Chapter 3: The Foreman's Private Welcome
The door closed behind them with a sound like a coffin lid sealing shut.
The room beyond was smaller than she had expected, but no less oppressive. Rough-hewn oak walls pressed in from all sides, their surfaces scarred with crude carvings—figures tangled in positions that made her face burn even as her eyes tried to look away. The bed dominated the space, its iron-bound frame groaning softly as if it had absorbed the weight of every body that had ever lain upon it.
The sheets were dark. Stained. She didn't want to think about what had made those stains.
Gareth guided her toward the bed with a hand on the small of her back, his touch light but insistent. Behind them, the door opened again—she heard it, felt the shift in air pressure—and then Osric was there, filling the doorway like a storm cloud given flesh.
"Thought you might want company," Gareth said, and his voice had changed. Softer now. Gentler. The voice of a man soothing a spooked horse.
"I—" Elara's tongue felt thick, clumsy. The ale she had drunk earlier sat warm in her belly, spreading tendrils of heat through her limbs. "I thought I was going to sleep."
"You are." Gareth's fingers traced up her spine, feather-light, and she shivered. "Eventually."
Osric closed the door. The latch clicked into place with a finality that made her stomach clench.
He didn't speak. He simply crossed the room in three long strides and stopped behind her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his massive body. His breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck, and she caught his scent—sweat and iron and something earthier beneath, something raw and masculine that made her pulse quicken despite herself.
"You're trembling," Gareth observed. His hand had found her hip, fingers splayed wide, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of her dress. "Are you cold?"
"No." The word came out breathless. "I'm just—"
"Scared?" Osric's voice rumbled from behind her, low enough that she felt it in her chest. "We told you. Nothing to be scared of."
"We're going to take care of you," Gareth added. His other hand came up to cup her face, tilting it toward him. His eyes were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and she saw something in them that made her breath catch—not cruelty, not violence, but hunger. Pure, patient hunger. "You've been so good tonight. So sweet. Don't you think you deserve a reward?"
"I don't—I don't know what you mean."
"You don't have to know." His thumb brushed across her lower lip, parting it slightly. "You just have to feel."
And then he kissed her.
His mouth was warm, firm, tasting of ale and smoke and something deeper beneath. He kissed her slowly, deliberately, like a man savoring a meal he had waited years to eat. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, asking permission, and when she didn't pull away—when she stood there, frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs—he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth with a groan that vibrated through her entire body.
She had never been kissed like this.
Ulric's kisses were quick, perfunctory, the kind of kiss a man gave his wife before rolling over to sleep. He kissed her like it was a chore, a box to be checked, a duty to be performed. He never lingered. He never savored. He never made her feel like the act itself was something worth drawing out.
Gareth kissed her like she was the only woman in the world. Like he had all the time in the universe and intended to use every second of it.
Behind her, Osric's hands found her waist.
He didn't ask permission. He simply took—his palms spanning the curve of her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh through her dress, pulling her back against him so she could feel the hard length of his body pressing into her spine. His cock was already stiff against her lower back, thick and insistent, and she gasped into Gareth's mouth at the sensation.
"Shh." Gareth pulled back just enough to murmur against her lips. "Just feel."
Osric's hands began to move. Up her sides. Over her ribs. Cupping the heavy weight of her breasts through the fabric, his thumbs finding her nipples with unerring accuracy. They were already pebbled beneath the wool, sensitive from the chill in the air and something else—something warm and liquid that had been building in her belly since the moment she stepped into the longhouse.
"Fuck," Osric breathed against her ear. "Feel that. She's already hard for us."
"I told you," Gareth said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. "She's a good girl. She just needed to relax."
Elara's mind was swimming.
This was wrong. She knew it was wrong. She was married—married to a man who was probably still sitting in the main hall, drowning his shame in ale while his wife was being passed between strangers like a pipe at a gathering.
But the hands felt good.
Both of them. Gareth's fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back for another kiss. Osric's palms kneading her breasts, rolling her nipples between his knuckles until she whimpered into Gareth's mouth. The heat of their bodies surrounding her, the scent of them filling her lungs, the rough timbre of their breathing like music in the darkness.
Ulric never touched her like this.
Ulric never touched her at all, not really. He would fumble at her in the dark, quick and embarrassed, finishing before she had time to feel anything. He would roll off her and turn his back and fall asleep while she lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was all there was.
This was different.
This was hands that explored instead of grabbing. Mouths that tasted instead of taking. Bodies that moved with purpose instead of haste.
Gareth broke the kiss and turned her around.
Osric was waiting.
He didn't kiss her. He simply looked at her for a long moment, those dark eyes boring into hers, and then he bent his head and claimed her mouth with a brutality that stole her breath. There was no gentleness in Osric—he kissed her like he was trying to consume her, tongue forcing its way past her lips, teeth grazing her skin. His hands had moved to her ass, squeezing the plush curves through her dress, pulling her against the rigid line of his cock.
She moaned into his mouth.
The sound surprised her. She hadn't meant to make it. But it escaped anyway, rising from somewhere deep in her chest, and Osric swallowed it with a growl of approval.
"That's it," Gareth murmured from behind her. His hands had found the laces of her dress, working them loose with practiced efficiency. "Let it out. No one's going to judge you here."
The dress fell away.
Elara gasped as cool air hit her skin, but the chill didn't last. Gareth's hands were on her bare shoulders, her back, her waist. Osric's fingers found the hem of her shift and pulled it over her head, and then she was naked, standing between two fully clothed men, her heavy breasts exposed to their hungry gazes.
"Gods," Gareth breathed. His hands cupped her from behind, lifting the substantial weight of her tits, thumbs brushing over her nipples. "Look at these. Fucking perfect."
Osric said nothing. He simply stared, his eyes traveling down her body like a man memorizing a map. When his gaze reached the dark triangle of hair between her thighs, he made a sound low in his throat—something between a growl and a groan.
"You're dripping," he said. "I can smell it."
Her face burned. "I—"
"Don't apologize." He reached down, cupping her cunt through the thin fabric of her underthings—she still wore those, at least, though they were damp with something that made her thighs slick. "I like it. Shows you're honest."
Gareth's hands left her breasts. She heard fabric rustling behind her, the soft thud of clothing hitting the floor, and then his bare chest was pressed against her back, skin to skin, the coarse hair on his chest scraping against her shoulder blades.
"Let's get you on the bed," he said. "Before my knees give out."
They moved her together, Gareth guiding her from behind while Osric cleared the way. The mattress was rough beneath her back, stuffed with something that crackled when she shifted, and it smelled of old sweat and older sex—but she didn't care. She couldn't care. Not when Gareth was climbing onto the bed beside her, his cock standing thick and ruddy from a nest of dark hair, not when Osric was stripping off his shirt to reveal a torso that looked like it had been carved from granite.
"Beautiful," Gareth said, and his hand found her thigh, pushing her legs apart. "Look at that. Pink and wet and ready for us."
Osric knelt between her legs.
He didn't ask permission. He simply lowered his head and dragged his tongue through the slick folds of her cunt.
Elara screamed.
The sound was torn from her throat, raw and involuntary, and she arched off the mattress like she had been struck by lightning. No one had ever—Ulric had never—she had never even imagined—
Osric's tongue was relentless. He licked her like a man starving, broad strokes from hole to clit, lapping up the wetness that poured from her body. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open, holding her still, and his nose pressed against her clit as his tongue fucked into her cunt.
"Taste her," he grunted, lifting his head just long enough to speak. "She's sweet."
Gareth moved down the bed, and then his mouth was there too—his tongue joining Osric's, both of them licking and sucking at her cunt like she was the last meal they would ever eat. Gareth's fingers found her clit, rubbing tight circles while Osric's tongue speared into her hole, and Elara felt something building in her belly, something massive and terrifying and wonderful.
"I'm—" Her voice cracked. "I'm going to—"
"Come," Gareth commanded. "Come for us. Show us how good we make you feel."
And she did.
The orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing over her in pulses of white-hot pleasure. Her cunt clenched around nothing, and she heard herself screaming, felt her hips bucking against their mouths, felt the wetness gushing from her body onto their faces.
When she finally came down, gasping and trembling, both men were grinning.
"Good girl," Gareth said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now let's see if you can do that again."
He positioned himself between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. Osric knelt beside them, his own cock in his hand, stroking slowly as he watched.
"Ready?" Gareth asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He pushed inside her.
The stretch was immediate, overwhelming—he was thicker than Ulric, longer, and her body had to work to accommodate him. But the wetness helped, and the orgasm had left her loose and relaxed, and within moments he was buried to the hilt, his hips flush against hers, his pubic bone grinding against her clit.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, she's tight."
"Move," Osric said. "Let me see."
Gareth pulled back and thrust forward, and Elara cried out at the sensation. He set a rhythm quickly—hard, deep strokes that made her tits bounce and her breath catch. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding her steady as he fucked into her with increasing force.
"That's it," he panted. "Take it. Take all of it."
Osric moved closer, his hand still working his cock. His eyes were fixed on the place where Gareth's cock disappeared into her body, watching the way her cunt stretched around him, the way her juices coated his shaft.
"Let me feel," he said.
Gareth slowed, and Osric reached down, his thick fingers finding her clit. He rubbed it roughly, almost cruelly, and Elara sobbed at the sensation—too much, too soon after her orgasm, but also not enough, never enough.
"You like that?" Osric's voice was thick. "You like being fucked while I play with your clit?"
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, please—"
Please what? She didn't know. She couldn't think. Gareth was fucking her harder now, his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust, and Osric's fingers were relentless, and she was going to come again, she was going to—
"Wait."
Gareth pulled out.
Elara whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but before she could protest, Osric was there, flipping her onto her stomach with a strength that made her gasp. He pulled her hips up, positioning her on her hands and knees, and then his cock was pressing against her cunt—thicker than Gareth's, impossibly thick, and she wasn't sure she could take it.
"Relax," he said. "Let me in."
She tried. She really tried. But the head of his cock was so large, so blunt, and it hurt—a good hurt, a stretching hurt, but a hurt nonetheless. She bit her lip and pushed back, and Osric groaned as he slid inside her inch by agonizing inch.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, she's so tight."
"Wait till you feel her come on your cock," Gareth said. He had moved to the head of the bed, his own cock still slick with her juices, and he knelt in front of her, his balls level with her mouth. "Open up."
She opened her mouth, and he slid inside.
The taste of herself on his skin was strange—salty and musky and intimate. She licked at him tentatively, and Gareth groaned, his hand finding the back of her head and guiding her movements.
"That's it," he said. "Suck it. Suck my cock while Osric fucks you."
Osric began to move.
His thrusts were brutal—not the measured rhythm Gareth had used, but something rawer, more desperate. He fucked her like he was trying to climb inside her, like he wanted to split her open and crawl into the space between her bones. His balls slapped against her clit with every thrust, and his hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Gods," he grunted. "Gods, yes. Take it. Take my fucking cock."
Elara couldn't respond. Her mouth was full, Gareth's cock sliding over her tongue, and Osric's cock was splitting her open from behind. She was being used from both ends, and the thought should have horrified her, should have made her scream and fight and run.
Instead, she felt her cunt clench around Osric's shaft.
"That's it," Gareth said, watching her. "She's going to come again. I can feel it."
"Me too," Osric growled. "Fuck, her cunt's like a fist."
He fucked her harder—faster—and Elara felt the orgasm building again, a second wave that threatened to drown her. She moaned around Gareth's cock, and he groaned in response, his hips bucking forward, fucking her throat.
"Together," Osric said. "Come with me."
Three more thrusts. Four. And then he was groaning, his cock pulsing inside her, flooding her cunt with his seed. The sensation tipped her over the edge, and she came with a scream that was muffled by the cock in her mouth, her cunt milking Osric for everything he had.
Gareth watched it all, his eyes dark with hunger.
When Osric finally pulled out, his cock slick with her juices and his own seed, Gareth moved.
"My turn," he said.
But Osric shook his head.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
He looked at Gareth, and something passed between them—some silent communication Elara couldn't understand.
"We promised her a reward," Osric said. "Let's make it worth remembering."
Gareth nodded slowly. Then he smiled.
And Elara, still trembling from her second orgasm, realized with a jolt that the night was far from over.