushing one of my hands lower to cover his sac, closing his fingers over mine, rubbing himself through my grasp. I kneaded the heaviness in my palm, working him harder, extending my fingers to stroke the skin between his balls and his anus.
“Völva!” he groaned, calling me an enchantress in his own tongue, twisting under the pleasure I gave him.
I smiled as I took him from my mouth, for I fully intended to bewitch him. Shifting quickly, I moved to sit astride his lap. I was ready to lose myself in the heat of his body, but the devil in me wished him also to wait, as I had waited.
I was open, slick with his semen and my own desire, but I held back, rubbing only the tip of him to my ache.
“Now!” He growled, his hands firmly on my waist, pulling me down so that he slid inside in one long stroke.
Burying his face in my breasts, he pulled a nipple into his mouth, tugging hungrily, grazing me with his teeth.
“Faster!” Eirik groaned, wrapping his arms tight across my lower back.
I was soon close to the edge, rolling my hips, grinding my need against the base of his cock, crying out as I rose and fell.
As my tumult crashed upon me, Eirik pressed his fingers between my cheeks, pushing me to take him deeper and with the rhythm he so badly wanted, lifting me bodily up and down upon his shaft.
Three more strokes and his head fell back – his eyes wide and glassy, mouth open in breathlessness. His cock leapt inside me, pulsing to his final thrust and groan, and my own terrible delight swept me into the dark chasm.
* * *
Ilay in the curve of Eirik’s back, listening to the wind rise. I’d once told Helka that I was filled with longing for something I couldn’t name; that I felt I’d die for want of it. Had I found what I was looking for, or had my search only just begun?
3
The barley ripened in the heat, dipping in the lazy winds of late summer. Eirik was a warrior leader of his Viking raiders, but a farmer too, toiling alongside his men to harvest the crop. With their muscle-corded arms and broad shoulders, they were built like oxen: necks thick, and bodies used to labour.
As the afternoon sun retreated, I would walk out to find Eirik in the fields. Among the scent of hay, freshly bundled, stacked beneath a blue sky, I would taste his sweat and the brine of his cock, and give myself, in whichever way pleased him. His men grew accustomed to our habit, slapping him upon the back at my approach, sharing bawdy comments. They nodded to me, in friendly fashion, for I made Eirik happy, and he was well-loved among his men.
Svolvaen was a fertile place, rich in apple orchards, pears and cherries, growing vegetables in abundance, and with good pasture for its livestock. Its people seemed to work for the good of all, without the jealousies and disagreements of my former home.
Gunnolf’s methods of keeping law were both strict and fair. A man caught stealing a side of pork from the smokehouse was bidden to eat only from the trough for a week and to sleep with the pigs. It caused much merriment among the men, as well as having the desired effect upon the miscreant. He was duly humiliated: a punishment worse than any whip-lashing.
The jarl had a quick tongue, and a temper to match, which he made no effort to curb, as if he wished others to cringe and cower before him. As for those who showed their fear, they received his scorn. Where our paths crossed, I held my head high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of dominating me. Whatever attraction I felt, I pushed it to one side, for I had no wish to tread where my feet should not step.
My nature did not bend easily to service, despite the submission I’d endured under the hand of Faline’s father. However, I found it no trial to wait upon Lady Asta, who was all gentleness. She was with child, but with many months ahead of her, she was able to attend herself in most matters. Faline and I did little more than heat the water for her bath and care for her wardrobe. Faline bristled under her diminished status, having been raised with servants of her own. Not being born to luxuries, I was more easily content, though my position had changed greatly since I’d sat at the left hand of my chieftain, with others to wait upon me.
Asta enjoyed our lively companionship, and we passed many hours in braiding her hair, sitting under the sun’s warmth, the jarl’s wife patiently teaching us whatever of the language and customs she deemed most useful.
There was no need for me to dirty my hem in the sty or to labour in the skinning of game for our stew. I knew how to tend livestock, and to cook, but these were Guðrún and Sylvi’s duties. Nonetheless, I helped in small ways, for it seemed wrong to set myself above them.
With Asta’s leave, I found a homely comfort in milking the goats and cows, and in churning the butter. Eirik said the cheeses I made were the best he’d tasted. With Sylvi, I went down to the shore to harvest dulse; the seaweed brought a briny tang to the fish stew she was adept at making. I learnt to preserve meat in vats of sour whey to prevent it from spoiling, and hung herring in the smokehouse, or outdoors, to dry in the brisk, northern wind. I refilled the lamps each morning with fish oil, adding cottongrass long enough for the wick.
I took on the language of my new home, word by word, reading my neighbours not only by their expressions – which were mostly of curiosity, sometimes of pity, or scorn – but by the phrases I began to unravel. I wondered how many years it would take for them to accept me, to look into my eyes and not see a stranger. I had Viking blood, violently conceived during a raid by the Northmen more than twenty years ago, but I hadn’t been raised as one of them. Their rituals and habits were not yet mine but I wished to learn. For too long, I’d ached with the knowledge of not belonging; now, even within my diminished status, I yearned to be accepted.
The women of Svolvaen regarded Faline and I with envy, I could tell, for we enjoyed comparative leisure. They treated us with a certain reverence, too, for the Lady Asta was respected and loved, and she desired that others make us welcome.
“Her father was a jarl,” Helka told me, “And his before. The marriage ensured an alliance with a settlement further north. She came with a rich dowry, of golden-threaded gowns and cuffs and rings set with gemstones traded from the East.”
Even without her jewels and fine costume, she was a woman above all others: regal, self-possessed, and beautiful. It was my pleasure to serve her, and my fortune, for day by day, I came to love her.
Despite his wife’s condition or, perhaps, because of it, Gunnolf left Asta alone much of the day, though he was attentive on his visits, asking after her comfort, placing his palm upon her belly. There was no doubt that he desired the son he believed was to be born. He laughed in her company, as her sweet voice related some household tale, or sang gently. He was wont to lay his head upon her lap, his eyes closed as she stroked his hair. With her, he sought to be cherished, rather than feared.
However, he was as other men, with an eye that too often roamed to young women of good flesh and reasonable looks. He seemed well able to separate love from desire. Perhaps, it had always been that way, and Asta was able to accept his nature, without thinking any less of Gunnolf, or of herself. She spoke never a word against him.
He made little effort to conceal his gaze, oft watching as I carried out my modest duties. I’d no wish to fall prey to his lasciviousness. Though he spoke rarely to me and placed no hand upon my person, he reminded me of a lone wolf I’d encountered as a child, long ago, playing in the forest. I’d swiftly climbed a tree and it had appraised me from below, as if deciding whether I was worth the trouble of pouncing upon or if that pleasure might wait another day.
I found the jarl regularly with Guðrún or Sylvi, taking one or the other as they stood, up against the wall, or outside, barely concealed, while his wife was elsewhere, growing his child in her belly.
