Viking Marauder

TW/DISCLAIMER: This story includes non-consensual sex. The author affirms the story is fictional and in no way condones rape or sexual assault.

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The first thing Halfdan noticed was the warmth of her body, the smell of her skill, and the way she fit perfectly nestled into his body. Gone was the heathen fire goddess from the night before, in her place a supple, content kitten, curled up, just begging for his touch. His prize, selected from the cream of the captured villagers, a spoil of war. His to do with what he wished, though she had yet to accept it.

She was no innocent, a widow despite her young years. He had just had her the night before, and yet he craved more. When she had railed against him, he had seen passion buried in her resistance, evident even more when he sunk into her wet depth. Since she appeared to have no desire for his touch, he had used her quickly and fallen asleep with her locked in her embrace. He knew that she had fought sleep, hoping for a chance to escape, but when morning arrived, she was still there.

Just as well. His men were just outside. She had nowhere to go.

He allowed himself to create just the slightest amount of space between them, so he could gaze down the length of her naked body. The furs had slipped during the night, exposing her naked body. Her curves were full and luscious, hips that fit his rough grip as he rode her and a ripe buttocks able to absorb the impact of his thrusts. His broad palm followed the path his eyes traced, drifting down her waist before desire got the better of him and he cupped her hip firmly.

He was shocked to feel just the slightest movement as she unconsciously moved even closer to him, pressing the crease of her ass into his already hardening cock. In her sleep, she desired him. If only his little Scottish wildcat could admit that when waking.

Curiosity got the better of him. She was so small, all he had to do was reach down and his hand was between her legs, gently slipping one finger between her nether lips and curling as it pressed inside her. He groaned. Was she always this wet? A snarl of jealousy and possessiveness bubbled up from inside when he thought of another man bringing her such pleasure.

His hips moved without thought, his cock cradled between her butt cheeks, straining for a different home. His hand left her hip and positioned himself between her legs. He almost came at the feel of her soaking quim. Hoping to prolong this moment, enjoying her soft and compliant, he pressed forward slowly. Torturously slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully engulfed. He heard her give a soft exhale of pleasure, and he felt a thread of primal satisfaction at the noise.

He knew she was awake, though she didn't acknowledge him. Didn't acknowledge the snugness of him being sheathed within her, the walls of her pulsating around him, drawing him deeper.

He withdrew from her until his tip was once again resting at her entrance, before sliding home with even more force. If he hadn't been listening for it, he would have missed her silent gasp of indignation at his absence. His grin was feral with primal satisfaction. His grip on her waist tightened as he took up a steady pace. She moved with him, her back arching to accommodate his invasion, little mewling noises escaping her lips.

Her breasts taunted him. In their given position, he knew one was flattened into the bed, its size accentuated by the contrast of her pale skin against the dark brown pelts. The other rolled seductively with each thrust. His calloused fingers abandoned her waist and reached up to tease her nipple, taut and straining.

He wanted to see her. He wanted to see the defiance fade into lust. As he propped himself up on one elbow, he could see her lip caught between her teeth, almost as if she could contain her response. Even now, she wouldn't let go. He admired her protest even as he wanted to yell in frustration. So be it.

Without breaking his rhythm, he rolled her slightly until she was face down, and he could pound into her, the sound of his hips and balls slapping against her skin filling the small space. She struggled to tuck her arms underneath her, to prevent her from being buried face first into the covers, but he placed a hand on the small of her back to hold her, submissive, nothing more than a warm body upon which he could slake his lust. Struck by inspiration, he reached forward with his other hand to grasp her long blond braid, tugging her head back and into view, her mouth hanging open as she panted each time he filled her.

He dropped his hand, adjusted his angle, and increased his pace. His thrusts dug into her, stroking repeatedly against the sensitive ridge until she could no longer contain her groans of desire. That was enough to send him over the edge. He jerked in release, emptying himself deep within her, claiming her. Marking her as his.

Growling his pleasure like the barbarian he is, he rolled her over so that he could rest between her legs, forcing her to meet his eyes. She didn't back down; she refused to show any pleasure, as if it were weakness.

Pushing at his shoulders, she grumbled, 'Now that yer finished, can ye let me up to go wash m'self?

He arched an eyebrow, amused. "You haven't finished."

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Sorcha couldn't believe her eyes. The man shouldn't still be hard. Her surprise was her downfall. By the time she realized his intent and attempted to scoot out of his reach, he grasped her ankles and pulled her back underneath him. He captured her wrists, one of his massive hands holding them together and stretching her arms above her head, exposing her breasts to him as though they were a banquet and he the feasting warrior.

A shiver ran through her and she refused to give it a name. She refused to admit that this beast of a man could inspire pleasure in her. Her husband had been a loving, gentle man, always requesting permission before he slid between her legs and made love to her in a quiet manner she'd always thought was the mark of his noble ancestry. It had always been pleasant, but restrained.

It was nothing like what this brute was doing to her. And had done to her the night before. She'd never felt this overwhelming desire seize every limb in her body until she felt her bones had all but disappeared. And when he withdrew from her, the aching in her womb was indescribable. As if he could hear her thoughts, he plunged back into her, filling her more completely than she thought possible.

One hand kept her arms secured above her head while the other maintained a grip on the gentle curve of her waist. He maintained eye contact as he withdrew excruciatingly slowly before sinking back into her soft folds, bottoming out and his potent sac slapping against the buttocks he'd admired earlier, unbeknownst to her. Unwilling to be the first to admit weakness, Sorcha kept his gaze, as much as she wanted to roll her eyes back and surrender to the sea of sensations he wrought in her.

She noticed a glint of amusement, no impishness, entered his eyes as the hand on her waist loosened and he trailed his calloused fingers across the soft skin of her stomach, through the curly golden hair on her pubis. Still deep inside her, his thumb found a sensitive little nub at the crest of her sex, and flicked. She almost jolted upright. He laughed. She tried to take a swipe at him but his grip held firm on her wrists.

He resumed a slow pace, thrusting inside her while teasing her with his thumb. She could her the betrayal of her body as her juices made it easier for him to reach even more deeply inside her. Writhing beneath him, she clung to maintain their challenge of gazes in spite of an ever growing crescendo inside her. He seemed to know what she needed, even as she did not. He took the little love button between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed ever so gently.

It was all it took. She came apart in his hands, her back arched, her head thrown back, her body enthusiastically welcoming the defeat and pleasure, hand-in-hand. The man growled again (perhaps it was his native tongue, she thought in some distant space in her mind), released her wrists, and gripped both hips so firmly she knew she'd have bruises on the morrow.

Gone was any semblance of man, and in its place, full barbarian. He slammed into her with thrusts that she felt at the very entry of her womb. The interior of her thighs ached, and yet pleasure continued to roll through her. One final shout of pleasure from him, and he shot his seed deep within her.

He collapsed on top of her, the warmth and sweat of him overwhelming her senses. She felt suffocated and yet had no desire for him to move. He was her captor! She should not feel desire, or worse, safety, in his arms. Passion was clouding her judgment - it was why she had avoided any possibility of it in selecting a husband.

Before she could ruminate too long on her thoughts, he rolled off her, sighed, and slapped her hip proprietarily.

"Now you may bathe, wench."

Her eyes narrowed and he chuckled as she immediately stood and put distance between him. That is, until she hurled the earthenware jug of water at the bed.