She knelt beside him on the bed, her expression little short of bewildered. “Ginger? I… I believe so. Why?”
Taranc allowed himself a wry smile. “Please find me a decent piece if you would. A finger at least four inches in length if you have it, the thicker the better. Whilst you do that, I shall bank up the fire since we will be glad of its warmth this night.”
He watched her from the corner of his eye as he crouched beside the smouldering fire and teased the embers back into a small blaze. He tossed a couple more logs on as she returned to him, a plump but gnarled hand of ginger balanced on her palm.
“Will this do?”
“Yes, that will do very well indeed. Now you may kneel here, at my feet, and wait in silence while I prepare for your punishment.” He took the ginger from her and placed it on the table, then he retrieved his woollen trousers from the floor where he had discarded them when he first came in.
“Should I get dressed too?”
“What part of kneel in silence was not quite clear to you, Brynhild?”
He was gratified when she lowered her gaze and laid her hands on the tops of her bare thighs. So far, she seemed ready to comply though that might well change when she came to fully comprehend the humiliation he intended to visit on her. It was fitting though, since Brynhild had made it her business to humble and humiliate Fiona and the penalty to be exacted should reflect that. If his proud Viking truly did wish to make amends she would accept the justice he offered.
Taranc extracted the small dagger he always kept tucked in his belt and seated himself at the table. He did not speak to Brynhild as he sliced the thickest of the fingers from the rest and started to peel the ginger. Once he had completed that task he set to carving a deep groove all the way around it, about an inch from the end. He worked with care, taking his time as Brynhild knelt beside him. He did not glance at her, though he knew full well her eyes rarely shifted from the spicy root in his hands. The pungent aroma teased his nostrils and he knew she must smell it too.
Little did she know…
“There, I believe that will do.” Taranc set the root aside and laid down his dagger. “Now, if you would be so good as to lay across my lap, I shall place the ginger where it needs to go.”
“Where… where does it need to go?” Her voice shook. Perhaps she was beginning to suspect.
Taranc’s tone was deliberately casual as he replied. “It is to go inside your pretty arse, my sweet Viking. So if you will just position yourself as I asked, I can get on with putting it there.”
“My…? No, that is… it is….” Her eyes widened, her shock and dismay apparent. She shuffled back as though she might even now elude his punishment.
It was already much too late for that.
“Brynhild, do not provoke me further by making this difficult. I have told you what is to happen and your only task here is to submit and to obey. This is your punishment, this and the spanking you will shortly endure. The ginger will make the sensation all the more… intense, but this is what you want, is it not? This is the price of the forgiveness you seek.”
“I do not understand. How…?”
“Brynhild, you will place yourself over my lap at once, and cease asking questions. All will be clear soon enough.” Taranc deliberately sharpened his tone. Obedience was required, not conversation. He expected her to do as she was told, and to do it now.
Slowly, hesitantly, Brynhild got to her feet. She approached him, placed her hand on his wool-clad knee, then with a soft whimper she laid down across his lap.
Taranc took a moment to admire her slender back and rounded buttocks as they were displayed before him. Her skin was pale in comparison to his own sun-kissed torso, testimony to her Nordic heritage and to a life spent in a cool climate. He trailed the backs of his fingers down her spine, noting the way she trembled under his touch but did not squirm or wriggle. She was scared, apprehensive, but she was ready to surrender to his demands.
“This is good. Now you will reach back with both your hands and hold your buttocks apart for me.”
Brynhild gasped. “I cannot. You cannot ask me to do that.”
“I have not asked you, I have told you. Now you will obey.”
And she did. After just a moment or two of hesitation, Brynhild stretched her arms behind her and dug her fingers into the fleshy curves of her bottom. She pulled the soft globes apart, exposing the tight ring of muscle that guarded her secret entrance, soon to be breached.
“I cannot see properly. Lift your bottom up a little more. Show me your arse, Brynhild, then ask me to place the ginger inside your hole.”
Taranc’s cock leapt to granite hardness as she adjusted her position to afford him a better view. She planted her feet firmly on the rough earth floor in order to lift her buttocks higher and tip a little further forward on his lap.
“Spread your legs, too. I want to see your pretty cunny, and watch your arousal grow as I spank you.”
At another time she might have disputed the prospect of arousal, but she merely widened her stance to expose her plump lower lips to his view. Despite her nervousness, and the humiliation he was heaping upon her with the promise of worse to come, her clitty was already swollen and peeking out from under the hood that sheathed it. Taranc saw no reason not to enjoy himself by toying with her for a while.
He laid the tip of his finger on her clit and circled the sensitive nub, slow at first, his touch the barest whisper. He increased the speed and pressure as she swelled and writhed, only stopping when he sensed she was close to her climax. He traced the outer edges of her entrance, his touch idle now as he collected her moisture on his fingers.
“I shall use your own juices to ease the way for the ginger because I am not a heartless man, but be under no illusion that this will be easy. The natural oils from the root will provide some help, I daresay, but they will feel as though they are burning your tender skin. This is a most sensitive place, my proud Viking, as you are soon to discover.”
As he spoke he laid the tip of his middle finger against the tight pucker and started to press. Brynhild resisted, squeezing against him as though to deny him entrance. Taranc lifted his hand and dropped a sharp slap onto her upturned buttock.
“Stop that. You will allow me entry.” Again, his tone was sharp, stern.
“I… I apologise. I did not intend…”
“Just relax if you can, Brynhild, but if you cannot manage that then you will submit to this anyway. Do not resist.”
“No, Sir. I understand. I… oh!”
She let out a sharp squeal as he twisted his finger and it entered her up to the first knuckle. Taranc paused, allowed her a few moments to adjust, then he pushed the rest of his finger into her tight rear hole.
“Good. Thank you.” He rotated his finger inside her as Brynhild panted, her breath warm against his bare ankle. “Am I hurting you?”
“N-no, Sir. It just feels very odd.”
He supposed it would but saw no merit in commenting further. Instead he reached for the peeled ginger root.
“I could slacken your hole by driving my finger in and out, like this…” he demonstrated with a couple of quick, deep strokes that left Brynhild groaning on his lap, “maybe add another finger, perhaps two. On another occasion, probably, I will. But for today, I want you to remain tight, and grip the root hard to gain maximum benefit from the lesson I intend to teach you this night. It will be more painful, and more memorable for you. A true penance. Are you not delighted that I have considered so thoroughly your need for atonement, my Viking?”
Brynhild was silent, for once. That would not do.
“Have you forgotten that you are to ask me to insert the ginger?”
“I… I have not forgotten.”
Taranc waited, the pungent root poised between his fingers.
“Please, Sir, would you place the ginger inside me?” Her voice was small, barely audible.
“Inside you? Where inside you, exactly?”
“In… in my arse, Sir.”
“It will be my pleasure, though probably not yours.” Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew the finger that had penetrated her arsehole. The pink pucker remained slightly open, quivering as she waited. Taranc placed the end without the groove against the tight entrance, and he pushed.
“Oh. Oh!” Brynhild let out a moan as the root slid into her.
Taranc paused when the first inch disappeared and turned the ginger slowly in her tight rear channel. Her entire body trembled but she managed to maintain the firm grip she had established on her buttocks as she held them open for him, and she remained still. Taranc pressed again and the rest of the root slipped past the coil of muscle that closed snugly around the groove he had carved, holding the intruder in place.
“You may let go now, and relax. It is in.”
“Is… is that it?” She sounded quite hopeful.
“Not quite. There remains the matter of your spanking.”
“Of course. How many spanks will you—?”
“Until I decide you are truly sorry. And Brynhild, be assured, you will be very, very sorry by the time I am finished.”
“Perhaps you should get on with it, then.”
Ah, belligerent as ever. “I believe I shall wait a moment or two. Until I am quite sure I have your attention.”
“What do you mean? I… oh, oh, that stings. It is burning me…”
“Ah, the ginger is starting to take effect. In a minute or so it will reach the point where you are unable to remain still or gain any relief. When you reach that point you will tell me, and I shall commence your spanking.”
Brynhild whimpered and wriggled on his lap. She reached back again, as though she might grasp the root herself and pull it out. Taranc captured her flailing hands and folded them in the small of her back.
“Tell me when you are ready to start, my Viking.” It would not be long now.
“I think… I think…. Oh! Oooh!”
Right, then. Taranc started to drop slaps onto her upturned buttocks, slow at first, setting up a steady rhythm. Each spank caused her firm flesh to indent, then spring back, reshaping into its former curve, the mark of his hand a pink smudge on her pale skin. The sight was glorious, made even more so by the inch of pale golden ginger protruding from her delectable arse.
Brynhild slithered and squirmed and rolled about on his lap but Taranc held her firm, his free hand holding her wrists together against her back, and his leg slung across hers to ensure she did not roll off his knee in her agitation. He watched as she clenched and squeezed and fought to escape the burning from within, which by now must be excruciating, and all the while he continued to drop spank after spank onto her reddened bottom. Only when her squeals had risen to a volume that he feared might attract unwelcome attention from elsewhere in the village and both buttocks had darkened to a rather delicate shade of cerise did he pause.
“It hurts less if you do not clench.”
Brynhild panted and sniffled as she struggled to regain some semblance of control.
“What do you mean? How can I not clench when you, when you are…?”
“Quite, and this is your dilemma. Lie still, and relax your bottom. Does the burning subside?”
A few moments passed, during which he supposed she was testing his assertion.
“Well? Does it?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And now clench, as you were before.”
It took scant seconds for her to begin squealing all over again and wriggling against his hold.
“Settle down.” He waited until she lay reasonably still once more. “So, now you know. If you keep your bottom soft while I continue your spanking, you may be able to manage the ginger. It is worth trying, is it not?”
“How can I stay soft when you are spanking me so hard?”
“And I will spank you harder still. We are nowhere near done yet, but you must have expected that. You have much to atone for, my Viking.”
“I know,” wailed Brynhild, and he suspected that her gulping sobs were not entirely generated by her current predicament.
“Shall we continue?” He softened his tone and caressed her bottom gently. The heat from her flushed skin warmed his palm as she winced under his touch.
“Yes. Yes,” she agreed. “Please, I need this to be over.”
Taranc commenced the spanking again, but the smacks were deliberately harder now. For the most part she managed not to clench her buttocks, and he fancied the effort must be worth it as she seemed less agitated, more resigned to her fate. He started to drop slaps on the backs of her thighs too, paying particular attention to the spot where her legs and bottom met. His Viking would not sit in comfort for a while.
Brynhild cried out with each stroke, but her sobs and squeals were muffled as she pressed her face against his legs. It seemed she was no more anxious to attract attention than he was and ready to accept as much punishment as he chose to dole out. Only when she lay still against his thighs though did he slow down and finally halt the relentless onslaught.
Brynhild sobbed quietly. Taranc released her hands and she buried her face in them, weeping as though her heart was quite broken.
“I am sorry, so sorry…” she repeated, again and again, the mantra rolling from her tongue.
Taranc knew it to be true, and it was enough.
“We are done here,” he murmured. “You may go and lie on the pallet, and tell me when the ginger stops burning, which should not be too long now as the effect is short-lived. I will then take it out.”
He half-expected her to demand that he remove the root at once, but she did not. Obedient as a puppy, she rose unsteadily to her feet and tottered the few steps across the room to reach their bed where she lowered herself onto it. She lay face down, her punished bottom and thighs glowing in the flickering light of the fire. Taranc could not recall having seen a more beautiful sight. He sought out a lamp and carefully lit the wick, the better to peruse his handiwork.
“Take a few moments, think about what has just happened between us, and about what is to happen next.”
“I… what is to happen now? I thought you said it was over.”
“Your punishment is over, but it does not end there. A severely chastised woman needs to be fucked.”
“I… I believe I might like that, Sir.”
“I am bloody certain you will. I intend to make it my business to ensure that you do. So, the ginger…?”
It took but a few moments to remove the ginger from her unresisting arse. Brynhild’s modesty was entirely vanquished, it seemed, as she lay acquiescent for him. The used root discarded on the floor, he removed his trousers again then rolled her onto her side to face him as he lay down beside her.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears still glistened amid the azure but she managed a tremulous smile.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and leaned up to brush her lips across his. The kiss was a shy one, hesitant and uncertain, as though she half-expected to be rebuffed, even now. He recalled what she had said about being cold, undemonstrative. His proud Viking had much to learn.
Taranc cupped her jaw in his hand and slanted his mouth over hers. She reached for him, twisting her fingers in his hair. He deepened the kiss, angling his lips over hers and teasing his tongue over the seam until she parted to allow him in. He tasted her, tested the warmth and wetness of her inner space, played with her as he danced his tongue over hers. Brynhild gasped, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, uncertainly, she began to respond, her tongue tangling about his as she sucked gently.
Sweet Jesu, where did she learn such a trick?
Taranc rolled onto her, his palms now flattened against her breasts. The plump mounds swelled in his hands, nipples pebbling as he caught the delicate peaks between his fingers. He broke the kiss, intending to take her stiff little bud in his mouth, but paused when she went rigid in his arms. He glanced into her face, now more clearly visible as his eyes accustomed to the dark. She stared back at him, terror and yearning at war across her tense features.
With a silent curse at his own thoughtlessness Taranc rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she landed on top, her nude body draped across his chest. She cried out, grabbing for his shoulders.
“What? What are you doing? I do not want to stop, I…”
“Then do not stop. Kiss me, Brynhild.”
“But I do not know how…”
“You did it before. Lay your mouth on mine. We shall go from there.” He combed his fingers through her hair, blessing the sweet Saviour that she chose to wear it loose when in their bed, and drew her down toward him. Her lips met his, and she softened into the kiss. He darted his tongue between her lips again and their sensual dance continued unabated.
Ah, but his little Viking was a fast learner. She scrambled further onto him, her legs braced on either side of his hips as she rubbed against him, her wetness coating his lower abdomen. She was oblivious, he knew that. Brynhild had no idea that her arousal pooled on his skin, that her readiness, her desire was so redolent he could actually smell the sweet aroma of her. He feathered his touch across her shoulders and down her spine, probing each vertebra in turn as she writhed under his hands. When he palmed her tender, punished buttocks, her kiss became more desperate, more untutored yet all the sweeter for it. He cared nothing for delicate technique and all for unbridled sensuality.
“I want… I need…” Her words were frantic, breathy. She pushed herself up on her hands to peer into his face. “Tell me what to do.”
“Straddle me,” he commanded. “Take my cock in your hands and direct it toward you.”
“I cannot. I do not know how.”
“I shall show you.”
He helped her to arrange herself as he had described, her hot quim hovering just a fraction away from the head of his cock. He took his erection in his own hand, angled it to her entrance and thrust his hips up. Her slick lips parted to accept just the tip of his cock, but he did not press home. Instead he smeared his own juices with hers, spreading their wetness about, coating her lower lips from the tight ring of her arse to the quivering nub of her clitty. She moaned as he rubbed the smooth, slick head of his cock against that sensitive button, the delicate flesh plump and trembling as he worked her harder.
He positioned his cock at her entrance, just inside, then released his grip to allow her own lips to hold him there. His hand now free, he rubbed her clitty in earnest, from side to side, then as she squirmed and panted he circled with his fingertip. She lowered her body, almost imperceptibly taking more of him inside her.
Brynhild was lost, her moans becoming more frenetic as she sought something he knew she did not really understand but pursued with an intensity she could not control. He could exercise restraint, however, and one of them must. He would not allow this to fail; it was too vital, too critical to their future together.
This had to be good. For her. She must succeed here, now, tonight.
He brought her higher, closer, his skilled fingers teasing and stroking and caressing her clitty as she soared toward her release. He lifted his hips, pressing forward, upward. Her body stretched and opened to accept him.
Brynhild gasped. Taranc paused, waited. She circled her hips, lowering herself a fraction more, working him inside her.
“It feels… tight. It will not fit.”
He detected the wondering despair in her tone and was not having it.
“It is tight, gloriously so, but we fit beautifully.”
“I… oh!” She let out a sharp cry as he pressed forward again.
“Am I hurting you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Do not stop.”
He buried his face in the hollow of her neck as he squeezed and tugged on her clitty. Her body quivered in his arms, trembling as her response surged forth.
“Oh, I… I…”
He knew the exact moment of her release and used the sudden, uncontrolled softening of her body as his opportunity to drive his cock fully home. She screamed, a rasping, guttural sound of pleasure laced with pain, and her cunt convulsed around him.
Taranc held still, his palms now on her buttocks to hold her in place. Brynhild was unmoving, her body reshaping to accept his intrusion. Taranc kissed her hair, murmured words intended to calm, to reassure, to thank her. Brynhild tilted her head back to meet his gaze.
“So, Celt, you are finally fucking me.” Her tone was triumphant.
“’Twould seem so.”
“Is this it? All that there is?” She rotated her hips in a large, slow circle.
He shook his head. “Not entirely. I prefer to take my time though. We shall go slow, and gentle, and with infinite tenderness.”
“Tenderness?” She furrowed her brow. “Why tenderness? Why is that necessary? I thought—”
He kissed the end of her nose. “I know what you thought, and why. But you were wrong. There will be tenderness between us. You ask too many questions, little Viking. I have one for you though. Is there any pain still?”
She frowned all the more. “Why, no. No, there is not. How? I mean, I thought…”
“Tenderness,” he repeated, tightening his grip on her sore buttocks to rotate her hips since she had stopped. He groaned as she instinctively squeezed her inner muscles around his cock. “Oh, sweet Jesu, you feel so good.”
“As do you, Celt.” She clenched again and resumed the motion herself now, rolling her hips and picking up on his sensual manipulation as she moved to take control of her own pleasure and his.
Typical Brynhild, he mused. Always taking charge, always wanting to lead, to give rather than to take. He would allow it, this time, this first time because he sensed that she needed this in order to start to restore her confidence. But it would not always be thus.
Brynhild rocked her hips above him, lifted her body then sank back down to take him fully inside her. His hands on her waist helped to take her weight, but the initiative was all hers. He allowed her to play, to test and experiment, to explore what felt right and good and where the pleasure pooled. Her breasts bobbed and swayed before his eyes, the plump, rosy-tipped mounds begging to be licked. Taranc took one nipple between his lips and sucked hard. Brynhild arched toward him, thrusting her breasts at him, wordlessly demanding more.
Her second release was swift, more intense than the first, he fancied, as she shook with the force of it. Brynhild wrapped her arms about his head to hug him to her, pressing her breast into his mouth. She pumped up and down on his cock, greedy and insatiable now, demanding and insistent as she ground her body down onto his.
He could not hold out much longer, but neither would he allow himself to finish before she was done. He slid his hand between their bodies again to take her clitty between his finger and thumb and roll the sensitive nubbin. She panted, ready, straining, seeking, reaching…
Taranc reached around her with his other hand to insinuate his fingers in the seam of her bottom. He found her rear hole, circled once, pressed, and slipped the tip of his middle finger inside.
Brynhild screamed. She screamed long and hard and loud, the sound barely muffled at all against his shoulder.
He blessed the foresight that had led him to bar the door as he entered. The last thing he wanted at this juncture was his mother and his aunt bursting in armed with pitchforks and torches, bent upon rescue.
His own release followed hers but scant moments later. Taranc let out his own groan of satisfaction as his balls tightened, twisted within their sack and his semen surged forth to fill his she-Viking’s hot, tight channel. He grimaced into the darkness, a smile playing on his lips.
He was content.
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