Author's note: the Icelandic character þ is called a 'thorn' and is pronounced 'th'. So þrall is pronounced 'thrall'.
The warm water pours from my ladle and sluices over his rippling muscles, carrying away with it the blood and grime and sweat and sea-salt. I caress his body with a soft rag. He has the hard muscles of a swordsman, and the pale scars too: they criss-cross his chest and back and shoulders, each pale and puckered patch marks a brush with death. But only a brush.
But what those scars buy... my hand goes absent-mindedly to the beautiful fine gold chain around my neck, the work of the finest Rhineland goldsmiths, a betrothal-bond taken from the neck of a fair southern maiden. A sweet shiver runs down my spine and between my legs at the thought of what else my husband might have taken from that blue-eyed, dark-haired girl. Our longhouse is filled with material treasures: of gold coins and goblets we have plenty, plundered from the strange stone temples of the southern lands.
And sometimes it's the maidens themselves who get plundered and carried back to our longhouse. I meet the eyes of the þrall who kneels on the other side of my husband. The bronze collar around her neck signals her subservient status. Her arms and face are the colour of seasoned oak and her hands tremble as she gently washes my husband's strong body.
My husband lifts his head, his eyes blue-grey like forge-fresh steel, pinning me beneath his gaze. I know what he wants. I stand, dropping the cloth into the bowl of warm water at my feet. The þrall looks up at me, mute, her big brown eyes wide as she realises what might be coming next.
My bare feet padding on the hard-packed dirt floor, I softly pad over and stand behind her. I place my hands on her upper arms and she takes the hint, rising to her feet. My husband sits back against one of the longhouse columns, his attentive eyes taking in every inch of us in the flickering light of the fire.
She's closed her eyes. I can hear her heart pounding in her chest. I lean forward and whisper in her ear: "Be still. Try to relax..."
She cannot understand our tongue, but she understands the tone. She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself. Her eyes are still pressed tightly shut but her breathing slows as she forces herself to relax. I unfasten the brooches which close the straps of her apron-dress, and the heavy fabric falls to the floor to pile around her bare brown feet. I sweep her dark hair to one side and my nimble fingers attack the cord which laces closed her linen shift. I watch my husband's face as it cascades to the floor too, exposing her smooth brown flesh to his gaze. I watch his eyes widen subtly in arousal, his thick member making a tent of his linen undershorts.
The þrall has a fine body indeed. Her breath catches in her throat as I step in close behind her and cup her small left breast, my fingertips caressing her darkening nipple. My other hand is on her hip and I trace my finger-tips down across her belly, down across the downy mound... Her legs are pressed as tightly together as her eyes.
I take her nipple in my left hand and roughly pinch and twist it. A cry escapes from between her lips, she takes the hint and lets me slips my right hand between her legs.
My finger's back on her nipple now, tracing slow circles round and round, my the fingertips on my other hand tracing a line between her lips, drawing slow circles around that knot of pleasure-flesh that rests above. For the second time her breath catches in her throat and I feel a shudder that's definitely not fear ripple through her young lithe body.
I slip in front of her and kneel submissively at her feet. As she feels my hot breath on her lips, her eyes flicker open, and then widen in surprise as I cup her cheeks like a chalice and bring her to my mouth. I reach with my tongue to taste her and find that despite her reluctance, her body has made itself ready to be used; her juices dribble down my chin, her heady musk filling my mouth and nose. All girls taste different but southern girls taste the best.
I slip two then three fingers of one hand easily inside, my knuckles sliding slickly between her lips as I take her into my mouth and suck hard, while roughly thrusting with my fingers. I feel her knees weaken and almost buckle under the intense waves of sensation that wrack her body.
She's ready.
I stand and step back, my chin slick with her arousal. My husband is standing too, his linen undergarments discarded and his sword unsheathed. The flickering light from the fire caresses the blade as it glistens, broad and long and hard as steel, eager to be thrust deep into virgin flesh.
At the sight of the mighty weapon of a Viking warrior, the þrall's eyes widen and she backs away, shaking her head, words from her strange barbarian tongue spilling from her lips:
"Noh!" she says, "Noh... see voo play! grass! see voo play!"
My husband steps forward, lightning fast, catching her wrists and throwing her back onto the straw-stuffed and fur-covered bed where we sleep. The þrall lashes out at him with her feet but he easily evades her kicks, catching her ankles in his strong hands and forcing her knees up almost to her chin, exposing her to him. He pauses and meets her eyes as she lies there, knowing he has her completely at his mercy, her body fairly thrumming with lust for him, but desiring her voluntary submission.
She looks him slowly up and down, her eyes lingering on his shaft, thick and throbbing and lust-beaded. She smiles slyly and looks meaningfully at his shaft and then taps her pursed lips. My warrior looks quizzically at her, not sure what she has in mind. He takes her by the hips and pulls her down the bed so she can kiss the bared blade of his weapon. She smiles up at him, meets his eyes and licks the underside of his shaft long and slow.
He growls, deep in his throat. She parts her lips and slips them over the tip, taking his thick and hard weapon into her mouth! I feel like I should be disgusted, but I find the sight incredibly erotic. She's gripping his shaft in her hand now, her head bobbing up and down. She's definitely done this before, it must be something that these sultry Southern sluts do for their sires-- a Southern Kiss. My warrior's fingers are laced through her hair and his eyes closed, growling through his teeth as he enjoys the þrall's talented mouth.
Such talents should not go unrewarded. Her torso lies between my husband's legs and I kneel between hers, bring her lips to mine like a drinking-cup, and eagerly sup. She moans low in her throat and I feel one long-fingered hand reach down and take a handful of my hair. The mistress's hair bunched in the hand of the þrall; the role-reversal turns me on so much.
My husband gets rougher with her, gripping her hair in his hand and thrusting between her lips. Her eyes are pressed shut in concentration as she moves under him, letting him use her mouth and throat for his pleasure. He thrusts deep into her, his balls slapping against her chin and she starts to gag on him.
From where I kneel at her feet I can look up across the smooth expanse of her belly, between the small hills of her young breasts and see my warrior roughly thrusting himself between the þrall's moist lips.