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From Bed to Norse (feat. Cylian997)

LordLicentious

LordLicentious

Digital Bohemian
Joined
Sep 29, 2019
Location
Your darkest fantasies
The acrid smell of smoke awakens you one cool summer evening, in the lavish bedroom of your manor in northern France. Well, not your manor, your husband's, but he's strangely absent from the marital bed at the moment. From outside, you hear panicked cries.

"Dear God, help us!"

"The lord has fled! We are abandoned!"

"Where are the guards?!"

These cries are silenced by a bestial roar, followed by the wet sound of metal splitting flesh. Vikings. The scourge of Christendom has arrived on your doorstep, and it seems the cowardly sot you call a husband decided to abscond in such haste that he didn't bother waking you. It won't be long before they're inside, if they're not already. What will happen, should they find you?
 
"What was all that noise?" One Sylvie Renaud, wondered as she was stirred from her serene slumber by the wild, boisterous sounds of chaos and panic. Though there was one thing that was said that froze her heart as she clasped her mouth shut in horror. Vikings. But what were they doing up here? Where was Eudon? Surely he had not abandoned her to these wild men! Sylvie took in a deep breath as there was only one thing for her to do,

Survive and escape.

She crept way witht he daintiness of a mouse as she prayed to God that she would be kept safe. It was so dark as the servants had already turned off the lights. Sylvie eventually found herself within one of her closets that were filled with clothing. She decided to hide under a pile of clothing and she hoped for the best. She clasped her hands as she prayed to God above so she could be kept safe.
 
The commotion from outside soon died down, but only to be replaced with a complementary commotion within the manor. The sounds of your servants' cries echo off the high ceilings, like the wailing of the damned. A crashing thud can be heard from the direction of the bedroom door as it bursts open. You hear stomping as the Pagan savages begin to investigate the chamber, talking among themselves in their harsh tongue. There's two, maybe three of them, it's hard to tell over the din.

The mystery is solved when the three, not two, Vikings tear open the doors of your closet, and begin rummaging through your finery with all haste. Of course, what they find is a fair bit finer than silks. At first, one raises his dagger, seemingly intent on finishing you, but one of his companions smacks him on the head, and barks something at him, most likely an admonition. Instead, they grip you by the arms, and begin to force you from the room.
 
As Sylvie saw the massive men cross through the door, her blood ran cold. Ice had more warmth than the liquid in her veins. Her faith in God had disappeared just as the lives of her servants were made inconsequential. As the men walked through and ran through her nicer clothing, she was soon caught. The knife came in and she made her peace with God, sadly her life was short; she never got the chance to become a mother, to kiss scraped knees, to send her children off into the world. It was all for nothing.

That was until something far worse happened; she was found and captured. The way her wrists were grabbed made her feel as week as a bird. She felt as if her bones might have shattered under this man's power. As she was tossed away she looked onto these men with a look of horror; their broad muscular forms towered over most men she has ever seen. Their frigid eyes were so terrifying that she was unable to scream, unable to whimper. She was frozen solid as she crawled hopelessly into a corner.

"W-what are you going to do to me?" Were the only words she was able to push out of her mouth. Sylvie was obviously french nobility of some sort, she spoke English quite well. She then repeated the question in French in an attempt to find out some information but deep down she knew better. She knew that these men were nothing but godless savages and she was doomed.
 
One of the Vikings steps closer to you, and responds in broken French. He takes a silver candlestick from your mantle, gesturing to a sack he's carrying. "You. Like this." He places the candlestick in the bag. "We take. Pick who get later. You pretty, bright hair. Maybe Jarl take. Lucky then. Come, or we hit. Jarl talk more good."

As you get a better look at the Vikings, you notice that they seem unusually well-groomed. Each of the trio sports long, light blond hair, and similar beards, the hair of each perfectly combed, and with a number of decorations braided into them. They're all of at least six feet in height, and powerfully built. As they approach to lead you away to this mysterious "Jarl", they look, and certainly smell as though they'd bathed recently. Contrary to the tales of filthy heathens one normally hears about Vikings, these men appear so concerned with cleanliness as to be considered sinfully vain by the Church. They stand waiting, watching you, apparently giving you a chance to accompany them of your own accord before forcing you.
 
She could tell when she was beyond help, her damnable husband should have defended her. That useless bastard! She had no choice now, the woman took some time to stand up as she decided to follow them along. She thought about running but if she did and was caught again she might just be killed at that point. But who was the Jarl? Sylvie had no knowledge of heathen hierarchy or society. As far as she knew it could have been the town fool. But the niceness in their countenance was something she did not expect. French people took less care of themselves, but such vanity was a sin. But how did these men cared for themselves so, not to mention there was no foulness in the air. They smelled clean.

"Excuse me... what is a jarl?" She asked timidly in the slowest way possible as to not upset them.
 
The Viking that almost speaks French looks at once both admiring and envious as he answers your question. "Jarl Trygve, top man. He say us do, we do. Hair, like Thor! Kill many men! Great warrior! No woman. Maybe you be his woman, if lucky."

As you're led out of the manor, you see what happened to your servants. It appears that only the men of the house were struck down, the women likely taken to the same destination you're bound for. The valuables have been thoroughly ransacked, up to and including the bronze banisters having been torn down. The manor itself is a shambles, with doors hacked to pieces or torn from their hinges, deep gashes in the walls and floors, and a strong smell of smoke coming from the kitchens, likely spelling a fiery end to the venerable dwelling. However, you can only speculate, as you are led from the building, towards a large bonfire in the middle of the small town that served the manor directly (the remainder of your husband's fiefdom stretching for quite a few miles in all directions).

Near the fire, your maids, washer women, and other female servants sat huddled together, looking warily out at the group of cheering Viking raiders. As with your escorts, they are each tall, muscular, and unusually well-groomed. The Viking who had been doing all the talking now points at a spot near the other women, but not among them, as though marking you as special. "Go. Wait. We do taking soon," he grunts.
 
Sylvie looked sadly over to the men who died; Renauld who made the most wonderful dinners, Phillipe who tended to the garden, the elder Ashton who helped her in her day to day business. Their lives were snuffed out so insignificantly that it had actually upset her. She grit her teeth as she glared over to the other men. Her balled up fists and her quiet rage spewed from her soul as she screamed.

"You vile bastards! How dare you kill them all so helplessly? I bet that these men had even asked for mercy and you savages snuffed their lives out without a care! Are we to expect the same treatment? Are we going to be used up and spat out like yesterday's bread? You can take everything, I could care less about it. But let them all go, they deserve better than this... they deserve better than to be raped by berserking mad men like you!"

The venom in her speech was of a virulent blend, Sylvie was visibly upset over this unfortunate ordeal. The young woman debated if it might have been a better idea to just kill herself. If it meant being spared the humilitation of being used by these decidedly well-kept men, it might have been preferable to be dead. She once again glared at this as the smaller woman summoned every inch of fury she had as she clean her eyes from the tears she spilled for the people who cared for her.
 
Several minutes pass by the fire, your servants too terrified to speak, though a number of them look in your direction, silently pleading for help. The Vikings are cheering, drinking, and exchanging foreign congratulations as your home's wealth is piled up around them. Soon, a booming voice calls out a command, and the crowd falls silent. Stepping forth from the shadows is a red-haired Viking who, while neither the tallest nor most well-muscled of the crowd, radiates authority like the nearby bonfire radiates heat. Jarl Trygve surveys his horde, and spits into the dirt. He barks a few words, and his raiders begin to look... ashamed. He strides toward you and the other women, and speaks in a deep, sober voice, his command of French far better than the one from earlier.

"I am Jarl Trygve of Fjormark. I apologize for the behavior of my men. They kill weaklings, invalids, and old men, and think themselves valorous! There were no warriors here. The lord of this house fled with his fighting men the moment we were spotted approaching. A pathetic display from the French, so famed for their wars with England. That a cowardly worm like that might rise to lead entire, I know not the word. France-clans. It shows why they can never defeat our warriors: they do not truly value strength and courage. Now, we shall divide up our spoils, first the treasures, and then the women, who will become thralls. Most thralls will be expected to cook and clean for their household. Those who are learned or wise will educate or entertain their family's children. Had my men been less eager to spill blood, such fates may have awaited the serving men of this house, as well."

As the Jarl's gaze passes over you, he pauses. "You are the wife of he who fled, are you not?"
 
"Well Jarl Trygve, if you wanted an educator your men killed him. The person who gave me most of my schooling was Yvain, that dead gentleman who essentially raised me because my father was too busy. He taught me so much... and now he is dead." Sylvie turned around, she was obviously still quite upset and possibly indignant. She walked towards his body; an gentleman with graying hair and a round form. She closed his eyes as she obviously seemed rather broken by this. "He was more of a father to me than my own father, he gave me more than lessons, but the love I never got. I was married off for the sake of his business. And now look, the man I was forced to marry had run away. Perfect. Well I can tell you for a fact that the most learned woman here is me. The rest are quite handy. But can you not just let them go? They do not deserve this. If there is anyone worth taking here it is just me. So let them go, please."

Sylvie looked up to this Jarl as her eyes were flooded with tears, she swallowed heavily as she expected a flat denial. No savage monster of a brute would give away all of these women. Emmie was quite the looker, though none of them compared to the quiet and exquisite elegance of Sylvie. There were still beautiful women. The young Frenchwoman seemed almost ashamed to equate herself with that coward of a husband as she turned her head to the side. Though she looked, and was, defeated, the girl refused to give up.

"Yes I am... was the husband of the lord of the manor. He abandoned me and I take it I am now someone's thrall so that marriage means nothing now. It meant nothing to him after all, he abandoned all of us. He took all of his fighting men and left me to die. There is nothing to say about him. But why does it matter if I was married to the lord of this manor?"
 
Trygve watches you, an inscrutable look upon his face as you make your speech. His men begin to move towards you as you rise, but the Jarl raises a hand, apparently curious as to your intent. When you finish, he nods solemnly. He shouts something in his native tongue, and his warriors begin yelling out in protest. Jarl Trygve puts a stop to this by knocking out the nearest dissenter with a single swing of his fist.

He turns back to you, and says, "I have heard what you say, and as these men were not slain honorably, none of your women shall be used for the pleasure of my men. Not tonight, nor ever. They are cooks, cleaning women, nursemaids, and other such things already, are they not? They shall simply continue such work elsewhere, working for more honorable men, who shall not abandon them when danger nears. As for you, I had wished to claim you for myself, in order to further shame your coward of a husband. However, you have shown great courage, boldness, and honor in your plea that you be allowed to sacrifice yourself for these others, and thus I have changed my mind. I instead claim you for myself because you have proven yourself to be the finest treasure here, perhaps the finest in all of your 'Christendom'."

Trygve takes you by the waist, pulling you to his side, and calls out, likely asserting his ownership.
 
As you held onto Sylvie's waist, she looked up and finally felt for the first time, how dainty of a woman she was. Sylvie was a lithe beauty with gentle contours whose delicate fat was marbled around her form like an ideal steak. Her hips were wide and meant for bearing child as she looked up to him. She looked down as she looked over to the servants who were most likely still horrified. Sylvie needed to do this for them, they had always been kind to her and it was the least she could do. She turned towards your gaze, listened to your flattering words and gave a slow nod.

"Fine, as long as they are only continuing their duties then I guess I see it as a permanent move for all of us. However, if they fall for your men and it is a union of love and not of wild force, I will step aside for them. But I never want them to be taken in such a way where your men pin them to the ground and take them forcibly. Do you plan to take me as a thrall then? If it keeps them safe then I will endure."

She was not truly that against being taken away by you all things considered. Her husband was an insufferable man who had now abandoned her. Life in the northern most tips of France was often filled with danger, but to be abandoned in such a way hurt Sylive. Though, to be called the finest treasure in all of Christendom was a little much, Sylvie never believed she was such a woman but it was still nice. But there were more things she was curious about, like how did you learn french so well, and how come you all smelled nicer than the average french nobleman? Sylvie took pride in her appearance so she of course took care of herself, but your men?

It was all quite shocking.
 
After Jarl Trygve declares you his property, he leads you to stand next to him, as he sits in a crude, thronelike chair at the seeming head of the ring of Vikings. Then, the division of spoils begins in earnest, with the Vikings gradually divvying up everything of value from your home. This includes your former wardrobe, your silks and finery put up for grabs, presumably to adorn the raiders' wives. However, Trygve lays claim to several dresses and gowns, as well as your combs, of all things, ensuring that at least some of your former life will remain with you.

When the valuable objects are all doled out, the claims for your servants starts. Vikings step forward, one after the other, making loud declarations. Jarl Trygve listens solemnly, and then responds. Based on his response, the raider either returns to his place, disappointed, or approaches the huddle of women and selects one to take home. Rather than brutishly dragging them away, as one might expect of such vicious warriors, they instead appeared quite patient, possibly used to being feared by their captives. The women eventually rise and go with their new masters, and true to Trygve's word, they are otherwise untouched. Each of the three that had brought you outside, you notice, are approved to claim one of your former maids. The Jarl explains, "There are not enough of your women to go around, so only those warriors who distinguished themselves tonight may claim one for their household. It is hard to judge, tonight, for there was no true battle. Instead, I gave right of claiming to those who did the capturing in the first place."

When the last woman is claimed, Trygve stands, and looks down at you. "Now, it is time for me to truly claim you, so my men see that you are mine, completely. Normally, those who were allowed to take thralls would be doing the same, but this time, it is just you. You may give yourself to me, or I may take you. The decision is yours." He steps forward, into the light of the fire, beckoning you to follow.
 
Sylvie looked on as she saw her maids all given away as if they were nothing but property. She sighed as she was told what was about to happen next. Sylvie looked at you as she observed your muscles and power. The way your skin ripped, the way you commanded such respect, the way you just intended to claim me. But Sylvie also knew she could not resist you, you were far too strong and if Sylvie ran, she knew that her former servants would be in endangered. The former french noblewoman took in a deep breath as she looked at you.

"I know you can take me if you so wished but here? Not on a bed or something a bit more normal? But I bet it is something you must normally do. But I am not such a savage woman... and in front of everyone? I cannot! Not in front of all of them... t-that is too much for me! If it is in front of them I will let you know you may force yourself on me but you will never truly take me. I will resent you and while that may not mean much, know that I will work my hardest to remain like steel."

Sylvie stood indignantly against your chest. She refused to allow you to take her in front of the other men. Her fists trembled, her lip shook; she tried her best to be strong but you could tell this was all pointless bravado.
 
Jarl Trygve holds out his hand, and one of his men hands him a large fur. "I would not dirty myself or my property by rutting on the ground like animals." He spreads the fur by the fire, and begins to disrobe. His tunic goes first, revealing a chest covered in a thick carpet of red hair. Scars adorn his body, evidence of possibly dozens of past battles. As he removes his breeches and smallclothes, his member comes into view. Not yet engorged, it hangs heavily, swinging freely without clothing to contain it. Like Christian men, it is uncircumcised, but its size is something else entirely. The orbs behind his manhood look similarly large and weighty, as though full to bursting with seed.

Trygve grips your wrist, pulling you close, and begins to undress you. For as strong as he is, he is careful not to tear your clothes, perhaps out of an awareness that your wardrobe has recently been significantly downsized. A single glare from the Jarl is all it takes to turn the wild hooting of the other Vikings to respectful silence. "I must take you in full view of my men, as is tradition, but they need not shame you with vulgar shouting. If you wish to hate me for this, then I shall bear that cost. I have broken tradition once already for your sake, twice, I cannot do."
 
"Can't do or won't do. There is a distinct difference in those words." Sylvie slowly slips out of her dress, since you took the time to take it off of her body, as she is now exposed for everyone to see. Her creamy white skin looks smoother than an untouched patch of snow. Her supple form shows that this woman lives, or rather lived in the lap of luxury, her hips are wide with thick thighs. Her breasts are also exposed, her bright pink nipples are there for everyone too see as her golden hair rests on her shoulders. She looks down at your manhood and it looks quite thicker and fuller than her ex-husband's.

Sylvie remains quiet as she turns her eyes away from you. It seems that Sylvie is obviously still not taking all of this well, but it seems that you were not deterred by her speech. All she could do now was expect a life where she will be nothing more than some whore for you. Sylvie grit her teeth, her hands tremble with a cross between anger and fear. Though she is a good Christian woman, she is about to be the pet of some wild man. Most of all she curses the name of her ex-husband.

If he protected her, maybe this might not be her current situation.
 
Trygve shakes his head. "You do not yet know the ways of my people. Perhaps, in time, you will understand." His manhood stiffens as he observes your naked body. As it reaches its full size, you can see that it's eight inches long, and two thick. Rather than pin you down, or mount you, the Jarl reaches out, and begins to slowly massage your ample breasts. His hands are leathery from hard use, nothing at all like a noble's, but he kneads your soft flesh gently. His thumbs make their way to your nipples, and begin rubbing.

As your nipples stiffen, he takes them between his fingers, and softly pinches and tweaks them. Then, he leans in, taking a knee to better match your height, and takes your left nipple in his mouth, sucking and licking it. The hair of his beard is quite soft against the tender flesh of your breast, and you soon feel his freed-up hand running its fingers along the creamy softness of your inner thighs.
 
Sylvie tries to resist your hands and you reach against her supple flesh. This is not what she expects from you. But she bites down on her lip as she wants to not give you any sort of satisfaction in this situation. She bites down on her lip as the pleasure you were providing her feels better than what she wishes to admit. You are much better than the french woman suspected. Sylvie did her best to not to moan, but she is powerless against your strength.

Sylvie shudders as she looks down at you, is this her new husband of sorts? Is she going to become some barbarian like the rest of them? She also dislikes your overall performance; the technique you are showing now is more than she expected. Sylvie's body flushes with color as her gasps against your consistent rubbing and sucking of her body. The breasts that are quite the hefty handful feels warm to the touch.

Not to mention the slight moisture that is coming from your erotic attack.
 
Trygve's hand moves further up your thigh, and is soon tracing over your wetness, rubbing steadily against your sex. His other hand moves from your breast, to your shapely rear, fondling and squeezing it firmly, yet not hard enough to hurt. As for his mouth, he releases your nipple, and kisses his way up your breast, to your neck. You feel a combination of his hot breath and smooth beard against the sensitive skin of your neck as he plants hard kisses against it.

Then, his fingers locate the sensitive bud at the front of your womanhood, and begin to twirl slowly over it. The Jarl growls softly as he continues his slow conquest of your body.
 
Sylvie does her best to resist your skillful hands as they provide the kind of pleasure she only got on her wedding night. She squeezes your arms as finally, her sweet moans escape her lips. The french woman presses herself upon your form as you continue your attack on her moistening center. Her rump is a supple and smooth affair, as her hips delicately grace her lithe yet curvaceous form. Her skin continues to darken as your lips bring her closer and closer to her end point.

"W...why are you so good at this?" She whispers out weakly as the tales of your kind are all the same; raping savage men. Sylvie is dumbfounded by the delicate way you handle her as she looks down at you.
 
Jarl Trygve responds matter-of-factly, speaking in a low voice, close to your ear. "What man could have pride in taking a woman, if afterwards she can honestly say, 'I did not enjoy that'? Also, taking a woman who is not wet is not so pleasant for our spears, especially the tight ones."

Two of his large fingers slowly work their way into your folds, pressing inside your gorgeous body. His thumb remains outside, continuing to stroke your clitoris. The hand on your rump is momentarily removed, only to come back down quickly, slapping your ass firmly, but with a gentleness that keeps it from hurting too much.

Using just the unoccupied parts of his upper body, his chin pressing softly into your shoulder, upper arms guiding your torso, the Jarl gradually leads you to kneeling down on the fur, as he takes a sitting position. There, he continues his onslaught, his fingertips pressing, then rubbing, against a slightly rough patch within your depths that proves vastly more sensitive than its surroundings.
 
Sylvie is unable to resist your skillful fingers as she was brought down to the ground. Her moans continue to grow louder and more husky as your fingers bring her down gently. Her mind is being washed by the pleasure of your words and your hands. She hates to admit to that deep within her heart, she couldn't wait to feel you penetrate her and soil her. Her folds squeeze against your fingers tightly as you thrust those overpowering digits.

Sylvie is unable to endure the embarrassment of your wishes for her to be taken out in the open. The blonde feels beyond naked as her form is exposed for everyone to see. Her moans grow louder as she is unable to keep her mouth quiet anymore. Sylvie's voice is now escaping from her mouth with every thrust of her plump pussy.
 
Your wanton moaning seems to encourage the Jarl, who moves his fingers faster and harder with each sensual cry. But eventually, apparently satisfied with both your wetness and your change of attitude, he shifts position again, and you find yourself on your back, the powerful Viking leader looming above you. He lifts your legs, placing them atop his muscular thighs, and pulling your hips into the air. Finally, he brushes your wetness with the tip of his member, preparing to enter you.

He does not penetrate you all at once. He presses in, just the first few inches, then pulls back, and repeats. He does this several times, gradually getting deeper, but making sure you have time to get used to his length and girth. Eventually, however, he is fully inserted within you, his great weight pressing against you, causing the tip of his penis to kiss the entrance of your womb. "Now, you are mine," he says, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
 
Sylvie only turns herself away from you, the look of both disgust and anger is an obvious shade upon her countenance. Though she might be enjoying how full and wondrous she felt, almost as if she is floating in the air, the fact that it is your disgusting barbarian cock that is making her feel so good is an annoying fact to face. Sylvie bites down on her finger as she is again refusing to offer you any sort of sounds of her satisfaction.

But the way her body is now flushed with color, how her warm and wet pussy is squeezing your cock so tightly and how roughly she is biting down on her finger to stop herself from moaning made it quite obvious that her primal body enjoyed it. She only continues to repeat in her head that she is not yours, you have not taken her over and she is still her own woman. Tears flow from her eyes as she continues to endure you however, no doubt she is slowly being broken as her faith crumbles beneath your oppressive prick.
 
Jarl Trygve begins pumping at an angle, his cock sliding heavily against that sensitive patch inside you he'd been rubbing earlier. He also resumes his attack on your clitoris, moving his large fingers more nimbly than one would expect of a man his size. His other hand serves to keep you firmly pinned in place as he fucks you steadily. Trygve looks down at you, a mixture of confusion and pity in his eyes. "See how you can barely hold in your voice? I do not see why this is needed, simply allow yourself to enjoy what your body enjoys, woman. Just because this is what must be done, does not mean you need to hate that it feels good. Do you think I enjoy rutting in front of my men? But, it is tradition, and your body feels good. Soft and tight in all the places a man might want. What man could abandon you so easily?"

The Jarl begins to pick up the pace, thrusting faster, and harder, stretching your hole around his manhood. "I will tell you something else, woman. I intend to fill you with my seed, and you shall bear, not some sniveling coward's children, but those of a mighty Jarl. Perhaps it will not happen tonight, perhaps another time, but you shall be mother to my children, who shall be brought up as great warriors. And if I do not find a wife worthy of me, those children shall stand as my heirs, as well. Much better, I think, than being raised to be wimpering cravens by some gutless Frenchman."
 
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