In the Camp of the Vikings (closed for Fira)

Somewhere in Northumbria, in the winter camp of the Viking army that invaded England, AD865...

Thorhall staggered as the mighty Olaf clapped him hard on the shoulder, the clamour of the rough drinking hall echoing in his ears.

“And I’ve something more for you, boy!” the elder Viking added. “Now you have a dozen men under you, you’ll have a hut of your own this winter. You’ll be needing a woman to mend and sew, cook and clean. And to warm your bed! So here you are.”

He hollered to Gudrun who re-appeared moments later, pushing a bedraggled creature ahead of him.

“A Saxon lass we captured in that raid last week,” Olaf continued. “Doesn’t say much. Think her name is Elin, or Elwyn, or some such. Not much to look at, but there’s a nice pair of tits under that grime.” And he laughed.

On cue, Gudrun pushed the girl forward, sharply, and she staggered. She was dressed in a mid brown full length woollen dress, with a tan coloured apron over it. A brick red cloak was tied around her neck with a rough knot. A rip at the corner of the cloak told where a brooch had been torn away. Her grimy white headscarf was pulled back, revealing dark brown hair that had been tied back with a leather thong, though much of it had escaped to hang down each side of her face. And her face – well, it was filthy; muddy, blood crusted at the corner of her mouth, bruising around one eye, but under that it was a pleasing oval shape, with a lovely nose which hadn’t been broken despite the beating she seemed to have endured. Her hands were bound together at the wrist with an old length of ship’s rope, the end hanging down to her knees. She was barefoot; her shoes, if she had ever had any, lost.

She stood there, head bowed as Thorhall examined her. So this was the final part of his reward for saving Olaf’s life in the skirmish last night when the Saxons had attacked their camp. He’d stood over Olaf, who lay unconscious from a blow to the head, and fended off three Saxons, killing one and grievously wounding a second before his shipmates had arrived to help. Olaf had rewarded him with a small warband of his own, a silver armband, a hut in their winter camp, and bag of coins. And now this, this girl, as his slave.

“Well take her then!” Olaf bellowed. “Take her to your hut and have some fun!” The men around him cheered.
Thorhall took the rope reluctantly and pulled her behind him, out of the log-built drinking hall, into the night. He felt a bit uncertain about his new possession. He wasn’t inexperienced, but he’d never had a woman all to himself before, to live with, to look after him, to bed with him. He knew what his shipmates expected, though. They expected him to drag her to his hut and fuck her senseless.

So to his hut they went, her staggering behind him each time he tugged on the rope.

Elwyn stood, eyes downcast as the men spoke, their words foreign to her. She had a pretty good idea that they were discussing her and her fate, if only because she had been drug roughly to the center of the small gathering. The laughter of the men was harsh to her ears, and she blocked it out by thinking back to the day of the raid.

Her village had no idea the attack was imminent. The day was a normal one; she had fed the cow and milked her, fed the few scrawny chickens in the small yard, had drawn water for the day’s cooking, and had started on the mending that tended to pile up in a house full of men folk. Her mother having died the year before, it was up to Elwyn to take over the household chores for the family. Her father and three brothers were responsible for the harder outside work, but when they were off hunting, it all fell to her.

They had come in just as dusk was setting in, and she had hurried to set dinner on the table. It was a simple fare of stew; with lots of meat from the stag they had brought home a couple of days before, and potatoes and carrots from the garden. The sauce was thick and rich, and she had baked several loaves of bread to soak it up with.

Her father and brothers had done the evening chores after eating, leaving her to clean up in the house. Always the last to climb into bed in the evening, Elwyn was the only one still up when the village was attacked. The door had burst open, the rough voices unintelligible. Before she could scream, one of the men had grabbed her, placing a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. A string of words from another man, the one that seemed to be in charge, and she was passed off to him, her broach ripped from her bodice and tossed to the original captor as a prize.

She struggled and tried to scream as she was dragged out of the house, seeing the blood dripping from the spears and swords of the invaders, she knew her father and brothers were dead. The torches that were touched to the dry building sent her into a wild state of panic, and she bit her captor, her dress tearing at the shoulder as she slipped away from him. Crying and screaming for her family, she tried to run back into the house, but was knocked down by one of the rough men that had helped to set fire to it.

The leader picked her up then, roughly grabbing her and pulling her away. Once clear of the many burning homes, he pulled out a length of rope and tied her hands tightly in front of her, a long piece left at the end, which he tied to his horse. The cacophony of sounds drowned out his next words, although she wouldn’t have understood them anyway, but when he mounted his beast of burden and spurred it on, she understood that she was being taken prisoner.

The stories she had heard of raids on other towns flashed through her mind and had set her to screaming and crying even more. Pulling roughly on her bindings, trying to drag the horse to a stop, the rope cutting into her wrists, she fell forward as she was dragged along. Her head bounced into a rock, hidden in the dark and mud, the pain causing Elwyn to pass out.

A tug on the rope brought her back to her senses somewhat. A quick glance up at the man who was now pulling at her bindings, and she shuffled forward; her battered and bruised body having only been conscious again since the day before. The lack of food and the harsh conditions of her captivity thus far had taken most of the fight out of her…at least for the time being.

Thorhall pushed open the door of his new hut, one of his rewards for saving Olaf. It was actually one of the houses in the large village they’d taken over as their winter camp, though only a small house, possibly a widow’s cottage or something like that. But it had walls and a roof, which was good with winter approaching. His men would be sleeping under the lean-to shelters they’d erected against the outside walls.

Suddenly he felt tired. The feasting and drinking of that evening had taken their toll. He yanked his new slave inside and pushe her onto a pile of blankets and furs close to his pallet bed. She could sleep there. He had no stomach for what his men thought he should be doing. Quite literally, in fact: his full belly heaved at the thought of vigorous activity right now, and he’d probably had too much ale to get it up anyway.

The girl looked docile enough at the moment, he thought, but she might prove to have some spirit after a rest. He had no intention of being strangled in the night; it would be safest to restrain her whilst he slept, at least until he had the measure of whether she was a danger. Her hands were still tied, but she might manage to roll over to one of the cooking knives and free herself, so he took a poker from the hearth and hammered it into the beaten earth floor with the flat of a war axe, just above the head of her improvised bed, right through the knot between her wrists, pinning them above her head, hard to the floor.

Elwyn stumbled to the pile of furs, falling on her knees and barely catching herself before her face hit the wall. Struggling to regain her balance somewhat, she cowered against the wall, legs drawn up beneath her. Her eyes grew wide as she watched the man grab the poker from the hearth, shaking her head and crying out with fear at what she was afraid he would do with it.

When he pulled her down and drove the poker through the bindings at her wrists, she increased her struggles, harder now that her hands were pinned above her. She had a fair idea of what was about to happen; she had heard the stories. She let out a scream, knowing before hand it wasn’t going to do her any good. She drew her legs up to her chest, hoping she could get in a few good kicks before he managed to touch her.

Tears streaking through the filth on her face, she waited, tense and unyielding, for his advance…

She thought she was going to be raped, Thorhall realised - a not unreasonable guess. His heart went out to her for her plight, even as at the same time he felt a little frisson of excitement. At least her scream would convince the men that he was having his way with her. He couldn't afford to be thought weak and also ungrateful.

Suddenly he wondered when she'd last eaten. He fetched a chunk of bread and a beaker of weak ale from a shelf and approached her. She was tensed to lash out at him with her legs, determined to fight despite the beating she'd already received, so he stepped round to her side, holding out the food and drink to make his intentions clear. He offered her a sip of the ale then and then a bite of the bread, holding them to her mouth in turn, as he was still unwilling to free her hands, alternating until she had had a fair amount of each.

Returning the remains to the shelf, he stepped outside to piss out the evening's ale against the midden heap. As for the slave girl, well he was too tired to see to her needs in that respect. If she was caught short in the night, she'd just have to wet herself.

Shaking the last drops from himself, he pulled his tunic back down and went indoors to curl up on his bed and sleep, with hardly a glance at the poor girl who lay pinned and uncomfortable on her makeshift bed.

She drew up as much as she could as he approached, ready to lash out as soon as he got within striking distance. Her resolve failed her as he held out the bread and drink, as if to offer them to her. Struggling against her bindings once more, trying to get to the food, Elwyn stilled herself, readying to strike out should he make a move to harm her.

He squatted next to her, first holding the ale to her lips. She drank greedily, even though the taste wasn’t something she was used to. Whimpering when he pulled it away, her thirst not yet satiated. The bread he offered was stale and very dry, but more than she had consumed since the hearty stew she had made for her family the day of the raid, so she accepted the pieces he fed to her. She would have to regain her strength if she were to survive whatever the future set before her. He alternated feeding her the bread with helping her to drink the odd tasting ale, and quit long before her stomach was ready to quit accepting it.

Her eyes followed him silently as he stepped out of the tent. She spent the alone time looking alertly at her surroundings, hoping to find something that would help aid her in her escape, should the chance arrive. His sudden reappearance in the hut caused a wary look to enter her eyes. She drew her legs up again, sure that this time his approach would be less than friendly.

Unease settled over her as she watched him fall into his bed without a single glance in her direction. She twisted in her bindings so that she could keep a better watch on him, determined to not fall asleep and be caught unawares. Hearing the low snores coming from him, her body finally began to relax, her mind to drift. The blinks of her eyelids lasted longer and longer, until; finally, she succumbed to a deep slumber. Her eyes twitched back and forth behind the lowered lids, her soft whimperings going unnoticed in the night as her terrified mind played out various scenarios in the form of dreams.

Thorhall was woken by a shaft of daylight falling across his face from through the ill-fitting window shutters. Thank Odin, he had barely the slightest of muzzy heads from the ale he’d drunk the evening before.

Faint snores caught his attention, and he rolled over, propping himself on his elbow to watch his slave sleeping on her pile of blankets and furs. Her closed eyelids flickered as her eyes danced in her dreams. Or maybe nightmares? He wondered what was running through her sleeping mind.

Her dress had rucked up nearly to her knees, revealing very shapely calves, and the angle of her arms, still pinned up above her head, made her breasts push against the woollen cloth of her dress, heaving as she breathed deeply, then shaking as she gasped at some sleeping imagining. Fine breasts, he noted, becoming aware that he had a magnificent morning erection, feeling a tug of lust in his groin.

He quietly slid out of his bed and over to her, straddling her stomach and lowering himself gently onto her. He traced the path her tears had made in the grime on her cheeks, then down under her jaw line and along to her ear.

The men were all over her. Tied up, there was nothing she could do but scream. Her struggles elicited nothing but laughter as her hair was grabbed and her head yanked back painfully. She could feel the weight of one of them settling over her, her dress shoved up and out of his way. She started screaming in earnest then…

She jerked awake from the vivid dream, only to find that it was only partially a dream. There was only one man instead of several, and while her dress had bunched up around her knees in the night, she was still decently covered. A scream building up in her throat went unuttered; the gentle touch of his fingers tracing along her face and jaw contrary to what she expected.

Her golden-brown eyes wary and full of fear, she knew there was nothing she could do to defend herself in her current position. He was sitting to far up her body for her legs to do any good against him. Her hands still being bound and held over her head left them useless. Screaming would bring no assistance. Helpless and hopeless, tears glittered with the early morning light as they gathered in her eyes.

Elwyn turned her head away from his touch, the tears spilling over and making new tracks down the side of her face to her hairline. Whatever he had planned for her, she didn’t have to be there except for in body. She closed her eyes, blocking out the world around her. Her mind drifted back to more pleasant days.

Thorhall recognised the far away look, the refusal to make eye contact, the turning away of her head. It was a look he’d seen in a dozen captured women’s eyes as his band took their pleasures on them. No, as his band raped them, to be brutally honest. But he wanted this to be different. He wanted this girl to acknowledge him, even if she yet didn’t take pleasure in what he did. Acknowledgement might turn into acceptance, and acceptance eventually into pleasure. So he grasped her jaw and yanked her face back round, pulling her cheeks down and eyebrows up until she was forced to open her eyes.

He stared at her until she was forced to make eye contact, shaking her head each time she tried turning her eyes away.

Once he was sure he had her attention, Thorhall took his knife from its sheath at his belt and brought it up to the neck of her dress. The look of panic on her face both appalled him and excited him. He ran the tip along the hem of the neck, teasingly, and down the short slit at the front that made it easier to pull the dress on.

Suddenly, he tore the knife down the front of her dress, ripping the fabric asunder almost as far as her belly, exposing her bleached linen underclothes. He dropped the knife and pulled at the ties with his hands, yanking her blouse open, revealing her bare breasts. They were superb. Firm and perfectly sized, pale and clean, unlike her filthy tear-stained face. He reached out, massaging them with his large hands, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs.

He wondered how many men had done this to her before. He knew nothing of her, not even sure of her name. Had she had a husband? A lover? Had some peasant boy fondled her inexpertly in the woods after too much ale at the midsummer festival? Or was he the first?

She tried to fight him as he roughly pulled her face around. Every time she tried to look away, he would shake her head, causing another ripple of pain to wash over her from the bump she had taken on her head during the raid. Whimpering at each fresh wave of pain, she finally gave up and glared at him.

Her struggles renewed as the knife was brought into view. At this point she almost wished he would use the knife to kill her. She couldn’t stand the thought of anything other than death. An unconscious sense of self-preservation took over, however, when the top of the knife touched her skin, and her struggles ceased, panic clear on her face. Her breath catching in her throat, Elwyn waited to see if he would kill her or not.

When the dress was sliced open and her simple linen shift untied and shoved out of his way, all she could do was close her eyes. Mortified to be seen by this barbarian in such a state. His cold, callused hands felt harsh to her delicate skin as he groped at her. Her nipples, having never been touched by anyone other than herself, and even then only during bathing, quickly grew hard as his thumbs brushed across them. Gasping at the shocking sensations that were coursing through her, she shivered, hoping he would think it was from the cold. An alien heat began to build deep in her belly, and she squirmed, as if she were fighting to get loose.

An instinct made Thorhall bend to kiss and suckle the girl’s nipples. She was shaking, and he pulled a fur over them to keep her warm. With his lips at her breasts, one hand was free to slip down inside her undershirt and down towards her crotch. Astrid, the only girl who’d ever shared her body with him voluntarily, the wanton miller’s daughter back home in Norway, had liked him to touch her there when he took her from behind, leaning on the grain sacks in her father's store. She said it made her wet and ready, though he wasn’t sure how that fitted in, given the captive women he’d fucked had also been wet, though admittedly from the seed of other warriors who had had their turn before him. Still, Astrid had seemed to really like it, so shuffled down to sit astride the girl's thighs, and snaked his hand downwards across her belly…

A startled gasp when he dipped his head to suckle at her breast. The warmth of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue, both caused the smoldering heat to flare. Crying out, in denial or acceptance was hard to determine, she arched her back, tugging at her bindings.

She could feel his other hand moving slowly towards the heated center of her. A low moan, half acceptance and half rejection of the situation, escaped her lips. Her hips moved under him, thighs rubbing together, as she felt a strange wetness forming.

Thorhall's hand reached the girl's pubic hair and his fingers pushed through the tight curls, downwards still, reaching the slit of her sex. She opened to his middle finger, and he felt the wetness between her nether lips. Her moans of distress were starting to sound more like the moans of pleasure which he had coaxed from Astrid those years ago.

He curled his finger inwards, upwards, and found the tiny nub of her pleasure. He stroked round it, teasingly, then across it. Again this was a trick taught to him by the talented Astrid, a girl who really knew her own body and wasn't shy about passing that knowledge on to her lovers.

And all the time he worked on her sex, he kept kissing and carressing this superb girl's wonderful breasts.

The closer his hand got to her most private of places, the more she struggled. The first touch of his fingers, however, and she froze in place. His finger slipped in, only a small resistance felt as he probed her depths. A moan from her parted lips, much louder than the ones before, as he seemed to find where the fire burned hottest in her. His finger brushed almost carelessly across the most sensitive of all places, and she had a feeling as if she had died. Crying out, her hips bucking against him, she thought he had finally killed her. A falling, floating, drowning feeling that left her soaking, limp…and wanting…wanting to feel it all over again.

Thorhall felt the girl buck and arch under him, heard her mewing cries, and recognised it for what it was, for her climax. It was so long since a woman had come for him. Years. Not since that last time in the woods with Astrid, when she had gifted him her body one last time in a warrior's farewell before he joined his shipmates to go a-Viking.

He desperately wanted to pull out his cock and fuck her, but he restrained himself. He wanted her memory of this first time to be of her own bliss, for it to start to bind her to him, to have her wanting it again and wanting more.

He climbed off her, retrieved his knife, and went to the table, setting out two wooden bowls for breakfast. Next he moved to the door and threw the bolt closed, tying a piece of string around it. This improvised lock would take long enough to undo that if she tried to flee when he untied her, he could be on her before she had managed to free the bolt. He made a pantomime of all this, turning and looking back at her repeatedly, to make sure she understood that her chances of escape were slim, but that if she was obedient when he untied her then she would be fed.

Thorhall returned to her side, heaved the poker that pinned her wrists out of the earthen floor and removed the ropes. Taking her hand, he hauled her to her feet. She must ache from sleeping in such an awkward position, but he paid that no heed. Taking her firmly by the upper arm with his large powerful hand, he marched her to the hearth in the middle of the room, the fire which he'd banked down last night still glowing faintly. With his free hand, he pointed to the sticks in the corner, fuel for the fire, then to the small cauldron hanging from an iron frame over the open hearth, and finally to the sack of rolled oats and jug of milk. He hoped she understood that she was to rebuild the fire for the day and cook a porridge for their breakfast. He released her, giving her a shove towards the hearth to start her tasks, and returned to the table to await his breakfast. Just in case it should enter her head to take the poker and try to overpower him and escape, he removed his knife again from its sheath and theatrically cleaned under his fingernails with it, making sure she saw.

His sudden departure from his assault on her senses had Elwyn wondering more about him. Her chest still heaving from whatever it was that had happened to her moments ago, she had a feeling of loss, of needing more…but she didn’t know more of what.

Her eyes followed him as he placed two bowls on the table. All thoughts of what had just happened fleeing from her mind as her stomach growled in anticipation, hoping that at least one of those bowls was for her own meal. She continued watching his every movement; the way he locked the door, she knew there would be no escape. Not that she was any condition at the moment to even try.

Glad when he removed the poker that kept her arms pinned above her, she was somewhat surprised when he untied the ropes binding her wrists. She yelped in pain as he pulled her to her feet and shoved her towards the hearth. Her shoulders were stiff and sore from being forced to sleep with them tied above her head, and as she tried to rub some feeling back into them, she noticed that her wrists had started bleeding. The rope he had loosed her from was the same one she had been tied with on the night of the raid. Her struggles that night had caused the ropes to cut into her wrists then, and the wounds had since started to heal around her bindings. The sudden removal of them ripped the scabs from the half-healed cuts and abrasions, causing them to open up again.

She understood quite well his desire for her to cook for him. And she waited, eyes downcast, for him to take a seat at the table before moving. She managed to get the fire going again quite easily, even if painfully, and she looked around for a kettle that she could fill with water. Spying one on the shelf, she looked over at the man, his knife glinting in the cold light of the morning, the sight of it causing her to hesitate. He seemed to not care about her predicament, nay, nor even to have noticed the state of her bleeding wrists.

She eased over to the shelf, took down the kettle, and was pleased to see that it was about half full of water. Sniffing at it, she made sure it wasn’t stagnant, and then set it at the edge of the fire to heat up. Glancing over at him again, she hoped he wouldn’t think she was defying him or delaying his breakfast needlessly, but she knew she needed to take care of her wounds before she could do much else. A quick study of the room told her there was little in the way of bandages for her to use, so she turned to her cloak for her needs, ripping several pieces from the hem. As she glanced downward, her face flushed to see that her undergarments were still gaping open, and she quickly set about tying her shift back up. There wasn’t much she could do about her dress except pull the ragged opening closed, but it wouldn’t stay that way, so she gave up.

The water having had time to warm, Elwyn pulled the kettle back from the flames, dipped a piece of cloth from her cloak into it, and gingerly cleaned her wounds. Once that was done, she wrapped a strip around each wrist to help control any bleeding.

Done with her hands, she set about fixing breakfast. It was a very short time later that she reached for one of the bowls, ladling some of the porridge into it and setting it in front of him. Not knowing if she was expected to eat, she waited for him to indicate it somehow.

Thorhall motioned for her to sit and eat. He dug into the hot porridge. It was good, well stirred and not lumpy, prepared with more care than the slop the men usually made for themselves. It would be good to have a cook around the place.

He saw the fabric strips round her wrists, but didn't react, ashamed that he hadn't considered what pain the rope must have been causing her, but too proud to admit it. Instead, between mouthfuls of porridge, he tried to elicit some facts about her.

"I... Thorhall," he said in his very broken Ænglish, tapping his chest, "You, name?"

Before she filled her bowl, she took the last scrap of fabric and dipped it in the warm water, using it to wash her face of the grime and blood that had caked and dried there. Wincing slightly at the tender spots, she was determined to at least get somewhat clean before sitting down to eat. Her face much cleaner than it had been, she finally picked up the bowl he indicated and filled it, sitting across from him at the table to eat.

Her attention completely focused on the food in front of her, she was startled to hear him speak, and in her language too! She looked up at him then, testing the sound of his name, “Thor-hall?” Pointing to herself she told him, “My name is Elwyn.”

Elwyn. So Olaf had been nearly right. A pretty name, too.

"If others here, you me call Sir or Master," Thorhall added, in his hesitant Ænglish, repeating Sir and Master in his own Norse tongue, hoping she understood to use the Norse.

"I tell you to do, you say 'Yes, Master'," again teaching her the Norse phrase, repeating to make sure she grasped it.

As he talked to her, he noticed how she was still dirty, despite her best attempts to clean her face. And her clothes were filthy, as well as rent where he'd sliced her dress open. She needed to be made presentable, he thought, not least because her appearance reflected on his status. Her clothes would have to be washed before they were mended, and there was also a slight unpleasant smell emenating from her.

That would be easily fixed. The camp had a bath tub, a cut-down barrel one could fill with warm water, stand in and wash oneself down with cloths, the arrangement screened from view by sheets hung over a wooden frame. He'd take her there and see she washed herself, and had a change of clothes. He could borrow spare women's clothes that had been found in some of the other houses abandoned by the villagers they'd driven out.

He gestured to Elwyn to clean the wooden bowls and spoons. When she'd done that, he took her firmly by the upper arm and led her to the door. "Come," he said, simply, and pulled her outside, along paths between houses, she trying to keep her torn dress decent with her free hand.

He stopped at a couple of other buildings and obtained a blue woollen dress and a clean linen shirt and underskirt. They looked about her size, or near enough as they weren't intended to be close fitting anyway.

Stopping at the improvised bath house, he told a camp woman to top up the barrel with warm water, then pulled Elwyn inside with him. Gesturing at the barrel and the cloths, he commanded her "You, wash. Clothes off. In barrel. Wash body. Now."

He didn't trust her not to make a bolt for it through the screening sheets, so he'd have to stay in here with her as she washed. Not that there would be any hardship in seeing her naked, he thought to himself with a grin. So he simply stood there, trusting that she'd get the idea that he wasn't going to leave and give her privacy.

Elwyn tested the strange words as he instructed her on what to call him. She didn’t like the idea of calling this barbarian “Master”, “Sir” she could manage, as it was only a title of common courtesy, but “Master” implied that he owned her, and, well, it just didn’t sit right with her. Even in marriage the husband didn’t own the woman.

She stood to wash the items they had used for breakfast, struggling a little when he grabbed her arm to drag her outside. She barely was able to hold her dress together with one hand while he pulled her along by the other. Her eyes darted around the small village as they made their way through it, the leers from the men gathered causing her to blush. She tucked her head down, quit struggling and hurried to keep pace with his longer strides, trying to ignore the coarse laughter coming at her from all sides.

A few stops here and there, bits of cloth shoved into her arms for her to carry as they continued on their way, she wondered where they were going. At least the things she now carried in her free arm made it easier for her to hide the state of her dress, not that she thought that was the reason they were thrust at her. When they finally reached the bathing area, she could easily understand what he meant for her to do, although she was shocked at the thought of doing so in the open. Even though each side was screened from the public eye, the top was open to the elements, and it was COLD! She stood shivering in her bare feet for several minutes, thinking he would lave her with he woman that tended the improvised bathhouse to take care of what was necessary. When it finally sunk in that he wasn’t leaving, her face turned crimson. A man had never seen her without her garments before, and it was quite unsettling for her.

Finally she turned her back and slowly stripped out of the dirty and torn clothing. Keeping her back to him, she hesitated once again before dropping her lower undergarments. There was no way she could prevent him from seeing her posterior without allowing him to see the front of her, not that it really mattered too much after what had taken place a short time before. Finally managing to get into the tub, the warm water soothing and relaxing her somewhat, she blocked out the fact that he was standing behind her and proceeded with her bath. A soft sigh escaping her lips as she closed her eyes, reaching up to untie the leather thong that held her waist-length hair back, dropping it over the side and bending her knees to submerge herself fully in the glorious warmth.

She washed her hair and body, feeling many of the aches and pains from the last week leave her body. The dirt and filth that had caked her body now sinking to the bottom of the tub, she stood and glanced around for some kind of blanket or towel to dry herself with, startled when it was he that handed it to her. She stepped out of the tub then, wrapping the thin blanket tightly around her as the cold air hit her body, her nipples hardening almost immediately, their hard tips noticeable through the fabric covering her as she did so.

She really was beautiful, Thorhall thought, as he watched her undress, her back turned to him. The delicate curve of her neck, the arch of her spine, her gently rounded thighs and pert buttocks… perfection, almost; only marred by the bruises on her thighs and arms, and the sores around her wrists. Her legs were slender enough that when she stepped up over the lip of the tub, he caught a flash of pubic hair and his growing erection became almost painful.

When she lifted her arms to undo her hair her shape was silhouetted superbly, and it was all that he could do not to step up and grasp her from behind, to press himself against her soft buttocks and reach round to fondle her breasts, hidden from his view.

She couldn’t conceal these breasts completely, though, as she sank into the water, and they bobbed on the surface like two islands calling to the lost mariner. The way her long brown hair hang down over them, half hiding them, only made the glimpses he did get all the more alluring.

And he wasn’t the only one enjoying the view. He saw the sheets part ever so slightly at one corner, though he was sure she hadn’t noticed, her head thrown back and her eyes closed as she washed her hair. He stepped slowly round and quietly but firmly yanked the sheets together again. She was his slave, and if anyone else was going to get pleasure from the sight of her, it would be at his invitation and on his terms.

She stood up and stepped out of the bath tub, again with her back to him, though since he’d moved slightly he caught the swell of one breast and a glimpse of a nipple, suddenly erect again in the chill November air. He held out a blanket for her, and helped her wind it round her dripping body, brushing lightly against her as he did so.

The water looked so inviting he decided he would have a dip himself. He stripped off, quite matter-of-factly, seemingly ignoring her presence, and stepped in. His erection, however, was a visible sign of his arousal, standing hard and proud from his groin. He sank down onto his knees, used a jug to pour hot water over his head and shoulders, then stood up, water dripping down his hard body, over the muscles and the scars he’d collected in his few years of raiding. He held a cloth in his hand, but instead of starting to wash himself, he called out to Elwyn. “Wash me, girl,” he commanded her, and threw her the cloth. Startled, she caught it by sheer instinct.

She looked away quickly as he started to strip, heat rising from her chest to her face in her mortification. Startled at his harsh words, she glanced up at him, instinctively catching the cloth thrown at her. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his body, and she felt strange stirrings in the pit of her stomach as her eyes roamed over the taught lines of his muscles, the scars that were scattered across his frame.

She moved slowly towards him, stepping around the tub to get behind him. Not faced with the evidence of his manhood, Elwyn was able to relax a little, dipping the cloth into the water, soaping it up and beginning to run it gingerly and lightly over his back. The butterflies that had calmed when she stepped out of his sight came back, beating against her chest as her fingers trailed over his soap slickened skin.

She couldn’t understand the reaction she was having to him. She should be running for her life right this moment. Finishing with his back, she tried to hand the cloth back to him so that he could continue washing himself. When he wouldn’t take it from her, she stepped around in front of him, careful to avert her eyes as she continued with her task.

The cloth moved more quickly over his chest in her hurry to get it over with. Her hand brushed inadvertently across his rigid shaft, and she froze as it twitched. Jerking back, the cloth dropped from her hand into the tub and she retreated a few steps from the tub, her eyes looking around wildly, searching for a way of escape.

Thorhall stepped out of the tub and put his hands gently on the panicking girl’s shoulders, standing at arms’ length so his body didn’t touch her and scare her further. The last thing he wanted was for her to flee. He’d either have to let her go, or chase after her stark naked, something his men would men would find hilarious.

“Shhhh…” he calmed her, soothingly.

When her shaking seemed to have subsided he returned to the tub and finished washing himself. Then he patted himself dry with a larger piece of blanket and put his clothes back on. He indicated to Elwyn to get herself dressed in the new clothes he’d borrowed for her, but again he didn’t turn away. She was his slave, and if he chose to feast his eyes on her there was nothing she could do about it. She had no rights other than the ones he chose to grant her – no right to privacy, nor property, not even to the clothes she stood up in. No recourse to higher authority. Nothing.

Whimpering without even realizing it, Elwyn trembled like a rabbit caught in a trap. She backed up even further when she noticed him stepping out of the tub and towards her, her eyes riveted on the thing that had put her in such a state of panic. She flinched when he put his hands on her, shaking her head and taking another step back, bumping into one of the supports holding up the sheets. His quiet shushing finally calming her down, she continued to stand where she was as he returned to the tub to finish his bath, only an occasional tremor noticeable.

She turned her head when he once again stepped out of the tub to dry off and dress. When he pointed to the bundle of cloth that she had carried into the bathing area earlier, she was surprised to discover that it had been miscellaneous clothing items. Knowing he wouldn’t leave her as she got dressed since he hadn’t left her to bathe, she turned her back to him once more to don the clean garments. The way the blanket was wrapped around her, she was able to slip the shirt on with out removing the blanket, then quickly slipped the underskirt on under it before pulling the improvised towel away from her body. Feeling a little smug with herself for denying him another glimpse of her nude form, she pulled the dress over her head, hiding a small smile in the process. It wasn’t until she had the dress on that she realized a certain item of clothing was missing. Looking all around the confined space, she knew with a sinking heart that she wasn’t going to find a pair of under drawers.

Seeing her contrive to dress without giving him a glimpse of her flesh Thorhall suppressed a smile. Her little rebellion showed she still had spirit. He was so glad he hadn’t just fucked her last night as soon as he’d dragged her back to his hut. This game of probing her limits, stretching them, scaring her then pleasing her was proving so much more exiting than he could have imagined.

He motioned for her to pick up her old, dirty clothing, then grasped her by the upper arm and marched her back to his hut. Several of the warriors they passed smirked and leered, seeing their wet hair and wondering whether they had bathed together.

It was now several hours after dawn, and Thorhall had work to do. He should do the rounds of his men, checking they’d eaten, inspecting their war gear, making sure that their blades were rust-free and sharp, and above all spending some time with them reinforcing the bond between leader and led.

But what to do with the girl? She would be a distraction to his men, so he had to leave her behind. His eyes fell on a high-backed wooden chair and some cloth strips on a shelf.

“Sit,” he commanded her, in her own tongue, letting go her arm and pushing her towards the chair. Once she had cautiously sat down, he stepped behind her and pulled her arms roughly round the back of the chair, elbows up and pressed together, and began wrapping a cloth strip around them, just below her elbows, winding it through the back the chair as well, so she was pinned to it. Her struggles earned her a sharp “No” that promised a beating if she continued to resist.

He stepped back to admire his handiwork. His time onboard the longboats had made him rather handy with knots and her arms were tightly and neatly bound. He’d stopped short of the scabs on her wrists, so as not to re-open them. Seeing her tied immobile like this excited him in a way he hadn’t known only a day ago, when he’d first tied her for purely practical reasons. Yes, he had to stop her from escaping whilst he went to inspect his warriors, but now he recognised that there was also an element of sexual play in it. From his point of view, at least. He had no idea what she was thinking and how she felt.

Aroused at her plight, he stepped up behind her once more and placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs on the back of her neck, pushing her long hair aside. He stroked her gently, then began to massage her neck with his thumbs. Hearing a small sigh escape her lips, he replaced his thumbs with his own lips, kissing up and down the back of her neck ever so gently. As her back arched, he reached round to softly cup and massage her breasts through the woollen cloth of her new dress.

Suddenly he let go of her, marched over to a hook on the wall, buckled on his sword belt and strode out the door without a single glance back at her, leaving her alone, bound and helpless, in the dim interior of the hut.