Chapter 2: Feast and First Claim
The roar of the longhouse was a physical thing. It vibrated through the packed earth floor and up into Lara’s bare feet. A sea of faces, ruddy and rough-hewn in the firelight, leered at her. They smelled of mead, iron, and winter wind caught in wool.
The red-bearded chieftain, Ulf, didn’t wait for a fuller answer. Her challenge hung in the smoky air, and he moved with a speed that belied his size. A massive hand fisted in her dark braid, yanking her head back. She gasped, not in pain, but in sudden, electric anticipation.
“We’ll show you, forest whore,” he growled, his breath hot and sour with ale. He propelled her forward, her bare ass bouncing with each stumbling step. The warriors parted, creating a path to the long, scarred feasting table. He shoved her forward, bending her over the rough-hewn wood. Her palms slapped down amongst sticky tankards and gnawed bones.
“Wider,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the chants of the men.
She complied, spreading her legs, presenting herself. The cool air of the hall kissed her swollen flesh, still wet and leaking from the Egyptian workers. A murmur of appreciation ran through the crowd. They could see the evidence of her previous use, and it only seemed to excite them more.
She felt the broad, blunt head of his cock nudge against her entrance. He was thick, uncut, and achingly hard. He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask.
With a single, powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside her.
The air left Lara’s lungs in a ragged shout. The table dug into her hip bones. The stretch was immense, a burning, filling pressure that bordered on pain. It was perfect. He filled her completely, a solid, living intrusion that shoved the memory of every other cock aside.
Ulf didn’t pause. He set a brutal, measured rhythm immediately, pulling back almost all the way before slamming home again. Each impact drove her tits against the rough wood, her nipples scraping. The sound of their coupling was obscenely wet, loud over the crackling fire.
“Yeah… fuck… just like that,” she moaned, the words mangled. She reached a hand back, finding the solid muscle of his thigh, her fingers digging in, urging him on.
The warriors crowded closer, their eyes glittering. Hands stroked bulges in their trousers. One young man with a wild blonde beard unlaced his breeches, spitting into his palm to slick his own length as he watched, mesmerized.
“Does the little spirit take it well, Ulf?” someone shouted.
“Tight as a virgin, but wet as a spring thaw!” Ulf grunted, his pace increasing. His calloused hands gripped her hips, his fingers leaving fresh bruises atop the old ones. “Takes a real man’s cock. Not some desert dog’ prick.”
Lara laughed, a breathless, ragged sound. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, milking him with internal muscles she’d learned to control long ago. “Is that… all you have… you big fucker?” she gasped in English, then shouted the crudest Norse word for ‘harder’ she’d heard them use.
The hall erupted. Ulf snarled, his control snapping.
He pulled out of her abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock. He grabbed her shoulder, flipping her onto her back as easily as turning a page. Her head spun. The smoke-blackened beams of the roof swam above her. Then he hooked his hands under her knees, lifting her legs up and spreading them wide, draping them over his broad shoulders. Her whole body was exposed, bent double, utterly vulnerable to him and the watching crowd.
He drove back into her in this new, deeper angle.
“Oh, gods!” she screamed. He was hitting something deep now, a spot that sent lightning arcing through her guts. Her back arched off the table. Her tits, flushed and heavy, bounced with each punishing drive of his hips.
She was screaming, but they were screams of pure, uncut pleasure. She cursed in a jagged mix of English and stolen Norse, filthy words that made the men roar with approval. Spittle flecked her lips. Her vision hazed at the edges, narrowed to the feeling of being split open, used, owned.
Ulf’s face was a mask of fierce concentration. Sweat dripped from his red beard onto her stomach. His thrusts became frantic, animalistic. With a final, guttural roar that shook the rafters, he slammed into her and held, his body rigid. She felt the hot, pulsing flood of his release filling her, another claim staked deep inside.
He stayed there for a long moment, panting, before pulling out. The sound was wet, lewd. He looked down at her, sprawled and dripping his seed onto the wood, and a grin of pure possession split his face. He patted her thigh, a gesture for a good animal.
“The spirit is thirsty, boys,” he announced, stepping back and lacing himself up. “See she gets a proper drink.”
There was no pause. No respite. A younger warrior, the blonde one who’d been stroking himself, was already there, his cock jutting angrily. He didn’t bother with her legs. He simply pushed them apart where they lay and mounted her, his entry swift and hungry.
Lara welcomed him with a ragged sigh. The over-sensitivity from Ulf’ pounding was a sharp, exquisite pain that melted into a new wave of pleasure. This one was leaner, his pace quicker, more desperate. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, raking her nails down his sweat-slick back.
“Come on then,” she hissed in his ear. “Fill me up.”
He did, whimpering, after only a few minutes, his release a lesser echo of the chieftain’s.
And then another took his place.
And another.
Time lost meaning. It became a cycle of grunting faces, the smell of different skins and sweats, the varying thickness and length of cocks, the ache in her hips, the raw burn of her inner muscles, the accumulating slickness between her legs that was a mixture of her own arousal and the spend of a dozen men. She came, screaming, when a burly man with tattooed arms found a rhythm that rubbed her clit just right against his pubic bone. The orgasm was a violent ripple that tore through the exhaustion, renewing her hunger.
Eventually, the queue diminished. The men, spent and drunk, staggered back to their benches, slapping each other’s backs. Lara lay on the table, a ruined, glorious mess. Her body was a map of handprints and bites. Cum leaked from her in slow rivulets, pooling beneath her on the scarred oak. Her chest heaved. Every muscle trembled with a delicious fatigue.
Ulf tossed a rough wool blanket over her. “You’ll serve well through the winter, spirit,” he said, not unkindly. It was a statement of fact.
As the longhouse’s attention shifted back to drink and dice, Lara’s hazy gaze drifted across the room. Over the main fire pit, carved into a massive central support post blackened by soot, she saw them. They glowed with that same faint, pulsing energy only she could perceive. Not spirals this time, but interlocking knots—Norse runes of passage woven into the woodgrain.
The sight cut through the carnal fog. The itch, the pull, returned sharper than ever.
But not yet. Her body still hummed. Her cunt throbbed with a deep, satiated ache. She smiled, soaking in the animal warmth of the hall, the smell of sex and smoke. She’d find the carving tomorrow. Or the day after. For now, the memory of Ulf’s final, claiming thrust was still too vivid, too sweet to abandon.
A serving woman, older with a stern face, brought her a horn of mead. Lara drank it slowly, the sweet, strong liquor warming her from the inside. She watched the firelight play over the glowing runes, a promise for another day. Tonight, she was a Viking’s whore, and she was, for the moment, perfectly content.
Tonight, she was a Viking’s whore, and she was, for the moment, perfectly content.
The contentment lasted until dawn’s grey light speared through the smoke holes. Her body, stiff and sticky on the table, ached in a symphony of glorious bruises. A hand shook her shoulder—not gently. It was the stern-faced serving woman from the night before.
“You stink of spent men and hall filth,” the woman stated, her Norse blunt. “The chieftain says you wash. Follow.”
Lara unwound herself from the rough blanket, her muscles protesting. She walked naked through the quiet longhouse, past sleeping warriors snoring in furs, her bare feet silent on the packed earth. The glowing runes on the central post pulsed faintly, a silent, patient lure she deliberately ignored.
Outside, the cold was a slap. Her skin puckered instantly, nipples hardening to sharp points. The woman led her past penned goats and around a muddy path to where steam rose in gentle plumes against the pine forest. A natural spring, heated from deep in the earth, bubbled into a rocky pool.
“Clean yourself,” the woman said, then turned and left.
Lara sank into the water with a gasp. It was gloriously, almost painfully hot. It seeped into her sore muscles, loosening the clenched knots in her thighs and back. She submerged herself, scrubbing at the dried sweat and seed with her hands, watching the water cloud around her. The contrast between the freezing air on her shoulders and the volcanic heat below was electrifying.
She didn’t hear them approach over the bubbling spring. She only felt the water displace as two large bodies slid in behind her.
It was the blonde warrior from last night and another, older one with a twisted scar running down his chest. Their faces were set, not with lust, but with a casual purpose that was more thrilling. They hadn’t come to wash.
“The chieftain said clean,” the blonde one, Einar, said. His hands landed on her shoulders, spinning her around roughly. “We’ll see you scrubbed inside and out.”
His mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding, his tongue forcing its way past her lips. She bit it gently, and he laughed into the kiss. Meanwhile, the scarred one, Rurik, moved behind her. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back against him. She felt the thick, hard length of his cock sliding between the cleft of her ass in the steaming water.
Einar broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “Spread for him, spirit-whore. Take his cock in your dirty cunt first. I’ll have the other hole.”
The command, so crudely delivered, made her clit throb. She let Rurik guide her, lifting her in the water until she was straddling his lap, her back to his chest. The hot water made everything slippery, effortless. He notched his broad head against her entrance and pulled her down.
She sank onto him with a choked cry, the water allowing a swift, deep impalement. He filled her brutally, a stark reminder of the previous night’s ravages, stretching tender tissues anew. His arms locked around her waist, holding her pinned.
Before she could adjust, Einar moved in front. He gripped her thighs, pushing them wider around Rurik’s hips, opening her completely. He spat into his palm, slicking himself, then pressed his cockhead against her tight, forbidden opening.
“This will scrub you clean,” he grunted.
He pushed. The burn was immediate, intense, a dry撕裂 of resistance despite the water. Lara screamed, her head falling back against Rurik’s shoulder. Einar worked himself inward with short, relentless thrusts, each one a fiery intrusion, until he was fully buried, a second, impossible fullness splitting her apart.
They gave her no time. They began to move in a opposing, grinding rhythm. Rurik drove up into her cunt, a deep, claiming pound, while Einar fucked her ass with short, sharp jabs. The water sloshed violently around them, steaming. Lara could only hang between them, a vessel stretched to its limits, every nerve alight with a pain so sharp it fused with pleasure.
“Fuck… your holes are fighting me… tight little bitch,” Einar groaned, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs.
“She’s squeezing my cock like a fist,” Rurik rasped in her ear, his breath hot. “Trying to milk me dry already.”
Lara could only moan, a continuous, ragged sound lost in the steam. The dual penetration was overwhelming, a raw overload of sensation that short-circuited thought. She was just a body being used, two hard cocks moving her, filling her, scraping her raw inside. It was filthy, degrading, and it coiled a terrifying tension in her belly.
Einar came first, his rhythm breaking into frantic spasms. He shoved himself deep into her ass and held, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he pumped his release into her bowels. The feeling of that hot spill in such a forbidden place sent her over the edge.
Her orgasm wrecked her silently, a seismic clenching that rippled through both channels, milking them. Rurik cursed, his own control shattering. He bucked up into her dripping cunt, his release joining the other inside her, a hot flood that leaked out around his softening cock into the spring water.
For a moment, they all remained locked, panting, the steam coiling around them. Then they pulled out of her, the sudden emptiness a hollow, aching shock. She slumped forward, her arms barely keeping her head above water.
Einar climbed out first, dripping. He returned with two lengths of rough, fibrous rope. Without a word, while she was still dazed and pliant, he hauled her from the pool. The cold air hit her wet skin, raising violent goosebumps. Rurik grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back.
They bound her wrists together tightly, the rough hemp biting into her skin. Another length was looped around her upper chest, pinning her arms to her torso, then knotted firmly between her breasts. They left her legs free, perhaps knowing she had nowhere to run.
“Chieftain will want his property secured,” Rurik stated, as if explaining the weather.
Einar slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, the world tipping upside down. The rough rope dug into her breasts and bound arms. From this vantage, she saw the bubbling spring recede, the steaming water clouded with their spend. They carried her, naked and trussed, back towards the longhouse, the cold morning air nipping at her wet skin and the fresh, dripping evidence of their use.
Through the open doors, across the threshold, back into the dim, smoky warmth. They dumped her unceremoniously onto a pile of furs near the fire pit. The warriors waking for the day glanced over, their expressions showing mild interest but no surprise. A bound woman was not an uncommon sight.
Lara lay on her side, breathing hard, the ropes chafing. Her body was a map of new bruises atop old, her cunt and ass throbbing in unison, stuffed full of their seed. Her eyes, however, found the central post immediately. The glowing runes pulsed slightly brighter, as if awakened by her return, by this fresh state of devoured degradation.
The contented lassitude of the night was gone, burned away in the scalding spring. The itch was back, fiercer now, a pull deep in her bones that resonated with the hum of the carved wood. She smiled against the fur, the expression all teeth and dark promise. Soon.