Vengeance

Standing near an almost frozen lake, Spike shivered. This was where the new slaves were herded... to wash themselves. No wonder the Viking bitch wore the cruel smile as she kicked him awake and pointed to the door. He'd bet every coin he'd ever earned that she was watching, hoping he'd come out of the water blue, like the man before him... shaking, teeth chattering.

Cursing her, and cursing them, he started to strip the one piece of clothing he had left, his breeches. He dropped them on a small stool so they wouldn't get wet from the snow, and walked into the cold waters. Every step he took sent pains shooting up from his feet to his brain. Gritting his teeth, once the water touched him at slightly below hip level, he bent and started to splash water on his upper body. He kept his back to the settlement, making sure she wouldn't see his pained expression.

The surly Saxon had a nice backside. Bjuffa was woman enough to admit that. In fact, even battered and bruised, even short and wiry compared to the burlier men of her people, he had an appealingly compact yet muscular development, strength sliding enticingly under that milky-pale skin as he scrubbed in the frigid lake waters. He probably thought it was a punishment, which was fine with her! But the truth of the matter was, warm baths took too much fuel that could be better used to heat the longhouse and her cottage. Only the very sick or the elderly, or those badly injured, would normally get a heated bath.

However, what she was about to do was not normal. Even thralls got clothing, poor quality though it might be. But not her brother's murderer. He could go naked, and suffer the humiliation of the men's taunts and innuendos, and the pure physical misery of nudity in the freezing temperatures. Smiling ferally, she took his raggedy breeches from the stool where he'd left them, carefully folded, and retreated to toss them in the fire. No man could be proud displaying his shrunken assets in this weather! One more embarrassment to add to his torture. Though he was pretty....

The soapstone smelled good. Will had never used anything like it, and now he knew what the scent that filled his nostrils every time she came near him was from. Stepping back, he washed his privates and removed the last traces of blood from his legs, then rushed out of the bitterly cold waters to the stool.

The cold wind burned his wet body, and even determined as he was, he couldn't hide his distress at finding neither a small piece of cloth to dry himself with, nor his breeches. Accusing eyes turned to the nearby Vikings, but none appeared to notice his predicament. "Need something to wear," he ground out the plea. If they thought he was parading around like this.... Hate for them, for her, boiled in his blood. Murderers, rapists, torturers... the lot of them.

Fastvi, like the other temporarily idle members of the steading, was watching the new thralls –slaves— take their first bath. It was always good for a laugh, even if she was supposed to be in the kitchen areas; besides, any man who still looked manly in these circumstances was one worth noting, and mayhap even bedding! The Saxon who'd been claimed by Bjuffa certainly held up to scrutiny... and his lean frame and sleek muscles promised a great deal of potential in the furs.

When Ragnor's niece stole away his ragged breeches, Fastvi could have kissed the bitch for giving her such an easy way to make the Saxon fond of her, and she hustled herself to the storage rooms to fetch the deceptively slight man some garments. There were many ways to wrap a man around one's smallest finger; kindness was only one. Sex was another, and her mouth was practically watering as she approached the Saxon with feigned shyness as he stood in the sharp wind, clearly unhappy with the loss of his one garment.

"Clothes, you take?" Her Saxon was worse than many, but better than some. "None so cold?" Smiling crookedly, the brunette beauty offered him the pieces she carried.

William... nay Spike, he reminded himself that William was dead. Spike stared at her, fully expecting it to be another trick. These sea robbers had nothing better to do than use their slaves for amusement.

When she didn't pull the clothes away, he was quick to snatch them from her with a belated "yes." A 'thank you' would not worm its way out of him, despite the smile she was bestowing. It had been a long while since anyone had looked at him like that. Oddly, it made him choke up whereas nothing else had.

He put the suede pants on, and tied them closed, then met her gaze. "Have a good eye for size, do you?"

Fastvi giggled, a throaty, wicked sound. She wasn't sure exactly what he was asking, but making men think they were clever was never a waste. She arched a brow at him, and repeated the unfamiliar word. "Size?"

He gripped his cock over his pants. "Size, yeah..." Right, he understood where she was going with it. Was she looking at him to satisfy an itch these warriors of theirs couldn't scratch. He wouldn't doubt it; he'd seen how they rutted. The material of the top she'd given him felt warm against his skin. He gave her a half smile. Wouldn't hurt to make an ally, he could use her. Unlike his bitch of a mistress, this one had a soft heart.

Her mouth rounded in an O of comprehension, and her eyes dropped to where he had gripped himself. "Size, yes," she replied, and licked her lips invitingly as she met his eyes once more.

Bjuffa had been slowed by questions about storing the recent booty from the longships' raid on Filey, and settling the matter had taken more minutes than she had liked, making her miss out on seeing Spike's –even the nickname made her hackles rise and her green eyes flash, as she recalled what he'd said about slaughtering her brother the night before— discomfort with bathing in the freezing lake, and then emerging to find his breeches gone. Her mood was less than pleasant.

Coming to the lake shore to find him actually dressed, and with Fastvi flirting with him, only made it worse. Eyes snapping with fury, she stalked toward the pair.

Hearing the crunching in the snow, Spike turned to see the devil herself approaching. Quickly, he picked up the boots Fastvi had brought, securing them. "Best be on your way now. She's not in a good mood, the mistress Buffy."

Fastvi's brow furrowed. "Boff Yee?" The sound of boots crunching in snow behind her had her spinning around to see who approached. Blazing green eyes met her brown ones, and Fastvi took a step back, casting another glance at the pretty Saxon. His eyes, blue as any Viking's, were just as hot and angry as Bjuffa's. Fastvi swallowed. Tempting a man didn't mean she wanted attention from the chieftain's niece for herself!

The brunette already out of his mind, Spike's gaze raked over the blonde's furious features. So this was what one got when one crossed her. It gave him only a mild sense of satisfaction. Last night's humiliation was still vivid in his mind... he owed her for that. For drawing his blood. For mocking his manhood. For making him grovel and clean with his hands chained.

That insolent look infuriated her, and she slapped him with the full force of her arm and her fury, directly across his already-bruised cheek. "Eyes down," she snarled, and yanked the boots from his grip. "Do not need these," she added, and turned to berate Fastvi.

"You interfering little bitch! How dare you bring him clothes when—"

"Even thralls get clothes," Fastvi defended herself. "I took them from the stores set aside for them. I've done nothing wrong!" Her chin went up, but she sidestepped a bit.

"He is not a normal thrall. He is my slave. Get in the way of my plans again, and ‘sorry’ won’t even begin to cover how I’ll make you feel," Bjuffa hissed, leaning so close to the taller girl that their noses nearly brushed. "Go!" Fastvi fled.

His head snapped to the side under the blow. The shocked glances and laughter of the others made his face sting all the more, and made him think of his fantasy of taking her violently, when he'd soiled her rug. Fuck, why did his cock twitch so easily at the thought? Odd... it wasn't the thought of taking her by force. Puzzled, he touched his cheek, but nevertheless looked back at her eyes.

Enraged, she struck him again, a backhand this time, to the other sharp-edged cheekbone. "Follow orders the first time given, remember? Eyes. Down."

Almost took out his eye. Bitch. His cheekbone throbbed as he steadfastly stared at her mouth.

She smirked mirthlessly. Barely dropped his eyes, the stinking prideful murderer! Shoveling cow shit barefoot should wipe away some of that recalcitrance. "Come," she snapped, and jerked him along with her to the stables where a few tough, shaggy horses and about a dozen hook-horned steppe cattle stayed.

The sharp stinging... a ringing in his ears... an order to come. He sucked his gut in... what was happening to him, why did he want to take his cock in his hand and just imagine her doing that again, but without a stitch of clothes on? He grew uncomfortably hard every time she roughly pulled him along. What sort of pagan witchery was this? He hated her all the more for it.

When she shoved him inside and he realized what she wanted. He stared at the boots in her hand. Resentment welled up in him hard and fast. She was probably waiting for him to ask... then she'd take them away, or hit him again... "Give them to me."

Bjuffa snorted, "A world of no," and she laughed in his face. "Would only ruin the boots." She reached out to snatch his ear, yanking his arrogant face down to her level. "Clean this stable. Every stall, every piece of shit. Replace the animals' bedding. Feed them. Then, maybe, I'll feed you." Shoving hard, she released him, almost hoping he'd do something else stupid. The outline of his cock beneath the suede breeches was distracting and arousing all at once, especially combined with seeing his naked body in daylight during his bath, and the memory of his release the night before, muscles gilded by the firelight as he went taut and came before her eyes.

If he pushed her up against the door of the stall, would she fight him? Who would hurt more? If he pulled her skirt up and used it to cover her mouth and drown out her shouts, if he fucked her like that... would he escape the grip of this strange and terrible heat that washed over him?

It was a mad thought. It was madness that he dared run his hand over his arousal even as he stared at her mouth. "Ay, mistress Buffy."

Snarling, almost wishing it were her hand on his cock instead of his own –though she'd grip hard enough to hurt, she told herself!— she corrected his pronunciation as she knocked his hand away. "Bjuffa."

"Buffy," he repeated, right fast. The sooner she bloody well left him, the quicker he could help himself to find release. Then she couldn't affect him so.

"Bjuffa," she said again, and gave in to the temptation to punch him.

"Buffy." The word came out in a groan as his entire body responded to her angry touch. He staggered back, looked at her, rubbing his chest. "Buf-fy."

"Bju—" She stopped. He was too stupid to say her name correctly. Typical Saxon, barely educated and certainly unable to remember the epics, or comprehend the fine points of revenge. "Shovel shit, or you will not eat. Idiot."

The sounds of voices nearby told him there would be no self found relief, not for a while. He snaked his hand out past her, getting some satisfaction from her intake of breath. His fingers closed around the handle and he knew she had to be wondering whether he'd take it to her.

Instead, he silently gave her his back, and started to do her bidding. A bit of exercise would both warm his blood, and perhaps relieve him of his thoughts of bedding her in the manner she deserved .

With each scoop of straw and shit, he imagined pushing a spike into her forehead, just like her brothers. Minutes passed. The hour mark passed. Somehow... somewhere, his imagination had taken him elsewhere. Back to her rug, only this time she was riding him... challenging him to get himself loose before he came.

Bjuffa watched for a moment, but Spike appeared to know what he was doing. It bothered her that it didn't bother him more, though. Throughout the morning, his expression never changed, despite the necessary labor that she’d hoped he’d find demeaning. Bastard. She would just have to make him suffer more. Hauling heavy buckets of water, large loads of wood, barefoot, would be a good start, as would refusing to allow him to eat while eating in front of him herself. He had to learn that nothing came to him, good or bad, except from her. And she was determined to make it bad. Worse. The worst she could conceive, punishment for the murder of Bjorn.

*
When Spike finished cleaning the stalls, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever been cleaned before. He resented being forced to do it, but once he fell into a rhythm, he found a calming influence in the job. He was a man who liked hard work and enjoyed seeing its results. Back home… oh how he missed the unfrozen sea and his green Brittany … he’d refused many an offer to join the permanent ranks of soldiers bonded to the King or his Dukes.

Instead, he’d opted to be one of the fyrd, who were warriors who could be called up to defend their island against attacks. A soldier’s life might have been easier, but he hated the days, weeks and months of waiting… of having nothing to do but go wenching and drinking … between battles. A man who worked to build, to fish, to better his city and surroundings and position, that man’s body would be weary, but his soul light and his disposition happy.
A man who left the house early in the morn, and came back late was also a happier man.

He’d learned that lesson as a child. That was one way to escape a mother’s wrath and thus avoid physical injury and being forced to learn again and again about the curse your inception. Ironic that… he’d been hated for having Viking blood in him, and now he was hated for having Saxon blood.

Well now… he hated Vikings. A certain blonde with a filthy mouth, and fire in her eyes came to mind. He moved behind one of the buildings and pulled out his cock as if to empty it. Instead, he imagined shutting up that mouth… stuffing his cock inside it … watching her gag as he came…

Rough hands and the shock of cold water brought him out of his reverie.

“No fucky!” The Vikings laughed and sauntered away.

“Bleeding bastard, sons of whores…” Shivering, Spike continued to curse them until they disappeared from view. It was the third time he’d been prevented from finding release, and each time he’d been just a bit closer. He hated them, the lot of them. But he had no time to dwell on his hate since he was given other chores.

All day long, he fetched, he carried, and he hauled, without complaint, without bending a little to ask for a break. All day long, his eyes sought Buffy, watched as she walked from one building to the next, shaking that arse from side to side, giving her orders. He’d like to give her an order…

He hated that his thoughts were no longer his, that he couldn’t control them from veering to her. If he wasn’t imagining killing her, he was imagining fucking her. His cock was standing again at the thought, and his brain working out a way he could find a spare moment to take care of it… but with his luck today, release would be snatched from him again and put him in a worse way.

*

Bitches like Fastvi would never understand all the things Bjuffa had to do to keep the steading running smoothly, on her feet from dawn to dusk and beyond every day, supervising everything from laundry to animal husbandry to food stores and plans for defending the place when the warriors went a-Viking. It was she who decided what animals would be bred, which slaughtered, and ordered the bloody, messy business from start to finish. It was she who made sure that nothing was wasted, nothing left lying about dirty or unfinished, nothing allowed to distract from the grim business of eking out a living in a hard land. And it was she who was unafraid to get her hands dirty doing whatever was necessary, as well as getting the lazy among the women to do their fair share.

She didn’t have time to gossip about a slave’s attributes, or plan for the next man she bedded. And listening to Ingund tell Fastvi about how she’d caught Spike ready to stroke himself to spending, and how he’d nearly tied his parts into the knot of his trews when interrupted, was annoying in the extreme. He was too damned pretty to be a thrall. It would only cause trouble. And he was hers. Her vengeance for the murder of Bjorn. Her slave. It was time, Bjuffa decided, to make that perfectly clear. Then perhaps the other women would use their breath to fuel their labors, instead of wasting it in idle speculation.

*

Drenched for the third time that day, Spike stripped his shirt off and cursed up a storm under his breath, while staring at the three arse fucking, shit licking, bastard sons of whores who'd held him and poured a bucket of freezing cold water over his head and chest. Bloody cowards... why didn't they just fight him if they thought they were men?

Well, fuck them. He stooped down, picked up two handfuls of snow, then rubbed them on his chest. If they thought their childish games would hurt him... they were wrong. They couldn't break him any more than the whore who ran the place.

The huge Viking warriors laughed at the little man's bravado, and one of them picked up the other bucket of water that Spike had been carting to the steading. "Work hard," he laughed, nodding at Spike with mock approval. "Smell bad," he added, and soaked the slave's pants as well. Torturing him would be more fun, of course, but Bjuffa would make his life hell if he and the others did anything more than playful teasing without her permission. The slave was hers to maim, not anyone else's.

"Cockless wonder." Spike memorized the man's face, added it to the list of people whose blood he'd taste upon his fists. And yet, despite his bravado, a shiver ran through him as the wind blew. It was unlikely his clothes would dry, not until he was near a fire at dinner or in the cottage.

Picking up the two empty buckets, he started to walk away... slowly, as if he had all day, as if he were on a leisurely walk instead of having been ordered to refill every trough in the stable.

Simmering with fury, Bjuffa stepped out of the longhouse and looked about for Spike. She'd had more than enough of Fastvi's innuendos, and the other women's appreciative comments about her slave, all day long. Thralls were held in common by the steading. Slaves were individual property. She'd have to put a collar on the blue-eyed bastard to stop the other women’s games. She spotted him near the stables, not too far from a cluster of laughing warriors. They spotted her coming, and it was amazing how fast they found other places to be.

Snarling at the inconvenience of it all, she took long strides to catch up to her brother's murderer, and, without warning, reached up to grab a fistful of those silky curls, jerking his head down to her level and rapping out, "Come with me." The blacksmith would by Thor make time to put a collar on this pretty piece of offal!

Acting on instinct, Spike almost backhanded her with a bucket still in hand. Only his quick reflexes prevented contact, although he half wished he hadn't come to his senses. A turn at the whipping post might be worth a big bruise on her cheek that told the whole bloody world her slave had gotten the best of her. Might bring her down a peg or two.

His nostrils flared as he stared into her eyes, hating her, and hers.

"Eyes down," she growled, and backhanded him to remind him, before jerking him along behind her to the smithy, using his hair as a leash.

He held back a snarl, but only just. Blood boiling, he didn't increase the speed of his steps, forcing her to slow down even as he thought his hair might separate from his scalp. What devil had spawned this excuse for a woman?

Bjuffa yanked harder, nearly ripping some hair free in her impatience and anger.

This time, he stumbled forward and didn't bother to prevent himself from colliding into her. Bones met bones, but neither of them cried out at the sharp pain. Then he became aware of soft curves brushing against his hip... too soft for a hard woman like her.

Bjuffa caught her breath. He was solidly muscled for such a slender, pretty man. Built like a fighter, if on a smaller scale, and proud as he could be. The murdering whoreson. "I said, come!"

Moody. Frustrated. And now his cock was bloody twitching. One word... was that what it took to get him so hard it hurt to walk. He didn't even have to glance down to know the wet material clinging to his manly parts revealed everything.

Come. The word reverberated in his mind. It was unnatural... unnatural to react thus to someone like her. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Such cruel and dirty things came out of there... last night, this morning... the words she spoke. Fuck...

Bjuffa's lips parted on a wicked little smile. She was not looking at Spike's eyes or his mouth, but rather at his hard cock, clearly outlines through the soaked fabric of his trews. The women had been right about that, anyway. "Obedient," she smirked, and wrapped her fingers around him in one hard squeeze before letting go and continuing to the smithy, her hand still wrapped in Spike's hair. Humiliation was what he needed. An iron collar should shove him along the road to despair.

The shock of her touch thickened his blood... sent it rushing straight to his groin. His cock ached and strained against the restrictions of his clothes even as his mind had him fucking her until she begged for mercy. The bitch was playing with him. She wanted him to have to clean up his mess again... but not if he had anything to say about it.

Struggling against the demands of his body, he tried to concentrate on his surroundings. Why were they at the blacksmith?

At least the heat from the forge felt good. It might even calm his unexplainable need.

The building was low and dark except for the hearty fire burning in the center of the smithy. There were no windows, nor even covered openings in the walls, but cut-out sections of logs just below the thatched roof allowed air to circulate without letting in the light that would make it harder to judge the heat of the metal as Olaf worked it. A wooden barrel of water was nearby for rapidly cooling the tools and weapons he produced, and a selection of hammers were racked near the forge and the anvil, along with a bellows and several sets of well-used tongs.

Olaf himself was enormous and red-haired, a giant even among the large Vikings of Bjuffa's steading, and he loved women almost as much as he loved his hammers. Under the lowered ceiling, he looked more like some ancient giant from Jotlund than a mere human, and he greeted Bjuffa with a gap toothed grin. Stripped to the waist in the heat, sweat shining on his massive barrel-chest, he looked fully capable of breaking anything he set his mind to break. "New slave?"

"Slave?" Spike repeated, in the form of a question. The smell of metal tinged steam filled his nostrils and was distracting, but a part of him wondered what the bitch had in store for him. A branding? He would fucking break the smith's neck if a brand was brought anywhere near him.

Bjuffa jerked imapatiently at his hair, shoving him to sit on an anvil. "Shut up and stay," she growled. "Slave," she confirmed to Olaf. "Not a thrall. This one's mine." Her green eyes flared almost yellow in the dim light. "And he needs a collar."

The instant his ass hit the anvil, he started to stand up again. "No collar." If that meant brand, he was going to brand the two of them. "No collar, Buffy."

Slowly, her head turned to fix on him, her eyes speculative with anger simmering beneath. "Yes, collar," she said, wondering why he cared. Surely he knew he was going to die here, eventually at her whim. Once she’d taken all his dignity, all his pride… everything. Once she’d broken him. "You're mine. Spike belongs to Bjuffa. Say it."

His eyes grew stormy, his chest rose and fell with each breath he took. "Spike belongs to Buffy. No collar."

"Bjuffa." The fingers of her free hand made a fist.

"Buffy."

She backhanded him with the closed fist, and snarled her name again. "Bjuffa."

His head snapped back from the force of the blow and his jaw stung like a son of a bastard. But his cock... that's where the ache was the sharpest, the need, almost painful. Confused at the intensity of his feelings, and their timing, he lapsed into complete silence.

Her lips pressed together, and she leaned close. "Collar, Spike. Collar." She added, this time with a cruel twist to her pretty mouth, "Olaf, collar him. And don't worry overmuch about the burns, hm?"

Each angry word that left her mouth, each time she drew closer, his insides reacted with such force, it took his bloody breath away. Hate her, he did. But something in the way she treated him made him lose control in ways he hadn't thought possible for a man. His heart beat against his chest, so hard, she had to hear it... to think she scared him. Smug, triumphant bitch.

Drawning in a breath, he tried to keep his mind off his throbbing cock and focused on Olaf. The smithy had just hammered the ends of an open metal ring and was bringing it close. It wasn't a brand... right... that's what collar must mean. He shook his head from side to side, and leaned away from the smithy.

"Don't fight, or we turn you into a blood eagle, yes?"

Spike's fingers curled around the front of the collar, making sure it wasn't too tight, even as the smith brought the heated edges together. Red hot metal pressed into the back of his neck. Spike reached out and gripped Buffy's arm, his fingers biting into her forearm as he suppressed a scream.

Breathe... fucking breathe... He took big gulps of air, staring at her with hate in his eyes, in his blood, in his still burning loins.

Caught by those burning blue eyes, sharp as the hottest part of a fire, Bjuffa stared back even when his fingers bruised her arm, fascinated to see that rage so clearly revealed. He was beautiful in his helpless fury, and she wanted him. Wanted to make him hers in truth, and add to his humiliation at being forced to serve a woman’s every whim. And so, even though he was hurting her, she didn’t show it. No flinching. He must not be allowed to see her flinch. "Mine," she growled, knowing what came next, and keeping his attention on herself.

Behind Spike, Olaf lifted a dipper of water from the barrel and sent it over the red hot metal and the burns on the slave's neck, sending up a cloud of foul smoke from the quenching, and keeping the burns from getting any worse. He grinned at Bjuffa. "Nearly time to eat. Think I'll stop for the day." He sloshed some water over his sweaty torso, took his shirt from a hook in the low log walls, and sauntered out.

She was enjoying his pain. What sort of woman was she? What sort of man was he?

One small movement of his head, and the collar pressed into him... cooler, but hot still against his burned flesh. He arched back in pain, taking in another breath. At least it was done. Over. But his still aching cock gave him another message altogether.

Bjuffa leaned closer still, standing over Spike as he was still seated on the anvil. She hooked her fingers into the newly-welded collar, and pulled his face closer to hers, not missing the way his erection hadn't even wavered, despite the red hot iron and the dash of water over it. "Spike belongs to Bjuffa," she purred at him. "Say it.” And then I’ll show you just how true it is… Ride you, take you, use you, oh, yes….

As his eyes battled with hers, his senses battled the heat of her body crowding his space and the lust searing his gut. He wanted her to say it again. It was untrue... nothing and no one would own him. But something dark had awakened deep inside him, and it wanted this. "No." The challenge hung between them.

"Yes," she told him, taking the short step forward required to straddle him and the anvil both, her inner thighs brushing his outer ones as she bent even more intimately close. "Spike belongs to Bjuffa. My slave forever, mine to abuse, to punish." She licked her lips. "To use. Say it."

Use. Abuse. Punish. Dear God above, what was happening to him? Why was need rising in him so fast, so ferocious? Why the fuck could she do this to him?

His hands clamped down on each of her thighs, neither allowing her to slid forward and meld her heat to his throbbing cock, nor to move away. His gaze clung to her tongue... to that mouth... those teeth that left their mark on him just last night. "Spike belongs to Buffy." The words were spaced apart, pushed past unwilling teeth and a clenched jaw.

Maybe he just couldn't pronounce her name correctly. Bjuffa decided to magnanimous, this once, and brought her mouth within a breath of his. "Good." His hands on her thighs were stronger than she had expected, and hearing about his assets all day, not to mention seeing his cock heavy with need for her, made her decide that the using was what she wanted most at the moment. He'd been trying for relief all day... she'd let him think that he was going to get it, while she took her pleasure. But he would have to be helpless, first.

"Very good, Spike," she added, and sealed her mouth to his, her hands around his wrists, tongue teasing at the stubborn seam of his mouth and hands encouraging his to cup her rear. She knew he wanted her. She imagined he hoped to turn the tables now. Both of those things would work to her advantage. Especially as she looped a bit of thin rope around one wrist, delicately tightening it and letting the other end trail beneath the tongue of the anvil. The other wrist would be bound soon, too.

Her voice, softer now, washed away the harshness... but did nothing to stop the storm that raged inside him. He didn't want to feel this... didn't want to satisfy her even if he needed it so badly, it hurt. Even the anger coursing through his veins mixed with his lust, heightening and sharpening it... making it near unbearable.

Slowly, a rebellious fraction of an inch at a time, he opened his mouth and allowed her tongue inside. He resisted the pull of his hands on his wrists, instead gripping her thighs even more firmly and pulling her over his surging cock. Let her think this would be the way she thought. He was on the very edge, and she would find coupling on command far rougher than she imagined.

She rolled her hips against his hardness, teasing, more than ready herself after the day she'd had, and ran her mouth along his jawline, down the more tender flesh of his throat, licking and sucking as her hips pressed down again. Then, without warning, she bit him sharply, and shoved him flat to his back on the narrow anvil.

Pleasure and pain clouded his mind... his senses, but not the savage, relentless hunger, ravaging his body. He clawed her hair, tugging it hard until her mouth was positioned over his, then lifting his head. This time it was he who plundered her mouth, took it, branded it, forced his tongue into its moist satiny cavern, and fucked and played and controlled.

He bucked up against her heat, pressing his cock more firmly against her, groaning with need for more pressure. As the need to be inside her grew, he tried to use his free hand to undo his breeches, but something cut into his wrist.

Moaning artfully, though her need was every bit as urgent as his, Buffy whipped the other end of the cord around his second wrist, and jerked it tight in a lightning fast move, pulling his arms out to the sides and downward on either side of the anvil's tongue, a bit above his head and closer to the floor. The knots were swift and well-tied –Vikings were sailors, after all— and he'd not be able to free himself.

An angry grumble broke from the back of his throat when he found himself crucified on the bloody anvil. A stony expression crept over his face and he moved his mouth away from hers. "Go fuck yourself!"

He writhed under her, desperate to withhold his cock... but even more desperate to be inside her. He'd bet she was hot and tight and hurting for him, just as he hurt for her.

"I'm going to," she told him, green eyes gleaming with amusement and greed. "Using you." Standing above him again, now that his hands didn't have her thighs imprisoned, she undid the lacings on his breeches and pulled the trousers down his legs, exposing a magnificent cock. In the dim light of the smithy, he gleamed like a piece of alabaster treasure, there for her to plunder.

His head hit the metal surface of the anvil, as she freed him. Whore that she was, she stared at his cock as if it were a spoil of wrar, and she the victor. He tried to calm his body... to force his mind to think of matters that might stem the flow of blood to his surging cock, but nothing worked.

He wanted her. He wanted her with the blood lust of a thousand Saxon warriors descending on her village to pay the Viking's tback in like coin. He wanted to fuck her so hard, she'd feel him inside her womb, that she'd cry, and plead, and take back all her taunts, one by one.

His gaze didn’t waver from her as she lifted her kirtle and tucked its hem into her wide leather belt. She wore no undergarments. His mouth went dry, his throat felt parched. "No." He looked up and only saw determination in her face. "Don't take no for an answer, yeah?" Bitch was her brother reborn.

She grinned, and worked the laces of her bodice loose. "You belong to me. From your own mouth. Mine. You don't get to say no." The bodice came away, as did the nearly sheer white chemise beneath. She ran one hand down her torso, between her pert breasts with their aroused nipples, and trailed her fingers through the damp curls at her mound. "Body says yes anyway," she laughed at him.

White hot heat lanced through him as she pleasured herself. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of looking... of caring. He tried to look impassive, but his breath was growing more ragged with every movement of her hands. He wanted to be where they were. To bite, to kiss, to fuck her everywhere they touched.

Every muscle in his body tensed and burned as he fought the urge to raise his hips and meld them together. "You don't need me. Use your bloody fingers. Use that," he tossed a look toward an aptly shaped metal implement.

"Coward," she said, low and sweet, and moved forward to stand astride him again, fingers coating his cock with her own wetness in a slow tease.

The things she was doing were dirty... filthy... Things only a whore would know... things that tormented a man beyond reason. Made him go mad with need. His lips flattened into a straight determined line. She would not win... could not... And yet when she ran a finger over his tip, he felt her smear the moisture she'd coaxed from him.

"I'd rather take a hundred lashes," he said hoarsely, even as his body betrayed his true desires.

Delighted at how much he was hating wanting her, needing her, Bjuffa laughed again. "Why not both," she asked, and lowered herself onto his eager cock with a smooth motion, slowly swiveling her hips the whole way down, then settling her weight onto him and rocking at a leisurely, almost lazy pace. "I could beat you bloody and fuck you raw after."

As his cock slid between her wet folds, her threats of violence made him thicken and surge. Blood roared and pounded at his temples as she took him, slowly, but surely... riding him, closing around him, using him. Using him.

He tried to remain impassive, to take what she gave and not ask for more, but it wasn't in his nature. He needed more... whether she was ready or willing to give it to him or not. Pressing his feet down, he lifted his midsection suddenly, plunging his cock deep inside her. He read the flash of anger in her eyes, and repeated the movement, groaning with pleasure as she tightened around him. "Untie me. Let me fuck you. You know you need it." The plea broke from him before he could stop it.

How dare he try to compel her? He was a slave, only here for her to get her vengeance for Bjorn's murder. He was nothing. Except his cock surging deep inside her, not once but twice, argued very well that he was most definitely something. Something hot, and hard, and needy. And begging. She liked the begging.

"Say please," she purred, lifting herself with strong thighs, nearly letting his cock slip free of her slick center, and pulsing gently around his crown as she cupped her breasts with delicate fingers, flicking at her taut nipples with her thumbs.

His eyes tracked the movements of her hands, watching, burning as she touched herself in ways she denied him. She taunted him with her verbal demands and with her body, wound him tighter and tighter until he couldn't take any more. Please..." the word broke out of him before he knew it, but he hardly cared. Licking his lips, craving her breasts... wanting more pressure, more everything, he said it again. "Unbind me, please."

"What would you do if you were free?" She lowered herself back onto his cock, thick and hot and delicious. Hers. She let her weight rest upon his hips, rocking forward and back in the seat of his hips, not giving him more depth, but grinding him against that special spot within her own tight channel. Her eyelids fluttered half-closed, and she fingered her clit long enough to soak her forefinger, then slid it into her mouth like a treat, sucking it clean. "Tell me," she commanded, voice going low and harsh.

He despised himself for wanting to be buried deeper and deeper inside her, for groaning every time she ground against him just so, for bucking his hips when her walls clenched around his shaft and made him that much more desperate for a strong, hard fucking. What would he do... every muscle in his body strained as images of taking her filled his mind. Descriptions... she wanted descriptions. "Possess you," he growled.

"How? Would you touch me here?" Her fingers trailed through her curls again, rubbing harder against her clit. "Taste me?" She drew wet lines on his chest. "Leave your mark here?" One hand trailed along the smooth column of her neck. "Pound into me until I screamed and begged?" Violently, surprisingly, she forced herself down on his cock, to the point of blissful pain, and then resumed her easy rocking, fingers returning to pinch her clit.

The force of her movements as she swallowed his cock whole had him thrashing under her. "God almighty," he shouted as urgent jolts of need tortured him. "Take you... fuck you so hard you'd feel me all the way in your belly..." He'd fuck her from behind, make her as powerless as he was... she wouldn't control a damn thing. He'd bloody well make her beg until her throat was raw.

Between watching her pleasure herself and the mental images of what he'd do to her if he were free, his body screamed for release. Release that had been denied to him all day. "Yes... fuck, touch yourself again, again!" he shouted, trying to snatch a bit of control back as he started to stiffen and arch.

Bjuffa bit her lip and ground down upon him, finally taking the rougher more direct route to her pleasure, riding him with violence and desperate need, angling to scrape her clit against his pelvic bone. Small sounds came from her throat as her orgasm approached like a crashing north sea wave in midwinter, powerful and bracing and completely able to roll her head over heels with its force. As her inner walls started to contract, she flung back her head and screamed her ecstasy to the low walls of the smithy... and clamped her fingers brutally around the base of his lunging cock, to stop him from achieving the same thing.

She rode him so hard, he couldn't distinguish pleasure and pain, but sharp, aching need eclipsed everything else when she clenched and shuddered around him, milking him for all he had. He started to shout his own release, ending in a hoarse, strangled cry, when she cut off his ability to pump his seed in her. "No..." he jerked his head from side to side, furious blue eyes meeting hers... knowing he'd been right and truly used... "No...." Fuck... he burned, and ached, and wanted to put his hands around her throat and choke her until that bloody smile of hers froze for all time.

Bjuffa shuddered into replete completion, feeling altogether wonderful. Her toy was a fine ride, and the helplessness had to be smarting right now... if not as much as his poor, abused cock. Keeping her grip on its base, she raised herself from around him, her insides twitching in blissful aftermath as she felt his hardness dragging at her inner walls, like a post-coital caress. "Mmm," she told him, letting her skirt hems fall to the floor as she stepped off of him. "You make a good pony for the riding... Spike." Her lips quirked in amusement and malicious glee. "Different meaning, now," she smiled, and gave his erect manhood a dismissive slap. "Like it better."

(Comments encourage us to write these types of stories and make us write faster. If you're enjoying this, please take a second to let us know)